"I am a fool, an imbecile," he responded, in great dejection.
"This much must be said, my imbecile, that every man some time or other
makes just such a fool of his intelligence," was the soft reply.
A thin hand made a gesture of dissent. "Not you, monsieur. Never!"
"If it is any comfort to you, know then, my Solon, that I have done so
publicly in my time, while you have only done it privately. But let us
see. That Masson must be struck of a heap. What sort of a man is he to
look at? Apart from his morals, what class of creature is he?"
"He is a man of strength, of force in his way, monsieur. He made himself
from an apprentice without a cent, and he has now thirty men at work."
"Then he does not drink or gamble?"
"Neither, monsieur."
"Has he a family?"
"No, monsieur."
"How old is he?"
"Forty or thereabouts, monsieur."
The Judge cogitated for a moment, then said: "Ah, that's bad--unmarried
and forty, and no vices except this. It gives him few escape-valves. Is
he good-looking? What is his appearance?"
"Nor short, nor tall, and square shoulders. His face like the yellow
brown of a peach, hair that curls close to his head, blue eyes that see
everything, and a big hand that knows what it is doing."
The Judge nodded. "Ah, you have watched him, maitre. . . . When? Since
then?"
"No, no, monsieur, not since.
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