Then, again, this was my only way of
getting down to his personal level, the only way I could draw him out
and get at his real character. By taking his side of the question, he
would unbosom himself the more freely, and, perhaps, incidentally, some
of the peccadilloes--some of the most wicked.
"He will _not think_, Monsieur. They pulled him out of the river last
month."
"Drowned?"
His answer gave me a little start, but I did not betray myself.
"So they said. The water trickled along his nose for two days as he lay
on the slab, before they found out who he was."
"In the morgue?" I inquired in a tone of surprise. I spoke as if this
part of the story had not reached me.
"In the morgue, Monsieur."
The repeated words came as cold and merciless as the drops of water that
fell on poor Channet as he lay under the gas-jets.
"Drowned himself for love of Mademoiselle Beraud, you say?"
"Quite true, Monsieur. He is not the only one. I know four."
"And she began to love another in a week?" My indignation nearly got the
better of me this time, but I do not think he noticed it.
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