Brett's ill-humour at the uncalled-for interference of the police was now quite dispelled, and he greeted the commissary with the genial affability which so quickly won him the friendship of casual acquaintances.
"I think," he began, "that your agents, monsieur, were watching me throughout the whole of yesterday."
"That is so," nodded the other, wondering what pitfall lay behind this leading question.
"Do I take it that after my departure from No. 11, Rue Barbette about midday they maintained no further guard over that house?"
"Assuredly. It was monsieur's personal movements which called for observation."
"Then you do not know that an individual whose identity may be much more important than mine is an inmate of the apartment at this moment—probably a captive against his will, possibly a corpse?"
The Frenchman's huge moustache bristled with alarm and annoyance.
"It is a strange thing, monsieur," he cried, "that an English gentleman should come to Paris and know more about the movements and haunts of criminals than the French police."
It was no part of Brett's design to rub the official the wrong way, so he said gently—