since, for reasons to be presently explained, the young forger had not
mentioned the subject. The three pals agreed to cross the priest's path.

"He is no priest," said Fil-de-Soie; "he is an old stager. Look how he
drags his right foot."

It is needful to explain here--for not every reader has had a fancy to
visit the galleys--that each convict is chained to another, an old one
and a young one always as a couple; the weight of this chain riveted
to a ring above the ankle is so great as to induce a limp, which the
convict never loses. Being obliged to exert one leg much more than the
other to drag this fetter (manicle is the slang name for such irons),
the prisoner inevitably gets into the habit of making the effort.
Afterwards, though he no longer wears the chain, it acts upon him still;
as a man still feels an amputated leg, the convict is always conscious
of the anklet, and can never get over that trick of walking. In police
slang, he "drags his right." And this sign, as well known to convicts
among themselves as it is to the police, even if it does not help to
identify a comrade, at any rate confirms recognition.

In _Trompe-la Mort_, who had escaped eight years since, this trick had
to a great extent worn off; but just now, lost in reflections, he walked
at such a slow and solemn pace that, slight as the limp was, it was
strikingly evident to so practiced an eye as la Pouraille's. And it is
quite intelligible that convicts, always thrown together, as they must
be, and never having any one else to study, will so thoroughly have
watched each other's faces and appearance, that certain tricks will have
impressed them which may escape their systematic foes--spies, gendarmes,
and police-inspectors.

Thus it was a peculiar twitch of the maxillary muscles of the left
cheek, recognized by a convict who was sent to a review of the Legion
of the Seine, which led to the arrest of the lieutenant-colonel of that
corps, the famous Coignard; for, in spite of Bibi-Lupin's confidence,
the police could not dare believe that the Comte Pontis de Sainte-Helene
and Coignard were one and the same man.

"He is our boss" (dab or master) said Fil-de-Soie, seeing in Jacques
Collin's eyes the vague glance a man sunk in despair casts on all his
surroundings.

"By Jingo! Yes, it is _Trompe-la-Mort_," said le Biffon, rubbing his
hands. "Yes, it is his cut, his build; but what has he done to himself?
He looks quite different."

"I know wh