se garden, simple and
pretty, with a double porch, a slate roof, and newly-painted blinds.

"Great God!" exclaimed the detective, "what a place for a gardener!"

And M. Folgat felt so keenly the man's ill-concealed desire, that he at
once said,--

"If we save M. de Boiscoran, I am sure he will not keep this house."

"Let us go in," cried the detective, in a voice which revealed all his
intense desire to succeed.

Unfortunately, Jacques de Boiscoran had spoken but too truly, when he
said that no trace was left of former days. Furniture, carpets, all
was new; and Goudar and M. Folgat in vain explored the four rooms down
stairs, and the four rooms up stairs, the basement, where the kitchen
was, and finally the garret.

"We shall find nothing here," declared the detective. "To satisfy my
conscience, I shall come and spend an afternoon here; but now we have
more important business. Let us go and see the neighbors!"

There are not many neighbors in Vine Street.

A teacher and a nurseryman, a locksmith and a liveryman, five or
six owners of houses, and the inevitable keeper of a wine-shop and
restaurant, these were the whole population.

"We shall soon make the rounds," said Goudar, after having ordered the
coachman to wait for them at the end of the street.

Neither the head master nor his assistants knew any thing. The
nurseryman had heard it said that No. 23 belonged to an Englishman; but
he had never seen him, and did not even know his name.

The locksmith knew that he was called Francis Burnett. He had done
some work for him, for which he had been well paid, and thus he had
frequently seen him; but it was so long since, that he did not think he
would recognize him.

"We are unlucky," said M. Folgat, after this visit.

The memory of the liveryman was more trustworthy. He said he knew the
Englishman of No. 23 very well, having driven him three or four
times; and the description he gave of him answered fully to Jacques de
Boiscoran. He also remembered that one evening, when the weather was
wretched, Sir Burnett had come himself to order a carriage. It was for
a lady, who had got in alone, and who had been driven to the Place de la
Madeleine. But it was a dark night; the lady wore a thick veil; he had
not been able to distinguish her features, and all he could say was that
she looked above medium height.

"It is always the same story," said Goudar. "But the wine-merchant ought
to be best informed. If I were a