Tom Bob took off his coat and pulled up both his shirt-sleeves.
“There, look!” he cried, “where can you see a wound?”—and he passed his hand across his forehead, exclaiming:
“Why, whatever do you mean, in God’s name! I think I must be dreaming!”
This time, M. Havard and the Minister gazed at each other in doubt and bewilderment. Tom Bob was not wounded! Tom Bob had not been at the grand duchess’s ball! Tom Bob was dumbfounded at the mere mention of their suspicions. It was beyond everything.
Then the Minister took up his parable. “Listen, Monsieur Bob,” he said “we are not crazy. This is what occurred, this is what we believed ...”
At great length, with details confirmed by M. Havard, with endless comments, the Minister narrated the whole incomprehensible imbroglio of the preceding evening, and at the end waited anxiously for the detective to speak.
“Come now,” he demanded, “do you understand anything about it all?”
Tom Bob shook his head. “No!” he declared, in a preoccupied tone of voice and with a meditative air, “no, I know nothing—or rather, from what you tell me, M. Havard, and you, Monsieur le Ministre ...”
But at this mention of his rank, the Minister started violently. “What!” he exclaimed, “then you know?”
“Yes, sir! yes, I know. Pardon me, but I know perfectly well I have the honour to address the Minister of Justice. Egad, with Tom Bob, I assure you, there is no incognito can last long. But enough of that—I was going to tell you there is only one thing I do understand in all these tragic and bloody accidents that befell at the grand duchess’s ball ...”