“Then what are you talking about? How do you know?”
“The address of your flat, and the name of your pretty friend? Goodness, all I have to do in your case was what I did in the case of Bregeac and Jodot and his colleagues, make discreet inquiries about your private life, which enquiries brought me to a mysterious ground-floor flat, very prettily furnished where you entertain charming ladies. Dim lights, incense, flowers, sweet wines, divans as deep as tombs—Marescal’s Folly. What?” [[246]]
“And what ab-b-bout it?” stammered Marescal. “Haven’t I the right to do as I like? What connection is there between that and my arresting you.”
“There wouldn’t be any connection at all, if you hadn’t been guilty of the further folly of choosing this little abode of love as a safe place to hide those ladies’ letters.”
“It’s a lie!” snapped Marescal.
“If I were lying, you wouldn’t be as white as a sheet,” said Ralph.
“The details?” said Marescal savagely.
“In a cupboard there’s a secret drawer. In this drawer is a casket. In this casket some charming letters from women, tied up in packets with colored ribands. Letters that compromise two dozen ladies and actresses whose passion for the handsome Marescal is expressed without the slightest restraint. Shall I name a few? The wife of the Procureur B., Mademoiselle X. of the Comédie Française—and above all, above all, the worthy spouse, a little mature, but still presentable of——”
“Shut up, you dog!”
“The dog,” said Ralph amiably, “is a man who takes advantage of his physique to obtain protection and promotion.”