"The name?" prompted Ste. Marie.
The gentleman from Marseilles tossed up his hands.
"Monsieur already knows it. Why should I hesitate? The name is Ducrot."
"What!" cried Ste. Marie, sharply. "What is that? Ducrot?"
"But naturally!" said the other man, with some wonder. "Monsieur said he knew. Certainly, Ducrot. A little, withered man, bald on the top of the head, creases down the cheeks, a mustache like this"--he made a descriptive gesture--"a little chin. A man like an elderly cat. M. Ducrot."
Ste. Marie gave a sigh of relief.
"Yes, yes," said he. "Ducrot is as good a name as another. The gentleman has more than one, it appears. Monsieur, the hundred-franc note is yours."
The gentleman from Marseilles took it with a slightly trembling hand, and began to bow himself toward the door as if he feared that his host would experience a change of heart; but Ste. Marie checked him, saying:
"One moment. I was thinking," said he, "that you would perhaps not care to present yourself to your--employer, M. Ducrot, immediately--not for a few days, at least, in view of the fact that certain actions of mine will show him your mission has--well, miscarried. It would, perhaps, be well for you not to communicate with M. Ducrot. He might be displeased with you."
"Monsieur," said the gentleman with the beard, "you speak with acumen and wisdom. I shall neglect to report myself to M. Ducrot, who, I repeat, is a pig."