The detective looked up, and repeated slowly,—
“The house in Vine Street, the paradise of this world. An immense garden, a soil of marvellous beauty. And what an exposure! There are walls there on which I could raise finer peaches than they have at Montreuil, and richer Chasselas than those of Fontainebleau!”
“Did you find any thing there?” asked M. Folgat.
Goudar, thus recalled to business, looked angry again.
“Nothing at all,” he replied. “Nor did I learn any thing from the tradesmen. I am no further advanced than I was the first day.”
“Let us hope you will have more luck here.”
“I hope so; but I need your assistance to commence operations. I must see Dr. Seignebos, and Mechinet the clerk. Ask them to meet me at the place I shall assign in a note which I will send them.”
“I will tell them.”
“Now, if you want my incognito to be respected, you must get me a permit from the mayor, for Goudar, street-musician. I keep my name, because here nobody knows me. But I must have the permit this evening. Wherever I might present myself, asking for a bed, they would call for my papers.”
“Wait here for a quarter of an hour, there is a bench,” said M. Folgat, “and I’ll go at once to the mayor.”