“That is not all,” he went on.  “As soon as the person in question has started off, you will follow him, without affectation, as far as the street-door, and you will point him out with your finger, here, like that, to one of my agents, who will happen to be on the Boulevard.”

“And suppose he should not be there?”

“He shall be there.  You can make yourself easy on that score.”

The looks of distress which the honorable hotel-keepers were exchanging did not announce a very tranquil conscience.

“In other words, here we are under surveillance,” said M. Fortin with a groan.  “What have we done to be thus mistrusted?”

To reply to him would have been a task more long than difficult.

“Do as I tell you,” insisted the commissary harshly, “and don’t mind the rest, and, meantime, good-night.”

He was right in trusting implicitly to his agent’s punctuality; for, as soon as he came out of the Hotel des Folies, a man passed by him, and without seeming to address him, or even to recognize him, said in a whisper,

“What news?”

“Nothing,” he replied, “except that the Fortins are notified.  The trap is well set.  Keep your eyes open now, and spot any one who comes to ask about Mlle. Lucienne.”

And he hurried on, still followed by Maxence, who walked along like a body without soul, tortured by the most frightful anguish.

As he had been away the whole evening, four or five persons were waiting for him at his office on matters of current business.  He despatched them in less than no time; after which, addressing himself to an agent on duty,

“This evening,” he said, “at about nine o’clock, in a restaurant on the Boulevard, a quarrel took place.  A person tried to pick a quarrel with another.

“You will proceed at once to that restaurant; you will get the particulars of what took place; and you will ascertain exactly who this man is, his name, his profession, and his residence.”

Like a man accustomed to such errands,

“Can I have a description of him?” inquired the agent.

“Yes.  He is a man past middle age, military bearing, heavy mustache, ribbons in his buttonhole.”

“Yes, I see:  one of your regular fighting fellows.”

“Very well.  Go then.  I shall not retire before your return.  Ah, I forgot; find out what they thought to-night on the ‘street’ about the Mutual Credit affair, and what they said of the arrest of one Saint Pavin, editor of ‘The Financial Pilot,’ and of a banker named Jottras.”

“Can I take a carriage?”

“Do so.”

The agent started; and he was not fairly out of the house, when the commissary, opening a door which gave into a small study, called, “Felix!”

It was his secretary, a man of about thirty, blonde, with a gentle and timid countenance, having, with his long coat, somewhat the appearance of a theological student.  He appeared immediately.