Lefarge took out a photograph.
‘That is he,’ he said, ‘a M. Raoul Boirac, of Paris.’
‘Oh, to be sure,’ returned the clerk, ‘I know that gentleman. He has frequently stayed with us, but he is not here at present.’
The detective began to turn over the leaves of his pocket-book as if looking for something.
‘I hope I haven’t made a mistake in the date,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t here recently by any chance, was he?’
‘He was here, monsieur, quite lately—last week in fact. He spent one night.’
Lefarge made a gesture of annoyance.
‘I’ve missed him!’ he exclaimed. ‘As sure as fate I’ve missed him. Can you tell me what night he was here?’
‘Certainly, monsieur.’ He turned up some papers. ‘He was here on Wednesday night, the 31st March.’
‘I’ve missed him. Now, isn’t that too bad? I must have mistaken the date.’ The detective stood apparently considering.