She went off with her four companions and the inspector of police. Saint-Quentin had the air of a condemned criminal being led to the gallows. Captain Montfaucon, his hands in his pockets, the string round his wrist, dragged along his baggage-wagon and whistled an American tune, like a gallant fellow who knows that all these little affairs always end well.
At the end of the court-yard, the last of the country folk were departing through the open gates, beside which the gamekeeper was posted. The showmen were grouped about their tents and in the orangery where the second policeman was examining their licenses.
On reaching her caravan, Dorothy perceived d'Estreicher talking to two servants.
"You then are the director of the inquiry, monsieur?" she said gayly.
"I am indeed, mademoiselle—in your interest," he said in the same tone.
"Then I have no doubt about the result of it," she said; and turning to the inspector, she added: "I have no keys to give you. Dorothy's Circus has no locks. Every thing is open to the world. Empty hands and empty pockets."
The inspector seemed to have no great relish for the job. The two servants did their best and d'Estreicher made no bones about advising them.
"Excuse me, mademoiselle," he said to the young girl, taking her on one side. "I'm of the opinion that no effort should be spared to make your complicity quite out of the question."
"It's a serious business," she said ironically.
"In what way?"