He was bubbling over with excitement and the sense of his own huge importance.
The Citizen Morot raised his secretive eyes.
“Good-night,” he said, with an insolence far too fine for the butcher's comprehension.
“Well—good-night. We may congratulate ourselves, I think, Citizen!”
“I congratulate you,” said Morot. “Good-night.”
“Good-night.”
It is probable that, had Lerac looked back, there would have been murder done in the small room behind the tobacco-shop. But the contemptuous smile soon vanished from the face of the Citizen Morot. No smile lingered there long. It was not built upon smiling lines at all.
Then he took up his letters. There were only two of them: one bearing the postmark of a small town in Morbihan, the other hailing from England.
He replaced the first in his pocket unread; the second he opened. It was written in French.
“There are difficulties,” it said. “Can you come to me? Cross from Cherbourg to Southampton—train from thence to this place, and ask for Signor Bruno, an Italian refugee, living at the house of Mrs. Potter, a ci-devant laundress.”