perceived, on the opposite side of the street, the keeper of a wine-shop
smoking on his doorstep.

At once approaching and pretending that he had forgotten an address,
Lecoq politely asked for the house where Marchioness d'Arlange resided.
Without a word, and without condescending to take his pipe from his
mouth, the man pointed to the mansion which Lecoq had previously
watched.

There was a way, however, to make him more communicative, namely, to
enter the shop, call for something to drink, and invite the landlord to
drink as well. This was what Lecoq did, and the sight of two well-filled
glasses unbound, as by enchantment, the man's hitherto silent tongue.
The young detective could not have found a better person to question,
for this same individual had been established in the neighborhood for
ten years, and enjoyed among the servants of the aristocratic families
here residing a certain amount of confidence.

"I pity you if you are going to the marchioness's house to collect a
bill," he remarked to Lecoq. "You will have plenty of time to learn the
way here before you see your money. You will only be another of the many
creditors who never let her bell alone."

"The deuce! Is she as poor as that?"

"Poor! Why, every one knows that she has a comfortable income, without
counting this house. But when one spends double one's income every year,
you know--"

The landlord stopped short, to call Lecoq's attention to two ladies who
were passing along the street, one of them, a woman of forty, dressed in
black; the other, a girl half-way through her teens. "There," quoth the
wine-seller, "goes the marchioness's granddaughter, Mademoiselle Claire,
with her governess, Mademoiselle Smith."

Lecoq's head whirled. "Her granddaughter!" he stammered.

"Yes--the daughter of her deceased son, if you prefer it."

"How old is the marchioness, then?"

"At least sixty: but one would never suspect it. She is one of those
persons who live a hundred years. And what an old wretch she is too.
She would think no more of knocking me over the head than I would of
emptying this glass of wine--"

"Excuse me," interrupted Lecoq, "but does she live alone in that great
house?"

"Yes--that is--with her granddaughter, the governess, and two servants.
But what is the matter with you?"

This last question was not uncalled for; for Lecoq had turned deadly
white. The magic edifice of his hopes had crumbled beneath the weight of
this man's wor