Meanwhile, where
were you, Jules Chauvenet?"
Chauvenet's hand again went to his face, which whitened, though he sought
refuge again in flippant irony.
"To be sure! Where was I, Monsieur? Undoubtedly you know all my
movements, so that it is unnecessary for me to have any opinions in the
matter."
"Quite so! Your opinions are not of great value to me, for I employed
agents to trace every move you made during the month in which Count von
Stroebel was stabbed to death in his railway carriage. It is so
interesting that I have committed the record to memory. If the story
would interest you--"
The hand that again sought the slight mustache trembled slightly; but
Chauvenet smiled.
"You should write the memoirs of your very interesting career, my dear
fellow. I can not listen to your babble longer."
"I do not intend that you shall; but your whereabouts on Monday night,
March eighteenth, of this year, may need explanation, Monsieur
Chauvenet."
"If it should, I shall call upon you, my dear fellow!"
"Save yourself the trouble! The bureau I employed to investigate the
matter could assist you much better.
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