encourage a hope which may be disappointed," he
resumed. "I have but one means of keeping a criminal like Tremorel
out of the courts; will it succeed?"

"Yes, yes. If you wish it, it will!"

M. Lecoq could not help smiling at the old man's faith.

"I am certainly a clever detective," said he. "But I am only a man
after all, and I can't answer for the actions of another man. All
depends upon Hector. If it were another criminal, I should say I
was sure. I am doubtful about him, I frankly confess. We ought,
above all, to count upon the firmness of Mademoiselle Courtois;
can we, think you?"

"She is firmness itself."

"Then there's hope. But can we really suppress this affair? What
will happen when Sauvresy's narrative is found? It must be
concealed somewhere in Valfeuillu, and Tremorel, at least, did not
find it."

"It will not be found," said M. Plantat, quickly.

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it."

M. Lecoq gazed intently at his companion, and simply said:

"Ah!"

But this is what he thought: "At last I am going to find out where
the manuscript which we heard read the other night, and which is
in two handwritings, came from."

After a moment's hesitation, M. Plantat went on:

"I have put my life in your hands, Monsieur Lecoq; I can, of
course, confide my honor to you. I know you. I know that, happen
what may--"

"I shall keep my mouth shut, on my honor."

"Very well. The day that I caught Tremorel at the mayor's, I
wished to verify the suspicions I had, and so I broke the seal of
Sauvresy's package of papers."

"And you did not use them?"

"I was dismayed at my abuse of confidence. Besides, had I the right
to deprive poor Sauvresy, who was dying in order to avenge himself,
of his vengeance?"

"But you gave the papers to Madame de Tremorel?"

"True; but Bertha had a vague presentiment of the fate that was in
store for her. About a fortnight before her death she came and
confided to me her husband's manuscript, which she had taken care
to complete. I broke the seals and read it, to see if he had died
a violent death."

"Why, then, didn't you tell me? Why did you let me hunt, hesitate,
grope about--"

"I love Laurence, Monsieur Lecoq, and to deliver up Tremorel was to
open an abyss between her and me."

The detective bowed. "The deuce," thought he, "the old justice is
shrewd--as shrewd as I am. Well, I like him, and I'm going to give
him a surprise."

M. Plantat yearned to question his ho