They shot away rapidly, while the outraged and discomfited fat man stood in the middle of the road hurling after them torrents of blasphemous abuse that soon grew faint and died away.
"What in the world does this mean?" asked Pougeot in astonishment.
Coquenil slowed down the machine and turned. "I can't talk now; I've got to drive this thing. It's lucky I know how."
"But—just a moment. That note for M. Robert? There was no Robert?"
"Of course not."
"And—and you knew it was Gibelin all the time?"
"Yes. Be patient, Lucien, until we get back and I'll tell you everything."
The run to Paris took nearly an hour, for they made a détour, and Coquenil drove cautiously; but they arrived safely, shortly after one, and left the automobile at the company's garage, with the explanation (readily accepted, since a police commissary gave it) that the man who belonged with the machine had met with an accident; indeed, this was true, for the genuine chauffeur had used Gibelin's bribe money in unwise libations and appeared the next morning with a battered head and a glib story that was never fully investigated.
"Now," said Coquenil, as they left the garage, "where can we go and be quiet? A café is out of the question—we mustn't be seen. Ah, that room you were to take," he turned to Tignol. "Did you get it?"
"I should say I did," grumbled the old man, "I've something to tell you."