The old fellow, devoured by anxiety, moved about and stamped in his cab.
It was torture thus to be kept from the key to a terrible enigma by the
caprice of a worthless hussy! He was dying to rush after her, to seize
her by the arm, and cry out to her: "Home, wretched, creature, home at
once! What are you doing here? Don't you know that at this moment your
lover, he whom you have ruined, is suspected of an assassination? Home,
then, that I may question you, that I may learn from you whether he is
innocent or guilty. For you will tell me, without knowing it. Ah! I have
prepared a fine trap for you! Go home, then, this anxiety is killing
me!"
She returned to her carriage. It started off once more, passed up the
Rue de Faubourg Montmarte, turned into the Rue de Provence, deposited
its fair freight at her own door, and drove away.
"She lives here," said old Tabaret, with a sigh of relief.
He got out of the cab, gave the driver his forty francs, bade him wait,
and followed in the young woman's footsteps.
"The old fellow is patient," thought the driver; "and the little
brunette is caught."
The detective opened the door of the concierge's lodge.
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