It was one of those streets where you could talk at your ease, without having to step from the sidewalk every moment.  So Fanferlot and Cavaillon were in no danger of being disturbed by passers-by.

“What I wished to say is, my dear monsieur,” began the detective, “that M. Prosper Bertomy threw you a note this morning.”

Cavaillon vaguely foresaw that he was to be questioned about this note, and instantly put himself on his guard.

“You are mistaken,” he said, blushing to his ears.

“Excuse me, monsieur, for presuming to contradict you, but I am quite certain of what I say.”

“I assure you that Prosper never gave me anything.”

“Pray, monsieur, do not persist in a denial; you will compel me to prove that four clerks saw him throw you a note written in pencil and closely folded.”

Cavaillon saw the folly of further contradicting a man so well informed; so he changed his tactics, and said: 

“It is true Prosper gave me a note this morning; but it was intended for me alone, and after reading it I tore it up, and threw the pieces in the fire.”

This might be the truth.  Fanferlot feared so; but how could he assure himself of the fact?  He remembered that the most palpable tricks often succeed the best, and trusting to his star, he said at hazard: 

“Permit me to observe that this statement is not correct; the note was intrusted to you to give to Gypsy.”

A despairing gesture from Cavaillon apprised the detective that he was not mistaken; he breathed again.

“I swear to you, monsieur,” began the young man.

“Do not swear, monsieur,” interrupted Fanferlot; “all the oaths in the world would be useless.  You not only preserved the note, but you came to this house for the purpose of giving it to Gypsy, and it is in your pocket now.”

“No, monsieur, no!”

Fanferlot paid no attention to this denial, but continued in his gentlest tone: 

“And I am sure you will be kind enough to give it to me; believe me, nothing but the most absolute necessity—­”

“Never!” exclaimed Cavaillon; and, believing the moment favorable, he suddenly attempted to jerk his arm from under Fanferlot’s, and escape.

But his efforts were vain; the detective’s strength was equal to his suavity.

“Don’t hurt yourself, young man,” he said, “but take my advice, and quietly give up the letter.”

“I have not got it.”

“Very well; see, you reduce me to painful extremities.  If you persist in being so obstinate, I shall call two policemen, who will take you by each arm, and escort you to the commissary of police; and, once there, I shall be under the painful necessity of searching your pockets, whether you will or not.”

Cavaillon was devoted to Prosper, and willing to make any sacrifice in his behalf; but he clearly saw that it was worse than useless to struggle any longer, as he would have no time to destroy the note.  To deliver it under force was no betrayal; but he cursed his powerlessness, and almost wept with rage.