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Hence, the murderer arrested there, May, the pretended buffoon, is the Duc de Sairmeuse!" How this idea had entered old Tabaret's head, Lecoq could not understand. A vague suspicion had, it is true, flitted through his own mind; but it was in a moment of despair when he was distracted at having lost May, and when certain of Couturier's remarks furnished the excuse for any ridiculous supposition.
What do you want of me?" "I should like to have some information about the man who accompanied you last night." Couturier's face darkened. "I am really unable to give you any," he replied. "Why?" "Because I don't know him. I never saw him before last night." "It's hard to believe that. A fellow doesn't enlist the first-comer for an expedition like yours last evening.
To Sixth Avenue drift men who, for the first time in a Miss-spending life, are feeling the prick of a fraying collar. Even Fifth Avenue is constantly feeding it. A couturier's model gone hippy; a specialty-shop gone bankrupt; a cashier's books gone over. Its shops are second-hand, and not a few of its denizens are down on police records as sleight-of-hand.
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