“Yes,” the platelayer answered, “but it’s late, for the clock down there in the valley struck seven several minutes ago.”
The train had gone by: the three red lamps fastened at the end of it were already lost in the morning mist.
The man who spoke to the platelayer was no other than François Paul, the tramp who had been discharged by the magistrate installed at the château of Beaulieu, at precisely the same time the day before, after a brief examination. In spite of the deep wrinkle furrowed in his brow the man seemed to make an effort to appear friendly and to want to carry on the conversation.
“There aren’t many people in this morning train,” he remarked, “specially in the first-class carriages.”
The platelayer appeared in no wise unwilling to postpone for a few moments his tiring and chilly underground patrol; he put down his pick before answering.
“Well, that’s not surprising, is it? People who are rich enough to travel first-class always come by the express which gets to Brives at 2:50 a.m.”
“I see,” said François Paul; “that’s reasonable: and more practical for travellers to Brives or Cahors. But what about the people who want to get out at Gourdon, or Souillac, or Verrières, or any of the small stations where the express doesn’t stop?”
“I don’t know,” said the platelayer; “but I suppose they have to get out at Brives or Cahors and drive, or else travel by the day trains, which are fast to Brives and slow afterwards.”
François Paul did not press the matter. He lit a pipe and breathed upon his benumbed fingers.
“Hard times, these, and no mistake!”
The platelayer seemed sorry for him.
“I don’t suppose you’re an independent gentleman, but why don’t you try to get taken on here?” he suggested. “They want hands here.”
“Oh, do they?”
“That’s the fact; this is the foreman coming along now: would you like me to speak to him for you?”
“No hurry,” replied François Paul. “ ’Course, I’m not saying no, but I should like to see what sort of work it is they’re doing here: it might not suit me; I shall still have time to get a couple of words with him,” and with his eyes on the ground the tramp slowly walked along the embankment away from the platelayer.
The foreman met and passed him, and came up to the platelayer at the mouth of the tunnel.
“Well, Michu, how goes it with you? Still got the old complaint?”
“Middling, boss,” the worthy fellow answered: “just keeping up, you know. And how’s yourself? And the work? When shall you finish? I don’t know if you know it, but these trains stopping regularly in my section give me an extra lot of work.”
“How’s that?” the foreman enquired in surprise.
“The engine drivers take advantage of the stop to empty their ashpans, and they leave a great heap of mess there in my tunnel, which I’m obliged to clear away. In the ordinary way they dump it somewhere else: where, I don’t know, but not in my tunnel, and that’s all I care about.”
The foreman laughed.
“You’re a good ’un, Michu! If I were you I would ask the Company to give me another man or two.”
“And do you suppose the Company would?” Michu retorted. “By the way, that poor devil who is going along there, shivering with cold and hunger, was grumbling to me just now, and I advised him to ask you to take him on. What do you think he said? Why, that he would have a look at the work first, and off he went.”
“It’s a fact, Michu, that it’s mighty difficult to come across people who mean business nowadays. It’s quite true that I want more hands. But if that chap doesn’t ask me to engage him in another minute, I’ll kick him out. The embankment is not public property, and I don’t trust these rascals who are forever coming and going among the workmen to see what mischief they can make. I’ll go and cast an eye over the bolts and things, for there are all sorts of vagrants about the neighbourhood just now.”
“And criminals, too,” said old Michu. “I suppose you have heard of the murder up at the château of Beaulieu?”
“Rather! My men are talking of nothing else. But you are right, Michu, I will get a closer look at all strangers, and at your friend in particular.”
The foreman stopped abruptly; he had been examining the foot of the embankment, and was standing quite still, watching. The platelayer followed his glance, and also stood fixed. After a few moments’ silence the two men looked at each other and smiled. In the half-light of the valley they had seen the outline of a gendarme; he was on foot and appeared to be looking for somebody, while making no attempt to remain unseen himself.
“Good!” whispered Michu; “that’s sergeant Doucet: I know him by his stripes. They say the murder was not committed by anyone belonging to this part of the country; everybody was fond of the Marquise de Langrune.”
“Look! Look!” the foreman broke in, pointing to the gendarme who was slowly climbing up the embankment. “It looks as if the sergeant were making for the gentleman who was looking for work just now and hoped he would not find it. The sergeant’s got a word for him, eh, what?”
“That might be,” said Michu after a moment’s further watching. “That chap has a villainous, ugly face. One can tell from the way he’s dressed that he don’t belong to our parts.”
The two men waited with utmost interest to see what was going to happen.
Sergeant Doucet reached the top of the embankment at last and hurried past the navvies, who stopped their work to stare inquisitively after the representative of authority. Fifty yards beyond them, François Paul, wrapped in thought, was walking slowly down towards the station of Verrières. Hearing the sound of steps behind him, he turned. When he saw the sergeant
