“Or by Saint-Denis?” said the sham lawyer.
Peyrade lost his presence of mind. The question must be answered. Now any reply might be dangerous. In the affirmative it was farcical; in the negative, if this man knew the truth, it would be Peyrade’s ruin.
“He is a sharp fellow,” thought he.
He tried to look at the man and smile, and he gave him a smile for an answer; the smile passed muster without protest.
“For what purpose have you disguised yourself, taken rooms at the Mirabeau, and dressed Contenson as a black servant?” asked the peace-officer.
“Monsieur le Prefet may do what he chooses with me, but I owe no account of my actions to any one but my chief,” said Peyrade with dignity.
“If you mean me to infer that you are acting by the orders of the General Police,” said the other coldly, “we will change our route, and drive to the Rue de Grenelle instead of the Rue de Jerusalem. I have clear instructions with regard to you. But be careful! You are not in any deep disgrace, and you may spoil your own game in a moment. As for me—I owe you no grudge.—Come; tell me the truth.”
“Well, then, this is the truth,” said Peyrade, with a glance at his Cerberus’ red eyes.
The sham lawyer’s face remained expressionless, impassible; he was doing his business, all truths were the same to him, he looked as though he suspected the Prefet of some caprice. Prefets have their little tantrums.
“I have fallen desperately in love with a woman—the mistress of that stockbroker who is gone abroad for his own pleasure and the displeasure of his creditors—Falleix.”