“Oh, Lord,” he muttered, “perhaps he and the driver are one and the same!”
But what could he do now, at this time of night? He could not imagine. He walked dejectedly back to the quay, and it was half-past eleven when he reached his own door.
“Has the little fool returned?” he inquired of Mme. Alexandre, the instant she opened the door for him.
“No; but here are two large bundles which have come for her.”
Fanferlot hastily opened the bundles.
They contained three calico dresses, some coarse shoes, and some linen caps.
“Well,” said the detective in a vexed tone, “now she is going to disguise herself. Upon my word, I am getting puzzled! What can she be up to?”
When Fanferlot was sulkily walking down the Faubourg St. Martin, he had fully made up his mind that he would not tell his wife of his discomfiture.
But once at home, confronted with a new fact of a nature to negative all his conjectures, his vanity disappeared. He confessed everything—his hopes so nearly realized, his strange mischance, and his suspicions.
They talked the matter over, and finally decided that they would not go to bed until Mme. Gypsy, from whom Mme. Alexandre was determined to obtain an explanation of what had happened, returned. At one o’clock the worthy couple were about giving over all hope of her re-appearance, when they heard the bell ring.