“Neither, monsieur.”
“Has he a family?”
“No, monsieur.”
“How old is he?”
“Forty or thereabouts, monsieur.”
The Judge cogitated for a moment, then said: “Ah, that’s bad—unmarried and forty, and no vices except this. It gives him few escape-valves. Is he good-looking? What is his appearance?”
“Nor short, nor tall, and square shoulders. His face like the yellow brown of a peach, hair that curls close to his head, blue eyes that see everything, and a big hand that knows what it is doing.”
The Judge nodded. “Ah, you have watched him, maitre.... When? Since then?”
“No, no, monsieur, not since. If I had watched him since, I should perhaps have thought of the right thing to do. But I did not. I used to study him while the work was going on, when he first came, but I have known him some time from a distance. If a man makes himself what he is, you look at him, of course.”
“Truly. His temper—his disposition, what is it?” M. Fille was very much alive now. He replied briskly. “Like the snap of a whip. He flies into anger and flies out. He has a laugh that makes men say, ‘How he enjoys himself!’ and his mind is very quick and sure.”