"Yes, I see you have brought them all. It is strange that the idea of detaching the winning ticket did not occur to you. One can not think of everything, however."
"I brought the package exactly as I took it from my pocket-book."
"Have you that pocket-book about you?"
"No," stammered Puymirol, disconcerted by this question, which he might have foreseen, however. "I left it at home."
"Of course, great as your audacity may be, you would hardly dare to produce that. It bears other initials than yours."
"Produce it if you can," retorted Puymirol, imprudently.
"I understand. You have no fear of its being produced; you have destroyed it."
This time the commissary had made a mistake, and a suspicion that had flashed across Puymirol's mind a few moments before, was effectually dispelled. He had fancied that his assailant of the previous night might have been set upon his track by the police, who had taken forcible possession of the pocket-book, by orders of his superiors. "I do not understand you, unfortunately," said Adhémar. "But let us put an end to this. What are you aiming at?"
"Well, a crime was committed in Paris about a fortnight ago. A well-known gentleman, a man of fashion, was murdered at mid-day, in his rooms. You must have heard of the affair?"
"Yes, through the papers."