“Ah! sir, my superiors won’t allow me—”
“On the contrary,” interrupted the magistrate, “they will allow you the fullest liberty after I have spoken to them.” Such action on M. Segmuller’s part, required no little courage; for in official circles there had been considerable merriment over the magistrate’s mysterious man with the iron mask, disguised as a mountebank; and the former by his persistent support of the young detective’s theories, had almost become an object of ridicule.
“And when will you speak to them?” timidly inquired Lecoq.
“At once.”
The magistrate had already turned towards the door when the young police agent stopped him. “I have one more favour to ask you, sir,” he said, entreatingly. “You are so kind, you are the first person who has given me any encouragement—who has had any faith in me.”
“Speak, my good fellow.”
“Ah! sir, will you give me a message for M. d’Escorval? Any insignificant message—inform him of the prisoner’s escape. I will take it myself, and then—Oh! fear nothing, sir; I will be very prudent.”
“Very well!” replied the magistrate, “I will write him a note.”
When he finally left the office, Lecoq was fully authorized to proceed with his investigations, and he carried in his pocket M. Segmuller’s letter to M. d’Escorval. His satisfaction was so intense that he did not deign to notice the sneers bestowed upon him as he passed along the corridors; but on the threshold downstairs he encountered Gevrol the general, who was evidently watching for him. “Ah ha!” laughed the inspector, as Lecoq passed out, “here’s one of those simpletons who fish for whales and don’t even catch a gudgeon.”
For an instant Lecoq felt angry. He turned round abruptly and looked Gevrol full in the face. “At all events,” retorted he in the tone of a man who knows what he’s saying. “That’s better than assisting prisoners to carry on a surreptitious correspondence with people outside.”