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?‰mile, 1836-1873

"Monsieur Lecoq"

"
"Where is he now?" inquired the young detective.
"Dear me! that reminds me," replied the woman. "He has never returned,
and I have been rather anxious about him. Paris is such a dangerous
place for strangers! It is true he spoke French as well as you or I;
but what of that? Yesterday evening I gave orders that the commissary of
police should be informed of the matter."
"Yesterday--the commissary?"
"Yes. Still, I don't know whether the boy obeyed me. I had forgotten all
about it. Allow me to ring for the boy, and ask him."
A bucket of iced water falling upon Lecoq's head could not have
astonished him more than did this announcement from the proprietress of
the Hotel de Mariembourg. Had the prisoner indeed told the truth? Was it
possible? Gevrol and the governor of the prison were right, then, and M.
Segmuller and he, Lecoq, were senseless fools, pursuing a fantom. These
ideas flashed rapidly through the young detective's brain. But he had
no time for reflection. The boy who had been summoned now made his
appearance, and proved to be a big overgrown lad with frank, chubby
face.
"Fritz," asked his mistress, "did you go to the commissary's office?"
"Yes, madame."
"What did he say?"
"He was not in; but I spoke to his secretary, M. Casimir, who said you
were not to worry yourself, as the man would no doubt return."
"But he has not returned."
The boy rejoined, with a movement of the shoulders that plainly implied:
"How can I help that?"
"You hear, sir," said the hostess, apparently thinking the importunate
questioner would now withdraw.


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