“By his tall figure,” said the mender of roads, softly, and with his finger at his nose. “When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening, ‘Say, what is he like?’ I make response, ‘Tall as a spectre.’ ”

“You should have said, short as a dwarf,” returned Jacques Two.

“But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he confide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not offer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger, standing near our little fountain, and says, ‘To me! Bring that rascal!’ My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing.”

“He is right there, Jacques,” murmured Defarge, to him who had interrupted. “Go on!”

“Good!” said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. “The tall man is lost, and he is sought⁠—how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?”

“No matter, the number,” said Defarge. “He is well hidden, but at last he is unluckily found. Go on!”