His most terrible enemy also was now out of the way. But it was still necessary for him to act and ensure his personal safety. He walked round the lodge, looked for his yellow spectacles and put them on, went through the garden, opened the door and closed it behind him. Then he turned down the lane to the quay. Once more stopping, in front of the parapet above Berthou's Wharf, he seemed to hesitate what to do. But the sight of people passing, carmen, market-gardeners and others, put an end to his indecision. He hailed a taxi and drove to the Rue Guimard. His friend Vacherot was standing at the door of his lodge. "Oh, is that you, M. Siméon?" cried the porter. "But what a state you're in!" "Hush, no names!" he whispered, entering the lodge. "Has any one seen me?" "No. It's only half-past seven and the house is hardly awake. But, Lord forgive us, what have the scoundrels done to you? You look as if you had no breath left in your body!" "Yes, that nigger who came after me . . ." "But the others?" "What others?" "The two who were here? Patrice?" "Eh? Has Patrice been?" asked Siméon, still speaking in a whisper. "Yes, last night, after you left." "And you told him?" "That he was your son." "Then that," mumbled the old man, "is why he did not seem surprised at what I said." "Where are they now?" "With Coralie. I was able to save her. I've handed her over to them. But it's not a question of her. Quick, I must see a doctor; there's no time to lose." "We have one in the house." "No, that's no use. Have you a telephone-directory?" "Here you are." "Turn up Dr. Géradec." "What? You can't mean that?" "Why not? He has a private hospital quite close, on the Boulevard de Montmorency, with no other house near it." "That's so, but haven't you heard? There are all sorts of rumors about him afloat: something to do with passports and forged certificates." "Never mind that." M. Vacherot hunted out the number in the directory and rang up the exchange. The line was engaged; and he wrote down the number on the margin of a newspaper. Then he telephoned again. The answer was that the doctor had gone out and would be back at ten. "It's just as well," said Siméon. "I'm not feeling strong enough yet. Say that I'll call at ten o'clock." "Shall I give your name as Siméon?" "No, my real name, Armand Belval. Say it's urgent, say it's a surgical case." The porter did so and hung up the instrument, with a moan: "Oh, my poor M. Siméon! A man like you, so good and kind to everybody! Tell me what happened?" "Don't worry about that. Is my place ready?" "To be sure it is." "Take me there without any one seeing us." "As usual." "Be quick. Put your revolver in your pocket. What about your lodge? Can you leave it?" "Five minutes won't hurt." The lodge opened at the back on a small courtyard, which communicated with a long corridor. At the end of this passage was another yard, in which stood a little house consisting of a ground-floor and an attic.