Away from Mlle. Lucienne, Maxence had gradually been recalled to the strangeness of the situation; and it was with a mingled feeling of curiosity and surprise that he observed the commissary acting and bustling about. The good man had found again all the activity of his youth, together with that fever of hope and that impatience of success, which usually disappear with age. He was going over the whole of the case again,--his first meeting with Mlle. Lucienne, the various attempts upon her life; and he had just taken out of the file the letter of information which had been intrusted to him, in order to compare the writing with that of the letter taken from his adversary by M. de Tregars, when the latter came in all out of breath. “Zelie has spoken!” he said. And, at once addressing Maxence, “You, my dear friend,” he resumed, “you must run to the Hotel des Folies.” “Is Lucienne worse?” “No. Lucienne is getting on well enough. Zelie has spoken; but there is no certainty, that, after due reflection, she will not repent, and go and give the alarm. You will return, therefore, and you will not lose sight of her until I call for her in the morning. If she wishes to go out, you must prevent her.” The commissary had understood the importance of the precaution. “You must prevent her,” he added, “even by force; and I authorize you, if need be, to call upon the agent whom I have placed on duty, watching the Hotel des Folies, and to whom I am going to send word immediately.” Maxence started off on a run. “Poor fellow!” murmured Marius, “I know where your father is. What are we going to learn now?” He had scarcely had time to communicate the information he had received from Mme. Cadelle, when the first of the commissary’s emissaries made his appearance. “The commission is done,” he said, in that confident tone of a man who thinks he has successfully accomplished a difficult task. “You know the name of the individual who sought a quarrel with M. de Tregars?” “His name is Corvi. He is well known in all the tables d’hote, where there are women, and where they deal a healthy little game after dinner. I know him well too. He is a bad fellow, who passes himself off for a former superior officer in the Italian army.” “His address?” “He lives at Rue de la Michodiere, in a furnished house. I went there. The porter told me that my man had just gone out with an ill-looking individual, and that they must be in a little cafe on the corner of the next street. I ran there, and found my two fellows drinking beer.” “Won’t they give us the slip?” “No danger of that: I have got them fixed.” “How is that?” “It is an idea of mine. I just thought, ‘Suppose they put off?’ And at once I went to notify some policemen, and I returned to station myself near the cafe. It was just closing up. My two fellows came out: I picked a quarrel with them; and now they are in the station-house, well recommended.” The commissary knit his brows.