"Now," I said bluntly, fixing him with my eyes, "your wife is no longer listening, and you can tell me the truth. Who employed you to write these words?"
Trembling so violently he had to lean on the balustrade for support, he answered me.
"Madame Nicholas," he whispered.
"What?" I cried, recoiling. I had no doubt he was telling me the truth now.
"The secretary's wife, do you mean? Be careful, man."
He nodded.
"When?" I asked suspiciously.
"Yesterday," he answered. "She is an old cat!" he continued, almost fiercely. "I hate her! But my wife is jealous."
"And did you throw it into my coach," I said, "on the Pont du Change, to-day?"
"God forbid!" he replied, shrinking into himself again. "I wrote it for her, and she took it away. She said it was a jest she was playing. That is all I know."