Standing quietly in one of the corners of the cell, the old chief surgeon lost not a word, not a gesture, of the murderer. And he could hardly refrain from rubbing his hands with delight as he noticed the marvellous skill of the magistrate in seizing upon all those little signs, which, when summed up at the end of an investigation, form an overwhelming mass of evidence against the criminal. The magistrate, in the meantime, went on with the same impassive air,—
“Let us leave that question, then, since it seems to irritate you, and let us go on to your residence here. How have you supported yourself at Saigon?”
“By my work, forsooth! I have two arms; and I am not a good-for- nothing.”
“You have found employment, you say, as engraver on metal?”
“No.”
“But you said”—
Evariste Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, could hardly conceal his impatience.
“If you won’t let me have my say,” he broke out insolently, “it isn’t worth while questioning me.”
The magistrate seemed not to notice it. He answered coldly,—
“Oh! talk as much as you want. I can wait.”