“Who is his friend?” he asked eagerly.
“I regret, Señor Andrade, that I am not in a position to answer that question. The whole matter is only one of suspicion—very strong suspicion.”
The Chief of Police looked very straight at me.
“Ah! Then you are in possession of certain secret knowledge concerning the man who made such a dastardly attempt upon your life!” he remarked. “And you suspect this Charles Rabel at Montauban to be the fugitive—eh?”
“Exactly,” I replied.
He asked me to repeat the address, which he scribbled down, and then looking up, said:
“Personally, Señor Garfield, I think your suspicions are unfounded. Despujol, if he is ever found, will be discovered in hiding somewhere in the mountains of the north.”
“But why not in Montauban?” I asked. “He is apparently a well-educated man, judging from his conversation with me. He speaks French well, and perhaps passes as a French subject.”
“He could pass for a Spaniard, an Italian, a Greek, or a Frenchman,” Andrade remarked. “And as forged passports are so cheap nowadays, and almost impossible to detect, the means of escape of such a daring criminal are both numerous and easy. But,” he added, “I am interested in this person whom you believe to be a friend of the fugitive. Cannot you tell me who he is?”