Octavius, who looked rather pale, but with a stern expression on his face, slipped off his fur coat, and having surveyed Judas with a calculating expression, sat down by the fiction of a fire, the Frenchman taking a seat opposite.
"I do wait for you," said Monsieur Judas, smoothing one lean hand with the other, and letting his eyelids droop over his crafty eyes.
"Speak French," replied Fanks, in that language; "we'll understand one another better if you do."
"Eh, certainly, my friend," said Judas, rapidly, "it is easier for me. You speak French very well; eh, yes, very well, monsieur."
Fanks acknowledged this compliment with a stiff nod, and plunged at once into the object of his visit.
"Now, Monsieur Guinaud, about your friend, Melstane?"
"Eh! a moment, if you please," hissed Judas, in his low, soft voice, holding up his hand. "Before we speak of the poor Melstane let us understand each other, monsieur. That is but right, my friend."
"Yes, it is but right; what do you want to know?"
Monsieur Judas placed his elbows on his knees, warmed his claw-like hands over the fire, and looked cunningly at the detective before speaking.
"Your name, monsieur?"