The vest yielded up the cardcase. Monsieur Dupont shuffled over the dozen or so of neatly printed cards that it contained.
“Là, là!” said he sharply. “Our friend is evidently a smooth one. One of the clever kind that uses his brains. Very nice cards—very plausible sort of thing, eh? Yes, they are. Very! Henri Mentone, eh? Henri Mentone, alias something—from nowhere. Well, messieurs, is there still by any chance something else?”
There was nothing else. Monsieur Dupont, however, was not satisfied until he had examined, even more minutely than Raymond had previously done, the priest's undergarments. The doctor turned from the bed. Monsieur Dupont rolled all the clothing into a bundle, and tucked it under his arm.
“Well, let us go, doctor!” jerked out Monsieur Dupont. “If he dies, he dies—eh? In any case he can't run away. If he dies, there is Mother Blondin to consider, eh? She struck the blow. They would not do much to her perhaps, but she would have to be held. It is the law. If he does not die, that is another matter. In any case I shall remain in the village to keep an eye on them both—yes? Well then, well then—eh? —let us go!”
The doctor glanced hesitantly toward the bed.
“I have done all that is possible for the moment,” he said; “but perhaps I had better call madame. She and mademoiselle have insisted on sitting up out there in the front room.”
Raymond's head was bowed.
“Do not call them,” he said gravely. “If the man is about to die, it is my place to stay, doctor.”
“Yes—er—yes, that is so,” acquiesced the doctor. “Very well then, I'll pack them off to bed. I shan't be long at Mother Blondin's. Must pay an official visit—I'm the coroner, Monsieur le Curé. I'll be back as soon as possible, and meanwhile if he shows any change”—he nodded in the direction of the bed—“send for me at once. I'll arrange to have some one of the men remain out there within call.”
“Very well,” said Raymond simply. “You will be gone—how long, doctor?”