“And”—Monsieur Dupont made that infernal clucking noise with his tongue—“I have—nothing! Did I not tell you it was interesting? Yes, very interesting! Very!”
Was the man playing with him? How clever was this Dupont? No fool, at any rate! He had already shown that, in spite of his absurd mannerisms. Raymond's hand began to toy with the crucifix on his breast, while his fingers surreptitiously loosened several buttons of his soutane.
“Nothing?”—Raymond's eyebrows were raised in mild surprise. “But Mademoiselle Valérie told me he had regained consciousness.”
“Yes,” said Monsieur Dupont, “I heard her say so to some one as she left the house. I was keeping an eye on that vieille sauvage, Mother Blondin. But this—ah! Quite a more significant matter! Yes—quite! You will understand, Monsieur le Curé, that I lost no time in reaching here?”
And now for the first time Raymond looked swiftly toward the bed. It was only for the barest fraction of a second that he permitted his eyes to leave the police officer; but in that glance he had met coal black eyes, all pupils they seemed, fixed in a sort of intense penetration upon him. The man was still lying on his back, he had noticed that—but it was the eyes, disconcerting, full of something he could not define, boring into him, that dominated all else. He stepped nonchalantly toward Monsieur Dupont.
“It is astonishing that he has said nothing,” he murmured softly. “Will you permit me, Monsieur Dupont”—he held out his hand—“to see your book?”
“The book? H'm! Well, why not?” Monsieur Dupont shrugged his shoulders as he placed the notebook in Raymond's hand. “It is not customary—but, why not!”
And then upon Raymond came relief. It surged upon him until he could have laughed out hysterically, laughed like a fool in this Monsieur Dupont's face—this Monsieur Dupont who was the assistant chief of the police force of Tournayville. It was true! Dupont had at least told the truth. So far Dupont had learned nothing. Raymond's face was impassive as he scrutinised the page before him. Written with a flourish on the upper line, presumably to serve as a caption, were the words:
“The Murderer, Henri Mentone,” and beneath: “Evades direct answers. Hardened type—knows his way about. Pretends ignorance. Stubborn. Wily rascal—yes, very!”
Raymond handed the notebook back to Monsieur Dupont.