“Certainly, Mademoiselle! But your statement had to be confirmed.”
“And now, what are you going to do?”
“The machinery of justice shall be at once set in motion!” said the Frenchman, grandiloquently, in the fashion of his countrymen.
“And I?”
“Mademoiselle will do me the honour of accompanying me to the Bureau of Monsieur le Juge de Paix, to make her deposition. But we must attend to other things first,” saying which the Chef again touched the hand-bell that lay within easy reach on his table. The same officer appeared again as before.
“Send Auguste and Dèchemal to me at once.”
Enter two mouchards in plain clothes.
The Chef addressed the one he called Dèchemal first—did anyone ever know the real name of a French spy?—“You went to that house in the Rue Montmartre just now, did you not?”
“Oui, Mon Chef,” he answered monosyllabically.
“Well, go there again. Arrest the Mère Cliquelle and her husband, take them to the office of the Juge de Paix, and await me there.”