“My best love to you.”
“It’s not signed,” said Bournef, “but, I repeat, it’s in Siméon’s handwriting. As for the lady, she is obviously Mme. Essarès.”
“But what danger can she be running?” exclaimed Patrice, uneasily. “Essarès is dead, so there is nothing to fear.”
“I wouldn’t say that. He would take some killing.”
“Whom can he have instructed to avenge him? Who would continue his work?”
“I can’t say, but I should take no risks.”
Patrice waited to hear no more. He thrust the letter into M. Masseron’s hand and made his escape.
“Rue Raynouard, fast as you can,” he said, springing into a taxi.
He was eager to reach his destination. The dangers of which old Siméon spoke seemed suddenly to hang over Coralie’s head. Already the enemy, taking advantage of Patrice’s absence, might be attacking his beloved. And who could defend her?
“If anything happens to me,” Siméon had said.