"That is true; but one which may turn out a certainty. It remains for me to ask this man how Guespin carried away the articles which he bought? Did he simply slip them into his pocket, or did he have them done up in a bundle, and if so, how?"
The detective spoke in a sharp, hard, freezing tone, with a bitter raillery in it, frightening his Corbeil colleague out of his assurance.
"I don't know," stammered the latter. "They didn't tell me—I thought—"
M. Lecoq raised his hands as if to call the heavens to witness: in his heart, he was charmed with this fine occasion to revenge himself for M. Domini's disdain. He could not, dared not say anything to the judge; but he had the right to banter the agent and visit his wrath upon him.
"Ah so, my lad," said he, "what did you go to Paris for? To show
Guespin's picture and detail the crime to the people at Vulcan's Forges?
They ought to be very grateful to you; but Madame Petit, Monsieur
Plantat's housekeeper, would have done as much."
At this stroke the man began to get angry; he frowned, and in his bluffest tone, began:
"Look here now, you—"
"Ta, ta, ta," interrupted M. Lecoq. "Let me alone, and know who is talking to you. I am Monsieur Lecoq."
The effect of the famous detective's name on his antagonist was magical. He naturally laid down his arms and surrendered, straightway becoming respectful and obsequious. It almost flattered him to be roughly handled by such a celebrity. He muttered, in an abashed and admiring tone:
"What, is it possible? You, Monsieur Lecoq!"