"But Tricot?"
"He waits for orders."
Piquette ground her cigarette under her heel and rose abruptly with an air of decision.
"This American must be liberated at once!"
Pochard rose and faced her. "It's too late," he growled,
"No. It's not too late. I know the sort that Tricot is—with the river just there—at his elbow."
"I can do nothing. That's what worries me. Tricot and Le Singe will look after their own skins now."
"You mean," she paused significantly. "The Seine——"
He nodded somberly.
"It is the solution of many problems."