"If they come ... use this. She would rather have it so."
And the answer came back:
"I promise it, friend! They shall not take her alive!"
A wild trip it was, that journey to Paris. A dozen times before he was beyond Baron Morriere's domains, Mark was certain he would be trapped.
Then he was in the city and searching out the doctor's office in a vast, ancient rookery on the Left Bank. Outside—although it was only mid-afternoon—hovering storm clouds transformed day into night, while, at last, he pounded on the door to which he had been directed.
The door opened. A scowling, youthful man with tousled hair glared out at him, reeling tipsily all the while.
"Wha' y' want?"
"I'm looking for Doctor d'Allempier."
"Then why y' come here? I ain' no doc-tor. Me, I'm painter. Gustav Jerbette. 'M bes' dam' pain'er—"
Disgust welled within Mark's heart like the thunder that rumbled overhead. He jerked free of the drunk's pawings.