'"
M. Plantat made a gesture of impotent rage.
"Ah," cried he, "and we know not where the wretch has hid himself
and Laurence."
The detective took him by the arm and pressed it.
"Reassure yourself," said he, coolly. "We'll find him, or my name's
not Lecoq; and to be honest, I must say that our task does not seem
to me a difficult one."
Several timid knocks at the door interrupted the speaker. It was
late, and the household was already awake and about. Mme. Petit
in her anxiety and curiosity had put her ear to the key-hole at
least ten times, but in vain.
"What can they be up to in there?" said she to Louis. "Here they've
been shut up these twelve hours without eating or drinking. At all
events I'll get breakfast."
It was not Mme. Petit, however, who dared to knock on the door; but
Louis, the gardener, who came to tell his master of the ravages
which had been made in his flower-pots and shrubs. At the same time
he brought in certain singular articles which he had picked up on
the sward, and which M. Lecoq recognized at once.
"Heavens!" cried he, "I forgot myself. Here I go on quietly
talking with my face exposed, as if it was not broad daylight; and
people might come in at any moment!" And turning to Louis, who was
very much surprised to see this dark young man whom he had certainly
not admitted the night before, he added:
"Give me those little toilet articles, my good fellow; they belong
to me.
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