“Hello!” muttered Fandor, looking after the form of the young woman, “doubtless a Paris workgirl; now, if I were really what I seem, an apache, I should profit by the opportunity. A little woman of this sort would be better in bed at this time of night than out and about on the Boulevard de Belleville! and she carries a bag in her hand—how imprudent! I’d wager twopence something will happen to the girl.”
Jérôme Fandor possessed something of that extraordinary instinct to be found in some veteran detectives. He seemed to have a presentiment of crime, to divine beforehand the possibility of acts of violence; and being a man of courage, he never failed to forestall and try to prevent the mischief. Mechanically, Fandor followed the young woman, keeping some distance behind, and as he went, took stock of her appearance. Small black toque, black jacket, a flowing veil, a slim umbrella, small shoes, a quite simple frock.
“A workgirl, a respectable workgirl, on her way home after doing a bit of overtime ... Good!—but, well, one may be mistaken!”
The young woman Jérôme Fandor was following had just been accosted by a street-walker, a little dark-haired creature with a touzled head, outrageously powdered and painted, clad in the typical spotted corsage of her class, the swaying skirts, the apron with scarlet bib, its pockets bulging, stuffed full of silk handkerchiefs.
“Hello! hello!” thought Fandor, “so here’s my workgirl in very odd company!—oh! dear, oh! dear.”
Next moment the young fellow darted forward at a run. From the shadow two men had just sprung out on the women; seizing them roughly by the arms, they were hustling and dragging them away.
The street-walker put her head down, fighting hard, but without uttering a sound; the workwoman gave a piercing shriek for help.
To fly to the rescue, to save the woman in this perilous strait, Jérôme Fandor’s mind was made up in an instant.
Someone else came hurrying up behind him at the same moment. A voice shouted:
“Have at ’em, mate!”