“I desire to see her.”
“Then you have come to the wrong house, citizen,” said the concierge with a rude laugh.
“The wrong house? What do you mean?” stammered Armand, a little bewildered.
“She is not here—quoi!” retorted the concierge, who now turned deliberately on his heel. “Go and look for her, citizen; it’ll take you some time to find her.”
He shuffled off in the direction of the stairs. Armand was vainly trying to shake himself free from a sudden, an awful sense of horror.
He gave another vigorous pull at the bell, then with one bound he overtook the concierge, who was preparing to descend the stairs, and gripped him peremptorily by the arm.
“Where is Mademoiselle Lange?” he asked.
His voice sounded quite strange in his own ear; his throat felt parched, and he had to moisten his lips with his tongue before he was able to speak.
“Arrested,” replied the man.
“Arrested? When? Where? How?”