The commissary accompanied Mademoiselle Philippa to the door. He was not looking forward with unadulterated pleasure to the next half-hour, when of a surety that fussy functionary from Paris would set the municipal authorities by the ears for the sake of an affair which, after all, was not so very uncommon in these days—a handsome rogue, a foolish, trusting woman, valuable jewellery. The whole thing was very simple and the capture of the miscreant a certainty. "How was he going to dispose of the emeralds," argued M. Cognard to himself, "without getting caught?" As for connecting such a mild affair with any of those daring Chouans, the idea was preposterous.
But when M. Cognard returned to his office, these specious arguments froze upon his lips. The Man in Grey was looking unusually stern and uncompromising.
"Let me have your last reports about Mademoiselle de Romaine," he said peremptorily. "What did she do all day yesterday?"
The commissary, grumbling in his beard, found the necessary papers.
"She only went to church in the morning," he said in an injured tone of voice, "with Madame la Comtesse. It was the feast of St. Andrew——"
"Did either of the women speak to anyone?"
"Not on the way. But the church was very crowded—both ladies went to confession——"
The Man in Grey uttered an impatient exclamation.
"I fear we have lost the emeralds," he said, "but in Heaven's name do not let us lose the rogue. When brought to bay he may give up the booty yet."
"But, Monsieur Fernand——" protested the commissary.