"Go on. How was he? Short, tall, about your own height?"
"Oh! no, no, much taller. At least, that was my sensation, for it was a simple sensation, an individual I am almost sure I brushed against, as I ran back to my own carriage."
"Wait a moment," said M. Denizet.
And, turning to Jacques, he inquired:
"The man you caught sight of, with the knife in his hand, was he taller than Monsieur Roubaud?"
The driver, who was impatient, for he began to be afraid he would not catch the five o'clock train, raised his eyes and examined Roubaud. And, it seemed to him, that he had never looked at him before. He was astonished to find him short, powerful, with a peculiar profile he had seen elsewhere, perhaps in a dream.
"No," he murmured, "not taller; about the same height."
But the assistant station master vehemently protested.
"Oh! much taller! At least a head."
Jacques fixed his eyes, wide open, upon him. And under the influence of this look, wherein he read increasing surprise, Roubaud became agitated, as if to change his own appearance; while his wife also followed the dull effort of memory expressed by the face of the young man. Clearly the latter was astonished. First of all, at certain analogies between Roubaud and the murderer. Then he abruptly became positive that Roubaud was the assassin, as had been reported. He now seemed troubled at this discovery, and stood there with gaping countenance, unable to decide what to do. If he spoke, the couple were lost. The eyes of Roubaud had met his. They penetrated one another to their innermost thoughts. There came a silence.