led him back.
"When you leave the Morgue you will want to go somewhere else," he said,
"you told me that you had another appointment, and that you were already
late."

"Yes, I ought to be at the Palais de Justice; but it is only a few steps
from here."

"No matter. I will wait for you at the corner of the bridge. It's
useless to say 'no'; I've made up my mind, and I'm a Breton, you know. I
want you to ride out the thirty francs that those jades paid me."

It would have been cruel to refuse such a request. Accordingly, Lecoq
made a gesture of assent, and then hurried toward the Morgue.

If there was a crowd on the roadway outside, it was because the gloomy
building itself was crammed full of people. Indeed, the sightseers, most
of whom could see nothing at all, were packed as closely as sardines,
and it was only by dint of well-nigh superhuman efforts that Lecoq
managed to effect an entrance. As usual, he found among the mob a large
number of girls and women; for, strange to say, the Parisian fair sex is
rather partial to the disgusting sights and horrible emotions that repay
a visit to the Morgue.

The shop and work girls who reside in the neighborhood readily go out of
their way to catch a glimpse of the corpses which crime, accident, and
suicide bring to this horrible place. A few, the more sensitive among
them, may come no further than the door, but the others enter, and
after a long stare return and recount their impressions to their less
courageous companions.

If there should be no corpse exhibited; if all the marble slabs are
unoccupied, strange as it may seem, the visitors turn hastily away with
an expression of disappointment or discontent. There was no fear of
their doing so, however, on the morrow of the tragedy at Poivriere, for
the mysterious murderer whose identity Lecoq was trying to establish had
furnished three victims for their delectation. Panting with curiosity,
they paid but little attention to the unhealthy atmosphere: and yet
a damp chill came from beyond the iron railings, while from the crowd
itself rose an infectious vapor, impregnated with the stench of the
chloride of lime used as a disinfectant.

As a continuous accompaniment to the exclamations, sighs, and whispered
comments of the bystanders came the murmur of the water trickling from a
spigot at the head of each slab; a tiny stream that flowed forth only to
fall in fine spray upon the marble. Through the small arched windows
a gr