d the
package the shopkeeper had spoken of contain? Clothes, no doubt.
Everything necessary for a complete disguise--money, papers, a forged
passport most likely.

While these thoughts were rushing through Lecoq's mind, he had reached
the Rue Soufflot, where he paused for an instant to learn his way
from the walls. This was the work of a second. A long chalk mark on a
watchmaker's shop pointed to the Boulevard Saint-Michel, whither the
young detective at once directed his steps. "The accomplice," said he to
himself, resuming his meditation, "didn't succeed with that old-clothes
dealer; but he isn't a man to be disheartened by one rebuff. He has
certainly taken other measures. How shall I divine what they are in
order to defeat them?"

The supposed murderer had crossed the Boulevard Saint-Michel, and had
then taken to the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, as Father Absinthe's dashes of
the crayon proclaimed with many eloquent flourishes.

"One circumstance reassures me," the young detective murmured, "May's
going to this shop, and his consternation on finding that there was
nothing for him there. The accomplice had informed him of his plans, but
had not been able to inform him of their failure. Hence, from this hour,
the prisoner is left to his own resources. The chain that bound him to
his accomplice is broken; there is no longer an understanding between
them. Everything depends now upon keeping them apart. Yes, everything
lies in that!"

Ah! how Lecoq rejoiced that he had succeeded in having May transferred
to another prison; for he was convinced that the accomplice had warned
May of the attempt he was going to make with the old-clothes dealer on
the very evening before May's removal to Mazas. Hence, it had not
been possible to acquaint him with the failure of this scheme or the
substitution of another.

Still following the chalk marks, Lecoq now reached the Odeon theatre.
Here were fresh signs, and what was more, Father Absinthe could
be perceived under the colonnade, standing in front of one of the
book-stalls, and apparently engrossed in the contemplation of a print.

Assuming the nonchalant manner of the loafer whose garb he wore, Lecoq
took his stand beside his colleague. "Where is he?" asked the young
detective.

"There," replied his companion, with a slight movement of his head in
the direction of the steps.

The fugitive was, indeed, seated on one of the steps at the side of
the theatre, his elbows resting on