“I, Monsieur Lecoq, of the detectives, give you my honor that I will find Mademoiselle Laurence’s body.”

The poor mayor grasped desperately at this promise, as a drowning man to a straw.

“Oh, yes, we will find her, won’t we?  You will help me.  They say that to the police nothing is impossible—­that they see and know everything.  We will see what has become of my child.”

He went toward M. Lecoq, and taking him by the hand: 

“Thank you,” added he, “you are a good man.  I received you ill a while ago, and judged you with foolish pride:  forgive me.  We will succeed—­you will see, we will aid each other, we will put all the police on the scent, we will search through France, money will do it—­I have it—­I have millions—­take them—­”

His energies were exhausted:  he staggered and fell heavily on the lounge.

“He must not remain here long,” muttered the doctor in Plantat’s ear, “he must get to bed.  A brain fever, after such excitement, would not surprise me.”

The old justice of the peace at once approached Mme. Courtois, who still reclined in the arm-chair, apparently having seen or heard nothing of what had passed, and oblivious in her grief.

“Madame!” said he, “Madame!”

She shuddered and rose, with a wandering air.

“It is my fault,” said she, “my miserable fault!  A mother should read her daughter’s heart as in a book.  I did not suspect Laurence’s secret; I am a most unhappy mother.”

The doctor also came to her.

“Madame,” said he, in an imperious tone, “your husband must be persuaded to go to bed at once.  His condition is very serious, and a little sleep is absolutely necessary.  I will have a potion prepared—­”

“Oh, my God!” cried the poor lady, wringing her hands, in the fear of a new misfortune, as bitter as the first; which, however, restored her to her presence of mind.  She called the servants, who assisted the mayor to regain his chamber.  Mme. Courtois also retired, followed by the doctor.  Three persons only remained in the drawing-room—­Plantat, Lecoq, and Robelot, who still stood near the door.

“Poor Laurence!” murmured Plantat.  “Poor girl!”

“It seems to me that her father is most to be pitied,” remarked M. Lecoq.  “Such a blow, at his age, may be more than he can bear.  Even should he recover, his life is broken.”

“I had a sort of presentiment,” said the other, “that this misfortune would come.  I had guessed Laurence’s secret, but I guessed it too late.”

“And you did not try—­”

“What?  In a delicate case like this, when the honor of a family depends on a word, one must be circumspect.  What could I do?  Put Courtois on his guard?  Clearly not.  He would have refused to believe me.  He is one of those men who will listen to nothing, and whom the brutal fact alone can undeceive.”