en I will see."

But he did not find Father Absinthe at the Prefecture, and no one could
give any tidings of him. He had not been there at all during the
day. Nor could any one indicate, even vaguely, the abode of the Widow
Chupin's daughter-in-law.

On the other hand, however, Lecoq met a number of his colleagues, who
laughed and jeered at him unmercifully. "Ah! you are a shrewd fellow!"
they said, "it seems that you have just made a wonderful discovery, and
it's said you are going to be decorated with the Legion of Honor."

Gevrol's influence betrayed itself everywhere. The jealous inspector
had taken pains to inform all his colleagues and subordinates that poor
Lecoq, crazed by ambition, persisted in declaring that a low, vulgar
murderer trying to escape justice was some great personage in disguise.
However, the jeers and taunts of which Lecoq was the object had but
little effect upon him, and he consoled himself with the reflection
that, "He laughs best who laughs last."

If he were restless and anxious as he walked along the Quai des
Orfevres, it was because he could not explain Father Absinthe's
prolonged absence, and because he feared that Gevrol, mad with jealousy,
might attempt, in some underhand way, to frustrate his, Lecoq's, efforts
to arrive at a solution of the mystery.

At the Morgue the young detective met with no better success than at the
Prefecture. After ringing three or four times, one of the keepers opened
the door and informed him that the bodies had not been identified, and
that the old police agent had not been seen since he went away early in
the morning.

"This is a bad beginning," thought Lecoq. "I will go and get some
dinner--that, perhaps, will change the luck; at all events, I have
certainly earned the bottle of good wine to which I intend to treat
myself."

It was a happy thought. A hearty meal washed down with a couple of
glasses of Bordeaux sent new courage and energy coursing through his
veins. If he still felt a trifle weary, the sensation of fatigue was at
all events greatly diminished when he left the restaurant with a cigar
between his lips.

Just at that moment he longed for Father Papillon's trap and sturdy
steed. Fortunately, a cab was passing: he hired it, and as eight o'clock
was striking, alighted at the corner of the square in front of the
Northern Railway Station. After a brief glance round, he began his
search for the hotel where the murderer pretended to have le