ining such a success. M. Folgat, however, was fully
aware of it; for he had been the counsel of the stockholders of the
Mutual Discount Society; and he had vowed, that, if ever the opportunity
should come, he would employ this marvellously able man.

Goudar, who was married, and had a child, lived out of the world on the
road to Versailles, not far from the fortifications. He occupied with
his family a small house which he owned,--a veritable philosopher's
home, with a little garden in front, and a vast garden behind, in which
he raised vegetables and admirable fruit, and where he kept all kinds of
animals.

When M. Folgat stepped out of his carriage before this pleasant home,
a young woman of twenty-five or twenty-six, of surpassing beauty, young
and fresh, was playing in the front garden with a little girl of three
or four years, all milk and roses.

"M. Goudar, madam?" asked M. Folgat, raising his hat.

The young woman blushed slightly, and answered modestly, but without
embarrassment, and in a most pleasing voice,--

"My husband is in the garden; and you will find him, if you will walk
down this path around the house."

The young man followed the direction, and soon saw his man at a
distance. His head covered with an old straw hat, without a coat, and
in slippers, with a huge blue apron such as gardeners wear, Goudar had
climbed up a ladder, and was busy dropping into a horsehair bag the
magnificent Chasselas grapes of his trellises. When he heard the sand
grate under the footsteps of the newcomer, he turned his head, and at
once said,--

"Why, M. Folgat? Good morning, sir!"

The young advocate was not a little surprised to see himself recognized
so instantaneously. He should certainly never have recognized the
detective. It was more than three years since they had seen each other;
and how often had they seen each other then? Twice, and not an hour each
time.

It is true that Goudar was one of those men whom nobody remembers. Of
middle height, he was neither stout nor thin, neither dark nor light
haired, neither young nor old. A clerk in a passport office would
certainly have written him down thus: Forehead, ordinary; nose,
ordinary; mouth, ordinary, eyes, neutral color; special marks, none.

It could not be said that he looked stupid; but neither did he
look intelligent. Every thing in him was ordinary, indifferent, and
undecided. Not one marked feature. He would necessarily pass unobserved,
and be for