“With Coralie. I was able to save her. I’ve handed her over to them. But it’s not a question of her. Quick, I must see a doctor; there’s no time to lose.”
“We have one in the house.”
“No, that’s no use. Have you a telephone-directory?”
“Here you are.”
“Turn up Dr. Géradec.”
“What? You can’t mean that?”
“Why not? He has a private hospital quite close, on the Boulevard de Montmorency, with no other house near it.”
“That’s so, but haven’t you heard? There are all sorts of rumors about him afloat: something to do with passports and forged certificates.”
“Never mind that.”
M. Vacherot hunted out the number in the directory and rang up the exchange. The line was engaged; and he wrote down the number on the margin of a newspaper. Then he telephoned again. The answer was that the doctor had gone out and would be back at ten.