In a few sentences, the chief of detectives related to his amateur colleague the story that Lerouge was about to tell the investigating magistrate.
“What do you say to that?” he asked when he came to the end.
“What do I say to that?” stammered old Tabaret, whose countenance indicated intense astonishment; “what do I say to that? I don’t say anything. But I think,—no, I don’t think anything either!”
“A slight surprise, eh?” said Gevrol, beaming.
“Say rather an immense one,” replied Tabaret.
But suddenly he started, and gave his forehead a hard blow with his fist.
“And my baker!” he cried, “I will see you to-morrow, then, M. Gevrol.”
“He is crazed,” thought the head detective.
The old fellow was sane enough, but he had suddenly recollected the Asnieres baker, whom he had asked to call at his house. Would he still find him there?
Going down the stairs he met M. Daburon; but, as one has already seen, he hardly deigned to reply to him.