Altenheim was clinging to existence with fierce obstinacy, eager to speak and to accuse. . . . The secret which he wished to reveal was at the tip of his tongue and he was not able, did not know how to translate it into words.
"Come," the deputy-chief insisted. "M. Lenormand is dead, surely?"
"No."
"He's alive?"
"Yes."
"I don't understand. . . . Look here, these clothes? This frock-coat? . . ."
Altenheim turned his eyes toward Sernine. An idea struck M. Weber:
"Ah, I see! Lupin stole M. Lenormand's clothes and reckoned upon using them to escape with. . . ."
"Yes . . . yes. . . ."
"Not bad," cried the deputy-chief. "It's quite a trick in his style. In this room, we should have found Lupin disguised as M. Lenormand, chained up, no doubt. It would have meant his safety; only he hadn't time. That's it, isn't it?"