“M. Lecoq!” repeated he.
The vanity of the great detective was much flattered when he saw the impression that his name had produced.
“And now, my dear M. Andre,” said he blandly, “now that you know who I am, may I not hope that you will be more communicative?”
M. de Mussidan had not told his secret to the young artist, but he had said enough for him to feel that the detective was correct in his inference.
“Surely,” continued Lecoq, “we ought to be able to come to a more definite understanding, and I think that my openness should elicit some frankness on your side. I saw that you were watched by the very person that I was watching. For three days my men have followed you, and to-day I made up my mind that you could furnish me with the clue I am seeking.”
“I, sir?”
“For many years,” continued Lecoq, “I have been certain that an organized association of blackmailers exists in Paris; family differences, sin, shame, and sorrow are worked by these wretches like veritable gold mines, and bring them in enormous annual revenues.”
“Ah,” returned Andre, “I expected something of this kind.”
“Of course, when I was quite sure of these facts,” continued Lecoq, “I said to myself, ‘I will break up this gang;’ but it was easier said than done. There is one very peculiar thing about blackmailing. Those who carry it on are almost certain of doing so with impunity, for the victims will pay and not complain. Yes, I tell you that I have often found out these unhappy pigeons, but never could get one to speak.”
The detective was so indignant and acrimonious withal in his indignation, that Andre could not repress a smile.