"I, Monsieur Lecoq, of the detectives, give you my honor that I will find Mademoiselle Laurence's body."
The poor mayor grasped desperately at this promise, as a drowning man to a straw.
"Oh, yes, we will find her, won't we? You will help me. They say that to the police nothing is impossible—that they see and know everything. We will see what has become of my child."
He went toward M. Lecoq, and taking him by the hand:
"Thank you," added he, "you are a good man. I received you ill a while ago, and judged you with foolish pride: forgive me. We will succeed—you will see, we will aid each other, we will put all the police on the scent, we will search through France, money will do it—I have it—I have millions—take them—"
His energies were exhausted: he staggered and fell heavily on the lounge.
"He must not remain here long," muttered the doctor in Plantat's ear, "he must get to bed. A brain fever, after such excitement, would not surprise me."
The old justice of the peace at once approached Mme. Courtois, who still reclined in the arm-chair, apparently having seen or heard nothing of what had passed, and oblivious in her grief.
"Madame!" said he, "Madame!"
She shuddered and rose, with a wandering air.