Tournefort peeped out of his hiding-place, and for the space of a dozen heart beats or so, remained there quite still, watching that broad back and those long limbs slowly moving through the gathering gloom. The next instant he perceived Chauvelin standing at the end of the street.
Rateau saw him too—came face to face with him, in fact, and must have known who he was for, without an instant’s hesitation and just like a hunted creature at bay, he turned sharply on his heel and then ran back down the street as hard as he could tear. He passed close to within half a metre of Tournefort, and as he flew past he hit out with his left fist so vigorously that the worthy agent of the Committee of Public Safety, caught on the nose by the blow, staggered and measured his length upon the flagged floor below.
The next moment Chauvelin had come by. Tournefort, struggling to his feet, called to him, panting:
“Did you see him? Which way did he go?”
“Up the Rue Bordet. After him, citizen!” replied Chauvelin grimly, between his teeth.
Together the two men continued the chase, guided through the intricate mazes of the streets by their fleeing quarry. They had Rateau well in sight, and the latter could no longer continue his former tactics with success now that two experienced sleuthhounds were on his track.
At a given moment he was caught between the two of them. Tournefort was advancing cautiously up the Rue Bordet; Chauvelin, equally stealthily, was coming down the same street, and Rateau, once more walking quite leisurely, was at equal distance between the two.
V
There are no side turnings out of the Rue Bordet, the total length of which is less than fifty metres; so Tournefort, feeling more at his ease, ensconced himself at one end of the street, behind a doorway, whilst Chauvelin did the same at the other. Rateau, standing in the gutter, appeared once more in a state of hesitation. Immediately in front of him the door of a small cabaret stood invitingly open; its signboard, “Le Bon Copain,” promised rest and refreshment. He peered up and down the road, satisfied himself presumably that, for the moment, his pursuers were out of sight, hugged his parcel to his chest, and then suddenly made a dart for the cabaret and disappeared within its doors.
Nothing could have been better. The quarry, for the moment, was safe, and if the sleuthhounds could not get refreshment, they could at least get a rest. Tournefort and Chauvelin crept out of their hiding-places. They met in the middle of the road, at the spot where Rateau had stood a while ago. It was then growing dark and the street was innocent of lanterns, but the lights inside the cabaret gave a full view of the interior. The lower half of the wide shopwindow was curtained off, but above the curtain the heads of the customers of Le Bon Copain, and the general comings and goings, could very clearly be seen.
Tournefort, never at a loss, had already climbed upon a low projection in the wall of one of the houses opposite. From this point of vantage he could more easily observe what went on inside the cabaret, and in short, jerky sentences he gave a description of what he saw to his chief.
“Rateau is sitting down … he has his back to the window … he has put his bundle down close beside him on the bench … he can’t speak for a minute, for he is coughing and spluttering like an old walrus. … A wench is bringing him a bottle of wine and a hunk of bread and cheese. … He has started talking … is talking volubly … the people are laughing … some are applauding. … And here comes Jean Victor, the landlord … you know him, citizen … a big, hulking fellow, and as good a patriot as I ever wish to see. … He, too, is laughing and talking to Rateau, who is doubled up with another fit of coughing—”
Chauvelin uttered an exclamation of impatience:
“Enough of this, citizen Tournefort. Keep your eye on the man and hold your tongue. I am spent with fatigue.”
“No wonder,” murmured Tournefort. Then he added insinuatingly: “Why not let me go in there and apprehend Rateau now? We should have the diamonds and—”
“And lose the ci-devant Comtesse de Sucy and the man Bertin,” retorted Chauvelin with sudden fierceness. “Bertin, who can be none other than that cursed Englishman, the—”
He checked himself, seeing Tournefort was gazing down on him, with awe and bewilderment expressed in his lean, hatchet face.
“You are losing sight of Rateau, citizen,” Chauvelin continued calmly. “What is he doing now?”
But Tournefort felt that this calmness was only on the surface; something strange had stirred the depths of his chief’s keen, masterful mind. He would have liked to ask a question or two, but knew from experience that it was neither wise nor profitable to try and probe citizen Chauvelin’s thoughts. So after a moment or two he turned back obediently to his task.
“I can’t see Rateau for the moment,” he said, “but there is much talking and merriment in there. Ah! there he is, I think. Yes, I see him! … He is behind the counter, talking to Jean Victor … and he has just thrown some money down upon the counter … gold too! name of a dog. …”
Then suddenly, without any warning, Tournefort jumped down from his post of observation. Chauvelin uttered a brief:
“What the ⸻ are you doing, citizen?”
“Rateau is going,” replied Tournefort excitedly. “He drank a mug of wine at a draught and has picked up his bundle, ready to go.”
Once more cowering in the dark angle of a doorway, the two men waited, their nerves on edge, for the reappearance of their quarry.
“I wish citizen Gourdon were here,” whispered Tournefort. “In the darkness it is better to be three than two.”
“I sent him back to the Station in the
