Baudoin, conducted to the door by the magistrate, went out into the passage, shook hands with the attendant, and left the building. Returning straight to the Rue de Provènce, he mounted to Marcel’s rooms.
This evening he was seated in a small salon examining with minute care the plan for a machine at which he was working. On seeing Baudoin enter he placed the diagram on the table, looked at his visitor, and said—
“You have just left?”
“Yes, M. Marcel.”
“You have seen the Minister?”
“Yes. At the very first words I uttered he was all attention. He wishes to see you, and affirms that the lady in question is a spy of the most dangerous category, who has had the police on her tracks for the past six years. That woman must have a number of crimes on her conscience.”
“That is not what I asked you,” said Marcel. “Are they going to take measures to keep a watch on Agostini and his companions? If so—”
“The Minister told me that was the business of the Detective Department, and advised me to see Mr. Mayeur. I have just left him. Ah! he will not allow the affair to lag.”
“Good!”
The tinkling of a bell in the yard interrupted the conversation. It was the signal for dinner, which, from time immemorial, had thus been announced every evening, as is the custom in the provinces. Marcel took off his coat, and replaced it by another, after which he made his way to the salon. On entering, his father, Uncle Graff, the two young ladies, and Madame Baradier, were already waiting before passing into the dining-room. More comfort than luxury was evident everywhere; not the slightest sign of ostentation was manifest. Usually, dinner was the time when all the company related the events of the day. This evening one would have thought that nobody wished to speak. All the same, Graff, when the joint was brought on the table, risked the remark—