Guerchard stepped back and looked at it.
"Now, this is very important," he said. "I must have the exact position of the four feet of that screen. Let's see . . . some chalk . . . of course. . . . You do some dressmaking, don't you, Madame Victoire?"
"Oh, yes, I sometimes make a dress for one of the maids in my spare time," said Victoire.
"Then you've got a piece of chalk on you," said Guerchard.
"Oh, yes," said Victoire, putting her hand to the pocket of her dress.
She paused, took a step backwards, and looked wildly round the room, while the colour slowly faded in her ruddy cheeks.
"What am I talking about?" she said in an uncertain, shaky voice. "I haven't any chalk—I—ran out of chalk the day before yesterday."
"I think you have, Madame Victoire. Feel in your pocket and see," said Guerchard sternly. His voice had lost its suavity; his face its smile: his eyes had grown dangerous.
"No, no; I have no chalk," cried Victoire.
With a sudden leap Guerchard sprang upon her, caught her in a firm grip with his right arm, and his left hand plunged into her pocket.
"Let me go! Let me go! You're hurting," she cried.
