“The commission is done,” he said, in that confident tone of a man who thinks he has successfully accomplished a difficult task.
“You know the name of the individual who sought a quarrel with M. de Tregars?”
“His name is Corvi. He is well known in all the tables d’hote, where there are women, and where they deal a healthy little game after dinner. I know him well too. He is a bad fellow, who passes himself off for a former superior officer in the Italian army.”
“His address?”
“He lives at Rue de la Michodiere, in a furnished house. I went there. The porter told me that my man had just gone out with an ill-looking individual, and that they must be in a little Café on the corner of the next street. I ran there, and found my two fellows drinking beer.”
“Won’t they give us the slip?”
“No danger of that: I have got them fixed.”
“How is that?”
“It is an idea of mine. I just thought, ‘Suppose they put off?’ And at once I went to notify some policemen, and I returned to station myself near the Café. It was just closing up. My two fellows came out: I picked a quarrel with them; and now they are in the station-house, well recommended.”
The commissary knit his brows.