To reply to him would have been a task more long than difficult.
“Do as I tell you,” insisted the commissary harshly, “and don’t mind the rest, and, meantime, good-night.”
He was right in trusting implicitly to his agent’s punctuality; for, as soon as he came out of the Hotel des Folies, a man passed by him, and without seeming to address him, or even to recognize him, said in a whisper,
“What news?”
“Nothing,” he replied, “except that the Fortins are notified. The trap is well set. Keep your eyes open now, and spot any one who comes to ask about Mlle. Lucienne.”
And he hurried on, still followed by Maxence, who walked along like a body without soul, tortured by the most frightful anguish.
As he had been away the whole evening, four or five persons were waiting for him at his office on matters of current business. He despatched them in less than no time; after which, addressing himself to an agent on duty,
“This evening,” he said, “at about nine o’clock, in a restaurant on the Boulevard, a quarrel took place. A person tried to pick a quarrel with another.
“You will proceed at once to that restaurant; you will get the particulars of what took place; and you will ascertain exactly who this man is, his name, his profession, and his residence.”
Like a man accustomed to such errands,