"
"What port was that?"
"I don't know."
At this reply Lecoq, who had less experience than the magistrate in the
art of concealing one's impressions, could not help rubbing his hands
with satisfaction. The prisoner was plainly convicted of falsehood,
indeed driven into a corner.
"So you have only your own word to offer in support of this story?"
inquired M. Segmuller.
"Wait a moment," said the prisoner, extending his arm as if to clutch at
a still vague inspiration--"wait a moment. When I arrived in Paris I had
with me a trunk containing my clothes. The linen is all marked with the
first letter of my name, and besides some ordinary coats and trousers,
there were a couple of costumes I used to wear when I appeared in
public."
"Well, what have you done with all these things?"
"When I arrived in Paris, I took the trunk to a hotel, close by the
Northern Railway Station--"
"Go on. Tell us the name of this hotel," said M. Segmuller, perceiving
that the prisoner had stopped short, evidently embarrassed.
"That's just what I'm trying to recollect. I've forgotten it. But I
haven't forgotten the house. I fancy I can see it now; and, if some one
would only take me to the neighborhood, I should certainly recognize
it. The people at the hotel would know me, and, besides, my trunk would
prove the truth of what I've told you."
On hearing this statement, Lecoq mentally resolved to make a tour of
investigation through the various hotels surrounding the Gare du Nord.
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