screet, patron," he promised.

"I depend upon you, my boy. To begin: Carry this photograph of the
strong box to the examining magistrate. M. Patrigent, I know, is as
perplexed as possible upon the subject of the prisoner. You must
explain, as if it were your own discovery, what I have just shown you.
When you repeat all this to him with these indications, I am sure he
will release the cashier. Prosper Bertomy, the accused cashier, must
be free before I begin my work."

"I understand, patron. But shall I let M. Patrigent see that I suspect
another than the banker or the cashier?"

"Certainly. Justice demands that you follow up the case. M. Patrigent
will charge you to watch Prosper; reply that you will not lose sight
of him. I assure you that he will be in good hands."

"And if he asks news of--Mademoiselle Gypsy?"

M. Lecoq hesitated for a moment.

"You will say to him," he said finally, "that you have decided, in the
interest of Prosper, to place her in a house where she can watch some
one whom you suspect."

The joyous Fanferlot rolled the photograph, took his hat, and prepared
to leave. M. Lecoq detained him by a gesture:--"I have not finished,"
he said. "Do you know how to drive a carriage and take care of a
horse?"

"Why, patron, you ask me that--an old rider of the Bouthor Circus?"

"Very well. As soon as the judge has dismissed you, return home, and
prepare a wig and livery of a _valet de chambre_ of the first class;
and having dressed, go with this letter to the Agency on the Rue
Delorme."

"But, patron--"

"There are no 'buts,' my boy; for this agent will send you to M. Louis
de Clameran, who needs a new _valet de chambre_, his own having left
yesterday evening."

"Excuse me if I dare say that you are deceived. Clameran will not
agree to the conditions: he is no friend of the cashier."

"How you always interrupt me," said M. Lecoq, in his most imperative
tones. "Do only what I tell you, and let everything else alone. M.
Clameran is not a friend to Prosper. I know that. But he is the friend
and protector of Raoul de Lagors. Why? Who can explain the intimacy of
these two men of such different ages? We must know this. We must also
know who _is_ M. Louis de Clameran--this forge-master who lives in
Paris and never goes to his own factories! A jolly dog who has taken
it into his head to live at the Hotel du Louvre and who mingles in
the whirling crowd, is difficult to watch. Through you, I shall have