Monsieur Fuselier smiled.
"Oh, it's a queer affair, in fact, it may lead to the wind-up of all the Dollon business—we may now get to the bottom of that series of crimes!... You will never guess who is the owner of that car, Fandor?..."
"No, I am no good at guessing riddles just now ... besides, I hate them!" Fandor was nettled, exasperated!
"We got the number of the car from a witness of the smash-up; and we have verified its correctness. Well, my dear fellow, the owner of that car is—Thomery!"
"Thomery!" gasped Fandor.
"Yes. I have summoned him to appear before me—the summons has just been issued. Between you and me, I think Thomery is guilty. When he appears here, in, say an hour from now, I shall issue a writ of arrest against this sugar refiner financier, and we don't know what else!"
But, no sooner had Monsieur Fuselier finished his statement—a statement which he fully expected would strike his young reporter friend dumb with amazement—than Fandor threw himself back in his chair and roared with laughter.
The magistrate was taken aback!...
"But ... what the devil do you find to laugh at in that?"
Fandor had already checked his hilarity.