“And you—­greedy, gormandizing beast!—­you agreed?”

“My faith, monsieur, I too was hungry.  It was my regular hour.  Well—­at any rate, for my sins I accepted.  We entered the first restaurant, that of the ‘Reunited Friends,’ you know it, perhaps, monsieur?  A good house, especially noted for tripe a la mode de Caen.”  In spite of his anguish, Block smacked his fat lips at the thought of this most succulent but very greasy dish.

“How often must I tell you to get on?”

“Forgive me, monsieur, but it is all part of my story.  We had oysters, two dozen Marennes, and a glass or two of Chablis; then a good portion of tripe, and with them a bottle, only one, monsieur, of Pontet Canet; after that a beefsteak with potatoes and a little Burgundy, then a rum omelet.”

“Great Heavens! you should be the fat man in a fair, not an agent of the Detective Bureau.”

“It was all this that helped me to my destruction.  He ate, this devilish Italian, like three, and I too, I was so hungry,—­forgive me, sir,—­I did my share.  But by the time we reached the cheese, a fine, ripe Camembert, had our coffee, and one thimbleful of green Chartreuse, I was plein jusqu’au bec, gorged up to the beak.”

“And what of your duty, your service, pray?”

“I did think of it, monsieur, but then, he, the Italian, was just the same as myself.  He was a colleague.  I had no fear of him, not till the very last, when he played me this evil turn.  I suspected nothing when he brought out his pocketbook,—­it was stuffed full, monsieur; I saw that and my confidence increased,—­called for the reckoning, and paid with an Italian bank-note.  The waiter looked doubtful at the foreign money, and went out to consult the manager.  A minute after, my man got up, saying: 

“’There may be some trouble about changing that bank-note.  Excuse me one moment, pray.’  He went out, monsieur, and piff-paff, he was no more to be seen.”

“Ah, nigaud (ass), you are too foolish to live!  Why did you not follow him?  Why let him out of your sight?”

“But, monsieur, I was not to know, was I?  I was to accompany him, not to watch him.  I have done wrong, I confess.  But then, who was to tell he meant to run away?”

M. Flocon could not deny the justice of this defence.  It was only now, at the eleventh hour, that the Italian had become inculpated, and the question of his possible anxiety to escape had never been considered.

“He was so artful,” went on Block in further extenuation of his offence.  “He left everything behind.  His overcoat, stick, this book—­his own private memorandum-book seemingly—­”

“Book?  Hand it me,” said the Chief, and when it came into his hands he began to turn over the leaves hurriedly.

It was a small brass-bound note-book or diary, and was full of close writing in pencil.

“I do not understand, not more than a word here and there.  It is no doubt Italian.  Do you know that language, M. le Juge?”