“The warrant is quite regular,” returned the commissary. “You can see it if you desire.”
“No, it is not necessary. I will only ask you to conduct me to the magistrate who issued it, and in five minutes all will be explained.”
“Do you think so?” asked Lecoq in a quiet tone of sarcasm. “You have not heard, I can see, of what took place yesterday. A laborer, in the course of his work, discovers the remains of a newly-born infant, wrapped in a silk handkerchief and a shawl. The police soon set inquiries on foot, and have found the mother—a girl named Clarisse.”
Had not Lecoq suddenly grasped Catenac’s arm, the lawyer would have flown at Martin Rigal’s throat.
“Villain, traitor!” panted he, “you have sold me!”
“My papers have been stolen,” faltered the banker.
He now saw that the blows struck upon the other side of the wall were merely a trick, for Lecoq had thought that a little preliminary fright would render them more amenable to reason.
Hortebise still looked on calmly; he knew that the game was lost.
“I belong to a respectable family,” thought he, “and I will not bring dishonor upon it. I have no time to lose.”
As he spoke he placed the contents of the locket between his lips and swallowed them.