"We must let them work their own way. They know what they are about; but the suspense is almost intolerable," said Glynn, whose heart was bursting with despair and remorse. Why had he not accepted Lambert's proposition? Had he been Elsie's betrothed, this might not have happened!
The drive to the Rue de L'Evêque seemed endless; Lambert sat immovable and speechless. Arrived, the chef de la sûreté and his subaltern immediately proceeded to examine the house carefully, and to question the concierge as to the tenants. In the rez-de-chaussée was the magasin of a Patent Polish Stove Company; on the first étage an old lady with her son and daughter-in-law resided. "Persons of high consideration," said the tearful concierge. The second étage was vacant; M. Lambert occupied the third. Then came a Professor of Music, Mons. le Capitain Galliard, Maitre d'Armes, and others.
Both Lambert and Glynn watched with quivering interest the deliberate minuteness of the examination, first of the concierge, then of the house itself. The Professor of Music and the Maitre d'Armes were out, so M. Claude contented himself for the present by asking some leading questions about them.
Then he and his attendant commissaire ascended to Lambert's apartment, and questioned Madame Weber and the bonne as to the smallest details concerning the missing girl; her character, her habits of life, her friends, her pursuits, and finally asked for her last photograph. It sent a sharp dart of angry pain through Glynn's heart to see the chef de la sûreté and his aide-de-camp coolly examining the portrait which to him had a certain sanctity, to observe the unmoved composure of the practiced detectives in face of the father's despairing anxiety, the professional instinct which subordinated human interest to the keen perception of possible crime, the sleuth-hound scent for a legitimate prey.
From Lambert's abode they proceeded to the vacant étage, which the concierge, in all the tearful yet delightful excitement of such an extraordinary occurrence, threw open with eager zeal.
It was almost the same as the dwelling above, and after looking carefully through the empty rooms they reached the kitchen. The door was fastened.
"Tiens!" cried the concierge, looking rapidly through the keys she carried, "this is strange. I do not remember locking the door, and I have not been in here more than twice since the day you looked at the apartment, Monsieur Lambert, for some friends who thought of coming to Paris."
While she spoke the commissaire had thrust the blade of his penknife into the key-hole. "The key is inside," he said.
"It is impossible," cried the concierge.
"Go round by l'escalier de service (back stair) with madame," said M. Claude to his subordinate. "There is a door leading thence to the kitchen, is there not?"