Philidor's eyes sought only hers.
"You insist?" he asked of her.
She laughed at him.
"Naturellement."
The car had begun to move.
"One moment, Monsieur—"
De Folligny only smiled, put on the power and in a moment was speeding down the cobbled street, leaving Philidor staring after them, his head full of wild thoughts of pursuit, the most conspicuous dolt in all Verneuil.
But he did not care. He thrust his bony fists deep in his pockets and slowly made his way though the piles of vegetables back to Clarissa. He bundled his materials into his knapsack and quickly disappeared from the interested gaze of the bystanders, who had not scrupled to offer him both questions and advice.
He was quite helpless with the alternatives of sitting at the Hôtel Dieu to await developments or of hiring a car at the garage nearby and going on a wild-goose chase which, whether successful or unsuccessful, must end unprofitably. Hermia had paid him in strange coin. Could she afford it? He knew something of Pierre de Folligny. What did Hermia know? She was mad, of course. He had thought her mad before when she had volunteered with him for Vagabondia, but now— What could he think of her now? There was a difference.
Even his pipe failed to advise him. He knocked it out and wandered forth, his footsteps taking him down the street through which the pair had fled. He followed it to its end, emerging presently on a country road which took the line of the railroad to the South. He did not know where he was going, and did not much care so long as he was doing something. His stride lengthened, his jaw was set, his gaze riveted on the spot where his road entered the forest. It would have fared ill with De Folligny if they had met at that moment. Persons who met him on the road turned to look at him and passed on. Lunatics were scarce along the Avre.