“Well, you mayn't be quite such a fool as you look. I'll sift all this to the bottom. You go, if you please, this moment, to Monsieur Armagnac, and say I should be obliged to him for a line to say whether he this morning sent for my boot, and got it—and I must have it back, mind; you shall bring it back, you understand? And you had better make haste.”
“I made bold, Sir,” said Mr. Franklin, “to send for it myself, when you sent me down for Charles; and the boy will be back, Sir, in two or three minutes.”
“Well, come you and Charles here again when the boy comes back, and bring him here also. I'll make out who has been playing tricks.”
Mr. Longcluse shut his dressing-room door sharply; he walked to the window, and looked out with a vicious scowl; he turned about, and lifted up his clenched hand, and stamped on the floor. A sudden thought now struck him.
“The right foot? By Jove! it may not be the one.”
The boot that was left was already in his hand. He was examining it curiously.
“Ay, by heaven! The right was the boot! What's the meaning of this? Conspiracy? I should not wonder.”
He examined it carefully again, and flung it into its corner with violence.
“If it's an accident, it is a very odd one. It is a suspicious accident. It may be, of course, all right. I daresay it is all right. The odds are ten, twenty, a thousand to one that Armagnac has got it. I should have had a warm bath last night, and taken a ten miles' ride into the country this morning. It must be all right, and I am plaguing myself without a cause.”
Yet he took up the boot, and examined it once more; then, dropping it, went to the window and looked into the street—came back, opened his door, and listened for the messenger's return.