“I have forgotten his name.”
The magistrate seemed to redouble his attention, although he did not
show it.
“That is very unfortunate for you,” he answered coldly. “Come, make an
effort; try to remember.”
“I know I cannot; it is not worth the trouble.”
“Well; but no doubt you recollect the profession of the man who knew so
well that government wanted men in Cochin China? What was it?”
The man, this time, turned crimson with rage, and cried out with
extraordinary vehemence,--
“How do I know? Besides, what have I to do with my friend’s name and
profession? I learned from him that they wanted workmen. I called at the
navy department, they engaged me; and that is all.”
Standing quietly in one of the corners of the cell, the old chief
surgeon lost not a word, not a gesture, of the murderer. And he could
hardly refrain from rubbing his hands with delight as he noticed the
marvellous skill of the magistrate in seizing upon all those little
signs, which, when summed up at the end of an investigation, form an
overwhelming mass of evidence against the criminal. The magistrate, in
the meantime, went on with the same impassive air,--
“Let us leave that question, then, since it seems to irritate you, and
let us go on to your residence here. How have you supported yourself at
Saigon?”
“By my work, forsooth! _I_ have two arms; and I am not a good-for-
nothing.”
“You have found employment, you say, as engraver on metal?”
“No.”
“But you said”--
Evariste Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet, could hardly conceal his
impatience.
“If you won’t let me have my say,” he broke out insolently, “it isn’t
worth while questioning me.”