"Then where has my wife been ?" "At the house of Mirepoix, the glover," I answered coldly, "in the Rue Platriere.

Do you know him?
You do.

Well, she was kept there a prisoner, until we helped her to escape an hour or so ago." He did not seem to comprehend even then.

I could see little of his face, but there was doubt and wonder in his tone when he spoke.
"Mirepoix the glover," he murmured.

"He is an honest man enough, though a Catholic.