“What do you want to know about that imposter?” Monsieur Lenoir demanded.
Stanislas glanced at the magnifying glass the man brandished. “Why do you call him that?”
Monsieur Lenoir realized his agitation had made him unwittingly hold the tool like a weapon. He slipped the evidence of his anger into his back pocket. “Because he was one, that’s why. I collect stamps,” he added as though compelled to explain himself. “I was an engraver before I retired. I kept up my skill during the war, forging for the Resistance. I guess that’s why I collect what I do, being fascinated with print, I mean.” He glanced down at Stanislas’s right leg, bent slightly outward.
“I was injured in a terrorist attack here in Paris in my youth,” Stanislas said. “I apologize again for our missed meeting.”
Monsieur Le
