He said no more, for at that moment the door of the cabaret was opened from within and Rateau stepped out into the street, to the accompaniment of loud laughter and clapping of hands which came from the customers of the Bon Copain.
This time he appeared neither in a hurry nor yet anxious. He did not pause in order to glance to right or left, but started to walk quite leisurely up the street. The two sleuthhounds quietly followed him. Through the darkness they could only vaguely see his silhouette, with the great bundle under his arm. Whatever may have been Rateau’s fears of being shadowed awhile ago, he certainly seemed free of them now. He sauntered along, whistling a tune, down the Montagne Ste. Geneviève to the Place Maubert, and thence straight towards the river.
Having reached the bank, he turned off to his left, sauntered past the Ecole de Médecine and went across the Petit Pont, then through the New Market, along the Quai des Orfèvres. Here he made a halt, and for awhile looked over the embankment at the river and then round about him, as if in search of something. But presently he appeared to make up his mind, and continued his leisurely walk as far as the Pont Neuf, where he turned sharply off to his right, still whistling, Tournefort and Chauvelin hard upon his heels.
“That whistling is getting on my nerves,” muttered Tournefort irritably; “and I haven’t heard the ruffian’s churchyard cough since he walked out of the Bon Copain.”
Strangely enough, it was this remark of Tournefort’s which gave Chauvelin the first inkling of something strange and, to him, positively awesome. Tournefort, who walked close beside him, heard him suddenly mutter a fierce exclamation.
“Name of a dog!”
“What is it, citizen?” queried Tournefort, awed by this sudden outburst on the part of a man whose icy calmness had become proverbial throughout the Committee.
“Sound the alarm, citizen!” cried Chauvelin in response. “Or, by Satan, he’ll escape us again!”
“But—” stammered Tournefort in utter bewilderment, while, with fingers that trembled somewhat, he fumbled for his whistle.
“We shall want all the help we can,” retorted Chauvelin roughly. “For, unless I am much mistaken, there’s more noble quarry here than even I could dare to hope!”
Rateau in the meanwhile had quietly lolled up to the parapet on the right-hand side of the bridge, and Tournefort, who was watching him with intense keenness, still marvelled why citizen Chauvelin had suddenly become so strangely excited. Rateau was merely lolling against the parapet, like a man who has not a care in the world. He had placed his bundle on the stone ledge beside him. Here he waited a moment or two, until one of the small craft upon the river loomed out of the darkness immediately below the bridge. Then he picked up the bundle and threw it straight into the boat. At that same moment Tournefort had the whistle to his lips. A shrill, sharp sound rang out through the gloom.
“The boat, citizen Tournefort, the boat!” cried Chauvelin. “There are plenty of us here to deal with the man.”
Immediately, from the quays, the streets, the bridges, dark figures emerged out of the darkness and hurried to the spot. Some reached the bridgehead even as Rateau made a dart forward, and two men were upon him before he succeeded in running very far. Others had scrambled down the embankment and were shouting to some unseen boatman to “halt, in the name of the people!”
But Rateau gave in without a struggle. He appeared more dazed than frightened, and quietly allowed the agents of the Committee to lead him back to the bridge, where Chauvelin had paused, waiting for him.
VI
A minute or two later Tournefort was once more beside his chief. He was carrying the precious bundle, which, he explained, the boatman had given up without question.
“The man knew nothing about it,” the agent said. “No one, he says, could have been more surprised than he was when this bundle was suddenly flung at him over the parapet of the bridge.”
Just then the small group, composed of two or three agents of the Committee, holding their prisoner by the arms, came into view. One man was walking ahead and was the first to approach Chauvelin. He had a small screw of paper in his hand, which he gave to his chief.
“Found inside the lining of the prisoner’s hat, citizen,” he reported curtly, and opened the shutter of a small, dark lantern which he wore at his belt.
Chauvelin took the paper from his subordinate. A weird, unexplainable foreknowledge of what was to come caused his hand to shake and beads of perspiration to moisten his forehead. He looked up and saw the prisoner standing before him. Crushing the paper in his hand he snatched the lantern from the agent’s belt and flashed it in the face of the quarry who, at the last, had been so easily captured.
Immediately a hoarse cry of disappointment and of rage escaped his throat.
“Who is this man?” he cried.
One of the agents gave reply:
“It is old Victor, the landlord of the Bon Copain. He is just a fool, who has been playing a practical joke.”
Tournefort, too, at sight of the prisoner had uttered a cry of dismay and of astonishment.
“Victor!” he exclaimed. “Name of a dog, citizen, what are you doing here?”
But Chauvelin had gripped the man by the arm so fiercely that the latter swore with the pain.
“What is the meaning of this?” he queried roughly.
“Only a bet, citizen,” retorted Victor reproachfully. “No reason to fall on an honest patriot for a bet, just as if he were a mad dog.”
“A joke? A bet?” murmured Chauvelin hoarsely, for his throat now felt hot and parched. “What do you mean?
