“Where are the boots that I wore yesterday?” asked he.
“If you please, Sir,” said Mr. Franklin, “the man called this morning for the right boot of that pair.”
“What man?” asked Mr. Longcluse, rather grimly.
“Mr. Armagnac's man, Sir.”
“Did you desire him to call for it?” asked Mr. Longcluse.
“No, Sir. I thought you must have told some one else to order him to send for it,” said Franklin.
“I? You ought to know I leave those things to you,” said Mr. Longcluse, staring at him more aghast and fierce than the possible mislaying of a boot would seem to warrant. “Did you see Armagnac's man?”
“No, Sir. It was Charles who came up, at eight o'clock, when you were still asleep, and said the shoemaker had called for the right boot of the pair you wore yesterday. I had placed them outside the door, and I gave it him, Sir, supposing it all right.”
“Perhaps it was all right; but you know Charles has not been a week here. Call him up. I'll come to the bottom of this.”
Franklin disappeared, and Mr. Longcluse, with a stern frown, was staring vaguely at the varnished boot, as if it could tell something about its missing companion. His brain was already at work. What the plague was the meaning of this manœuvre about his boot? And why on earth, think I, should he make such a fuss and a tragedy about it? Charles followed Mr. Franklin up the stairs.