“True for ye, and it seems to me that Paris, somehow, is the place he would come for it.”
“Paris! And why?”
“Sure, I don’t know. But it presents itself to me that way, Master Ethan.”
“Perhaps you may be right. This man Fochard is here, and it would not be at all surprising if he knew something of the matter.”
“Suppose,” suggested Longsword after a pause, “that we pay a visit to this gentleman in the Rue Constantine?”
“An excellent idea,” cried Ethan. “And we will put it into operation at once.”
They put on their heaviest clothing, for the night was a cold one in February, and set forth. The hard frosty ground rang beneath their feet as they trudged along the rather gloomy streets. Turning into the Rue Constantine they had no trouble in finding the house of M. Fochard. The same little man in the spectacles and with the shining bald head opened the door upon the chain and looked out at them. Recognizing them at a single glance he cried:
“Oh, you rogues, so you have returned. A very nice trick that was to play upon an old clerk, was it not? Shame! I almost lost my place because of you. But you will not fool me again, no, no!”
“Is M. Fochard within?” asked Ethan.
“He is not, and would not see you if he were! You are rogues, monsieurs; and we have nothing to do with such here!” And with that, he clapped the door in their faces and left them standing in the darkness and cold.