"No—Mademoiselle Wilhelmine is not the daughter of de Naarboveck, the rich diplomat! But who, then, is she?"
Juve knew it was useless to say this to de Loubersac, blinded by love as he was; but his aim—a rather Machiavellian one—was to sow seeds of suspicion in the heart of this lover, which would drive him to provoke an explanation, and force Wilhelmine to speak out, for she must surely know the facts relating to her identity!
This Machiavellian Juve did not hesitate to say to de Loubersac:
"You remember what the false Vagualame told you when you talked with him on the banks of the Seine?... You are to-day in the presence of this false Vagualame—of me, Juve—as you know.... Well, I am sorry to tell you that, whatever outside appearance I adopt, my way of thinking, my way of seeing things seldom changes."
Henri de Loubersac understood: he grew pale: his lips were pressed tightly together: he clenched his fists.
Satisfied with this result, Juve repeated to himself this celebrated aphorism of the Bastille:
"Slander! Slander! Some of it always sticks!"
It was dark. In a little restaurant near by, the two men dined frugally: it was a mediocre repast, not too well cooked. Anxious questionings tormented them. The fugitives were long in coming: had they got wind of what was afoot? Had Vinson and the priest been warned that detectives were hot on their trail? If so, it was all up with the arrest!
De Loubersac remained on the watch. Juve returned to the police station. He was crossing the threshold when the telephone shrilled. News from the police sergeant at Rouen!
The corporal and the abbé, leaving Rouen, had taken the road to Barentin, had dined at The Flowery Crossways Hotel, and, according to the chauffeur's statement, they would pass the night there: they would reach Dieppe next morning at the earliest possible moment.