“And is that all?” I asked, my heart falling again.
“Not quite, Monsieur. It happened that my grandson was here at the time, and I told him to follow the girl, believing that in this way we might learn where her mistress is hiding.”
“Splendid!” I cried. “And he followed her?”
“Yes, he followed her, Monsieur—ah, such a distance! Along the Rue des Poulies to the river, along the quays, across the Pont Neuf, through the Rue de la Pelleterie, again along the quays, across the Rue St. Croix, through the Rue Cocatrix, doubling back and forth like a rabbit, doubtless to render pursuit impossible, until finally she turned into the Rue du Chevet. When my grandson reached the corner she had disappeared.”
“’Twas well done!” I cried. “Here is a crown for your grandson, who is a brave boy,” and I turned away.
“Where do you go, Monsieur?” asked the concierge.
“To the Rue du Chevet, to be sure,” I answered. “Depend upon it, I shall soon find her hiding-place.”
“Have a care, Monsieur,” he protested. “’Tis a dangerous place for honest men.”
“I have my sword,” I answered, and hurried into the street.
Darkness had already come, but I traversed the quays and crossed the Pont Neuf, with its queer little semicircular shops, its dentists and quack doctors and its equestrian statue of our great Henri, without pausing for breath. It was only when I plunged into the maze of streets beyond that I was compelled to stop and inquire my way, and even then it was with the greatest difficulty that I found the Rue du Chevet.