Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. “That’s what we narcs have to do. But the recollection of the warm pliant body in his arms …! "I am a thief!" he whispered. ‘I disgust you, eh? Very well, then. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. Perhaps the Parisian atmosphere had affected him.
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