“Bah! they do not pay for service; let her come and say what she needs.”
“Exactly; and we will bring her,” said the officer, making for the stairs and the room indicated.
But on reaching the door, they found it locked. From within? Hardly, for as they stood there in doubt, a voice inside cried vehemently:
“Let me out! Help! Help! Send for the police. I have much to tell them. Quick! Let me out.”
“We are here, my dear, just as you require us. But wait; step down, Gaston, and see if the clerk has a second key. If not, call in a locksmith—the nearest. A little patience only, my beauty. Do not fear.”
The key was quickly produced, and an entrance effected.
A woman stood there in a defiant attitude, with arms akimbo; she, no doubt, of whom they were in search. A tall, rather masculine-looking creature, with a dark, handsome face, bold black eyes just now flashing fiercely, rage in every feature.
“Madame Dufour?” began the police officer.
“Dufour! Rot! My name is Hortense Petitpré; who are you? La Rousse?” (Police.)
“At your service. Have you anything to say to us? We have come on purpose to take you to the Prefecture quietly, if you will let us; or—”