“I am quite willing,” said Peyrade, speaking French with a strong English accent, as he came in and tapped the woman on the shoulder.

He cast a knowing look back at Carlos, who replied by an assenting nod, understanding that the nabob was to keep up his part.

But the scene suddenly changed its aspect at the entrance of a person over whom neither Carlos nor Peyrade had the least power.  Corentin suddenly came in.  He had found the door open, and looked in as he went by to see how his old friend played his part as nabob.

“The Prefet is still bullying me!” said Peyrade in a whisper to Corentin.  “He has found me out as a nabob.”

“We will spill the Prefet,” Corentin muttered in reply.

Then after a cool bow he stood darkly scrutinizing the magistrate.

“Stay here till I return,” said Carlos; “I will go to the Prefecture.  If you do not see me again, you may go your own way.”

Having said this in an undertone to Peyrade, so as not to humiliate him in the presence of the waiting-maid, Carlos went away, not caring to remain under the eye of the newcomer, in whom he detected one of those fair-haired, blue-eyed men, coldly terrifying.

“That is the peace-officer sent after me by the Prefet,” said Peyrade.

“That?” said Corentin.  “You have walked into a trap.  That man has three packs of cards in his shoes; you can see that by the place of his foot in the shoe; besides, a peace-officer need wear no disguise.”

Corentin hurried downstairs to verify his suspicions:  Carlos was getting into the fly.

“Hallo!  Monsieur l’Abbe!” cried Corentin.

Carlos looked around, saw Corentin, and got in quickly.  Still, Corentin had time to say: 

“That was all I wanted to know.—­Quai Malaquais,” he shouted to the driver with diabolical mockery in his tone and expression.

“I am done!” said Jacques Collin to himself.  “They have got me.  I must get ahead of them by sheer pace, and, above all, find out what they want of us.”

Corentin had seen the Abbe Carlos Herrera five or six times, and the man’s eyes were unforgettable.  Corentin had suspected him at once from the cut of his shoulders, then by his puffy face, and the trick of three inches of added height gained by a heel inside the shoe.

“Ah! old fellow, they have drawn you,” said Corentin, finding no one in the room but Peyrade and Contenson.

“Who?” cried Peyrade, with metallic hardness; “I will spend my last days in putting him on a gridiron and turning him on it.”

“It is the Abbe Carlos Herrera, the Corentin of Spain, as I suppose.  This explains everything.  The Spaniard is a demon of the first water, who has tried to make a fortune for that little young man by coining money out of a pretty baggage’s bolster.—­It is your lookout if you think you can measure your skill with a man who seems to me the very devil to deal with.”