“Where is he now?” inquired the young detective.
“Dear me! that reminds me,” replied the woman. “He has never returned, and I have been rather anxious about him. Paris is such a dangerous place for strangers! It is true he spoke French as well as you or I; but what of that? Yesterday evening I gave orders that the commissary of police should be informed of the matter.”
“Yesterday—the commissary?”
“Yes. Still, I don’t know whether the boy obeyed me. I had forgotten all about it. Allow me to ring for the boy, and ask him.”
A bucket of iced water falling upon Lecoq’s head could not have astonished him more than did this announcement from the proprietress of the Hotel de Mariembourg. Had the prisoner indeed told the truth? Was it possible? Gevrol and the governor of the prison were right, then, and M. Segmuller and he, Lecoq, were senseless fools, pursuing a fantom. These ideas flashed rapidly through the young detective’s brain. But he had no time for reflection. The boy who had been summoned now made his appearance, and proved to be a big overgrown lad with frank, chubby face.
“Fritz,” asked his mistress, “did you go to the commissary’s office?”
“Yes, madame.”
“What did he say?”
“He was not in; but I spoke to his secretary, M. Casimir, who said you were not to worry yourself, as the man would no doubt return.”
“But he has not returned.”