r recognized the paper as his. But
neither he, nor his wife, nor the young lady at the counter, nor the
waiters, nor any of the customers present at the time, had ever once
heard mention made of this singular name--Lacheneur.

And now what was Lecoq to do? Was the case utterly hopeless? Not yet.
Had not the spurious soldier declared that this Lacheneur was an old
comedian? Seizing upon this frail clue, as a drowning man clutches at
the merest fragment of the floating wreck, Lecoq turned his steps in
another direction, and hurried from theatre to theatre, asking every
one, from doorkeeper to manager: "Don't you know an actor named
Lacheneur?"

Alas! one and all gave a negative reply, at times indulging in some
rough joke at the oddity of the name. And when any one asked the young
detective what the man he was seeking was like, what could he reply?
His answer was necessarily limited to the virtuous Toinon's phrase: "I
thought him a very respectable-looking gentleman." This was not a very
graphic description, however, and, besides, it was rather doubtful what
a woman like Polyte Chupin's wife might mean by the word "respectable."
Did she apply it to the man's age, to his personal aspect, or to his
apparent fortune.

Sometimes those whom Lecoq questioned would ask what parts this comedian
of his was in the habit of playing; and then the young detective could
make no reply whatever. He kept for himself the harassing thought
that the role now being performed by the unknown Lacheneur was driving
him--Lecoq--wild with despair.

Eventually our hero had recourse to a method of investigation which,
strange to say, the police seldom employ, save in extreme cases,
although it is at once sensible and simple, and generally fraught
with success. It consists in examining all the hotel and lodging-house
registers, in which the landlords are compelled to record the names of
their tenants, even should the latter merely sojourn under their roofs
for a single night.

Rising long before daybreak and going to bed late at night, Lecoq spent
all his time in visiting the countless hotels and furnished lodgings in
Paris. But still and ever his search was vain. He never once came across
the name of Lacheneur; and at last he began to ask himself if such
a name really existed, or if it were not some pseudonym invented
for convenience. He had not found it even in Didot's directory, the
so-called "Almanach Boitin," where one finds all the most si