"Room for the wounded man!" a tall, clean-shaven fellow was shouting, in a stentorian voice.
Two others followed, carrying in their arms an individual covered with rugs and overcoats.
The crowd fell back. The little procession moved out. I seized my opportunity.
The tall fellow pointed to a private motor-car waiting outside:
"Chauffeur, I'm requisitioning you. Orders of the prefect of police. Come along, the two of you, and get a move on!"
The two men put the victim into the car and took their places inside. The tall fellow sat down beside the chauffeur; and the car drove off.
It was not until the very second when it turned the corner that I conceived in a flash and without any reason whatever the exact idea of what this little scene meant. Suddenly I guessed the identity of the wounded man who was hidden so attentively and carried off so assiduously. And suddenly also, notwithstanding the change of face, though he wore neither beard nor glasses, I gave a name to the tall, clean-shaven fellow. It was the man Velmot.
I rushed back to the Yard and informed the commissary of police who had hitherto had charge of the Dorgeroux case. He whistled up his men. They leapt into taxi-cabs and cars. It was too late. The roads were already filled with such a block of traffic that the commissary's car was unable to move.
And thus, in the very midst of the crowd, by means of the most daring stratagem, taking advantage of a crush which he himself doubtless had his share in bringing about, the man Velmot had carried off his confederate and implacable enemy, Théodore Massignac.