Once again Don Luis did not answer. However, he must have acquiesced in Patrice’s theories, for, after a minute, he declared:
“Very well. I’ll go to Mantes.” And, turning to the chauffeur, “Hurry off to the garage,” he said, “and come back in the six-cylinder. I want to be at Mantes in less than an hour. You, captain . . .”
“I shall come with you.”
“And who will look after . . . ?”
“Coralie? She’s in no danger! Who can attack her now? Siméon has failed in his attempt and is thinking only of saving his own skin . . . and his bags of gold.”
“You insist, do you?”
“Absolutely.”
“I don’t know that you’re wise. However, that’s your affair. Let’s go. By the way, though, one precaution.” He raised his voice. “Ya-Bon!”
The Senegalese came hastening up. While Ya-Bon felt for Patrice all the affection of a faithful dog, he seemed to profess towards Don Luis something more nearly approaching religious devotion. The adventurer’s slightest action roused him to ecstasy. He never stopped laughing in the great chief’s presence.
“Ya-Bon, are you all right now? Is your wound healed? You don’t feel tired? Good. In that case, come with me.”