“Here are pen and paper; write your recommendation.”
He rapidly wrote, and handed her the letter.
“With these three lines, madame, you can make Mme. Alexandre do anything you wish.”
“Very good. Now, how am I to let Cavaillon know my address? It was he who should have brought me Prosper’s letter.”
“He was unable to come, madame,” interrupted the detective, “but I will give him your address.”
Mme. Gypsy was about to send for a carriage, but Fanferlot said he was in a hurry, and would send her one. He seemed to be in luck that day; for a cab was passing the door, and he hailed it.
“Wait here,” he said to the driver, after telling him that he was a detective, “for a little brunette who is coming down with some trunks. If she tells you to drive her to Quai Saint Michel, crack your whip; if she gives you any other address, get down from your seat, and arrange your harness. I will keep in sight.”
He stepped across the street, and stood in the door of a wine-store. He had not long to wait. In a few minutes the loud cracking of a whip apprised him that Mme. Nina had started for the Archangel.
“Aha,” said he, gayly, “I told her, at any rate.”