“M. Laforêt? You will not find him at the Ministry, call at his private residence.”
“Where is that?”
“You must inquire.”
It was quite evident there was nothing to be gained here. Bowing, he thanked the porter and took his departure. In the Rue Saint-Dominique, at the corner of the Rue Martignac, he noticed a small café. He entered with the object of making inquiries, as the porter had recommended. Four customers, under the complaisant eye of the proprietor, were playing at cards. At the far end was a room, containing a billiard-table. The players could be seen, though indistinctly, each time they passed before the door. There appeared to be spectators present. Probably a pool was being contested.
“A bock. Is there a billiard academy here?”
“Ah, sir, we have some very fine players. Some of these gentlemen from the Ministry come every evening. M. Trousset, the head clerk, though an amateur, would be a match for the best players in Paris, and even from abroad!”
“Indeed! And may one watch the game?”
“If you wish, sir, I will carry the beer into the next room.”
Baudoin had already entered the billiard-room, which contained two tables. Taking a seat, he looked on. One of the players was a stout, jovial fellow, who accompanied his cannons with stale jokes. The other, a tall, thin dark-complexioned man, was Laforêt himself. Baudoin gave himself a slap on the thigh, took out a cigarette, and exclaimed to the astonishment of his neighbour—
“I am lucky this time!”