Chester noticed with surprise that each man was armed, not
only with a stave, but with a revolver. The French police do not stand on
ceremony even with potential criminals.
"And now," said the Count to the coachman, "five louis, my friend, if you
can get us to the Chalet des Muguets in seven minutes--"
They began driving at a breakneck pace, the driver whipping up his horse,
lashing it in a way that horrified Chester. The light little carriage
rocked from side to side.
"If the man doesn't drive more carefully," cried out the Englishman, "we
shall be spilt--and that won't do us any good, will it?"
The Count called out, "If there's an accident you get nothing, my friend!
Drive as quickly as you like, but drive carefully."
They swept on through the town, and so along the dimly-lighted shady
avenues with which even Chester had become so familiar during the last
few days.
Paul de Virieu sat with clenched hands, staring in front of him. Remorse
filled his soul--remorse and anguish. If Sylvia had been done to death,
as he now had very little doubt Anna Wolsky had been done to death, then
he would die too.
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