"The name?" prompted Ste. Marie.
The gentleman from Marseille 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 moustache 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 Marseille took it with a slightly trembling hand, and began to bow himself towards 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."