“You hear, sir,” said the hostess, apparently thinking the importunate questioner would now withdraw.

Such, however, was not Lecoq’s intention, and he did not even move, though he had need of all his self-possession to retain his English accent.  “This is very annoying,” said he, “very!  I am even more anxious and undecided than I was before, since I am not certain that this is the man I am seeking for.”

“Unfortunately, sir, I can tell you nothing more,” calmly replied the landlady.

Lecoq reflected for a moment, knitting his brows and biting his lips, as if he were trying to discover some means of solving the mystery.  In point of fact, he was seeking for some adroit phrase which might lead this woman to show him the register in which all travelers are compelled to inscribe their full names, profession, and usual residence.  At the same time, however, it was necessary that he should not arouse her suspicions.

“But, madame,” said he at last, “can’t you remember the name this man gave you?  Was it May?  Try to recollect if that was the name—­May—­May!”

“Ah!  I have so many things to remember.  But now I think of it, and the name must be entered in my book, which, if it would oblige you, I can show you.  It is in the drawer of my writing-table.  Whatever can I have done with my keys?”

And while the hostess, who seemed to possess about as much intelligence as her starling, was turning the whole office upside down looking for her keys, Lecoq scrutinized her closely.  She was about forty years of age, with an abundance of light hair, and a very fair complexion.  She was well preserved—­that is to say, she was plump and healthy in appearance; her glance was frank and unembarrassed; her voice was clear and musical, and her manners were pleasing, and entirely free from affectation.

“Ah!” she eventually exclaimed, “I have found those wretched keys at last.”  So saying, she opened her desk, took out the register, laid it on the table, and began turning over the leaves.  At last she found the desired page.

“Sunday, February 20th,” said she.  “Look, sir:  here on the seventh line—­May—­no Christian name—­foreign artist—­coming from Leipsic—­without papers.”

While Lecoq was examining this record with a dazed air, the woman exclaimed:  “Ah! now I can explain how it happened that I forgot the man’s name and strange profession—­’foreign artist.’  I did not make the entry myself.”

“Who made it, then?”

“The man himself, while I was finding ten francs to give him as change for the louis he handed me.  You can see that the writing is not at all like that of other entries.”

Lecoq had already noted this circumstance, which seemed to furnish an irrefutable argument in favor of the assertions made by the landlady and the prisoner.  “Are you sure,” he asked, “that this is the man’s handwriting?”

In his anxiety he had forgotten his English accent.  The woman noticed this at once, for she drew back, and cast a suspicious glance at the pretended foreigner.  “I know what I am saying,” she said, indignantly.  “And now this is enough, isn’t it?”