M. Lecoq changed his tone to one of severity, stepping back to watch the effect he was about to produce upon Guespin.
"You haven't any right to hold your tongue. And even if you do, you fool, the police know everything. Your master sent you on an errand, didn't he, on Wednesday night; what did he give you? A one-thousand-franc note?"
The prisoner looked at M. Lecoq in speechless amazement.
"No," he stammered. "It was a five-hundred-franc note."
The detective, like all great artists in a critical scene, was really moved. His surprising genius for investigation had just inspired him with a bold stroke, which, if it succeeded, would assure him the victory.
"Now," said he, "tell me the woman's name."
"I don't know."
"You are only a fool then. She is short, isn't she, quite pretty, brown and pale, with very large eyes?"
"You know her, then?" said Guespin, in a voice trembling with emotion.
"Yes, comrade, and if you want to know her name, to put in your prayers, she is called—Jenny."