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Updated: May 26, 2025
So, as part of his day's work, M. Paul had taken steps for the finding of this smallish object dropped into the Seine by Pussy Wilmott, and, betimes on the morning after that lady's examination, a diver began work along the Concorde bridge under the guidance of a young detective named Bobet, selected for this duty by M. Paul himself.
This was one thread to be followed, a thread that might lead poor Bobet through weary days and nights until, among all the hardware shops in Paris, he had found the particular one where that particular auger had been sold! Another thread, meanwhile, was leading another trustworthy man in and out among friends of Martinez, whom he must study one by one until the false friend had been discovered.
Then, without more discussion, he left the prison and drove directly to the Palais de Justice; he was perplexed and indignant, and vaguely anxious. What did this mean? What could it mean? As he approached the lower arm of the river where it enfolds the old island city, he saw Bobet sauntering along the quay and drew up to speak to him. "What are you doing here?" he asked.
"We can't waste time on foolish clews." Coquenil glared at him. "We can't, eh? I suppose you have decided that?" "Precisely," retorted Gibelin, his red mustache bristling. "And you've been giving orders to young Bobet?" "Yes, sir." "By what authority?" "Go in there and you'll find out," sneered the fat man, jerking a derisive thumb toward Hauteville's door.
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