t ago a lady, such as you describe, but prettier than
that, got into a taxi; she."...

"Ah!" interrupted the captain, "do you know what address she gave?"

"Why, yes I do. I was almost touching her when she spoke to the
driver."...

"Well?"

"Faith, what she said was 'Take me to the Bois,' and the cab turned by
the Saints-Peres bridge. Probably it went by the Tuileries quay
after."

"The number? The number of this taxi?"

"Why, we will ask the policeman at the kiosque: he has certainly
entered it, as usual."

Stamping with impatience inside a landaulet whose hood he had had
lowered that he might more easily see around him, Brocq had rushed off
in pursuit of Bobinette's taxi, 249--B.Z.

Shaking from head to foot, Brocq held in a tight grip his leather
portfolio, which contained all the documents he wished to lay before the
Ministry of War, less, alas! the mislaid plan of the eastern forts. He
scrutinised the Place de la Concorde, the Avenue des Champs-Elysees. He
was asking himself why Bobinette, after telling him she must hurry
away, had driven to the Bois as if she were one of the leisured crowd?
This troubled the lover in him as well as the soldier. Why had he rushed
after his mistress in this fashion? What definite reason had he? After
all, it was exceedingly improbable, surely, that she had carried away
this document without noticing it, for it was composed of three or four
large sheets of paper!... In that case, she must have lost it before
getting into the taxi. As to supposing for an instant that she had taken
it away intentionally--Brocq would not suppose it. Why should he? There
was nothing to lead him to think.

But, all the same!...

All the same, the captain had a presentiment, a conviction, an
instinctive certainty that, at all costs he must overtake
Bobinette--he absolutely must.

Why?

Brocq could not have said why. He did not reason about it. He felt: a
feeling as indefinable as it was irresistible drove him to pursue, to
continue the chase at top speed.

Again and again he had shouted to the astonished chauffeur, who was
driving his taxi as fast as the crowded street permitted: "Get on! In
the devil's name, go faster--faster!"

Night was falling. The close of this November day was particularly
beautiful. Behind the Arc de Triomphe a broad band of red on the
horizon reflected the setting sun in its winter glory. The breeze was
wafting the last red-brown leaves from the trees, turning