But the commissary interrupted her,
“I have not done yet. It may be that to-night or to-morrow some one will call and inquire how Mlle. Lucienne is.”
“And then?”
“You will answer that she is as bad as possible; and that she has neither spoken a word, nor recovered her senses, since the accident; and that she will certainly not live through the day.”
The effort which Mme. Fortin made to remain silent gave, better than any thing else, an idea of the terror with which the commissary inspired her.
“That is not all,” he went on. “As soon as the person in question has started off, you will follow him, without affectation, as far as the street-door, and you will point him out with your finger, here, like that, to one of my agents, who will happen to be on the Boulevard.”
“And suppose he should not be there?”
“He shall be there. You can make yourself easy on that score.”
The looks of distress which the honorable hotel-keepers were exchanging did not announce a very tranquil conscience.
“In other words, here we are under surveillance,” said M. Fortin with a groan. “What have we done to be thus mistrusted?”