Towards midnight he grew hungry. He had some food in his suit-case. He removed Marescal’s gag, and offered him some. “Eat, darling,” he said affectionately, putting a piece of cheese into his mouth. But once again Marescal lost his temper; he spat out the cheese and growled: “Imbecile! Idiot! You’re the blockhead! Do you know what you’ve done?” “Certainly. I’ve rescued Aurelie. Her step-father is taking her back to Paris; and I’m going to join her there.” “Her step-father!” cried Marescal. “You don’t know then?” “What?” “That’s he’s in love with her, her precious step-father!” Ralph, of a sudden beside himself, buried his hands in Marescal’s hair, and tried to shake his strapped-up head. “Imbecile! Idiot! Why didn’t you tell me so, instead of hanging on my sermonizing lips? He’s in love with her, is he? The swine! Then everybody’s in love with that girl! A lot of silly brutes! Have you never looked at yourself in the glass? You, with your pomaded wig!” He bent forward and added: “Listen to me, Marescal. I’m going to tear that little girl from her step-father. But leave her in peace. Don’t bother about us any more.” “It’s impossible,” growled the Commissary savagely. “Why?” “She has murdered.” “So that is your plan?” “To hand her over to justice; and I shall carry it out, for I hate her.” He spoke these words in an access of so savage a rancor that Ralph could not fail to understand that henceforth hate would have the better of love in Marescal’s heart. “All the worse for you, Rudolph. I was going to propose a trifle of promotion to you, something in the way of the post of Commissioner of Police. But you prefer war. Have your own way. Begin with a night in the open air. Nothing is better for the health. As for me, I shall ride to Lourdes on the main line. Twenty kilometers—about three hours’ trot for my fiery steed. And to-night I shall be in Paris, where I shall begin by putting Aurelie into a place of safety. Good-by, Rudolph.” He mounted, fixed his suit-case in front of him as comfortably as he could, and without a saddle or spurs, whistling a hunting song, kicked his horse into a trot, and disappeared in the darkness. That night in Paris an old lady of the name of Victorine, who had been his nurse, was waiting in a car, outside the house in which Bregeac lived. Ralph was at the wheel. He kept watch there all night. In the early morning he saw a rag-picker, who was hunting with his hook through the orderly boxes that stood along the curb. Immediately with that sixth sense which enabled him to recognize people by their carriage and bearing, rather than by their faces, he recognized, under the rags and dirty cap, in spite of the fact that he had seen such a very little of him in the garden of the Villa Faradoni and on the road to Nice, the murderer Jodot. “The devil!” murmured Ralph. “That gentleman’s at work already, is he?”