per, which chanced to be the very one in which Paul Rodier had
published his famous article on "The Crime of the Boulevard de Clichy."
Bernardet left enchanted with his "find," and repeated over and over to
himself: "It is very precious! It is a tid-bit!"

Should he keep on toward the Prefecture to show this "find" to his
Chief, or should he go at once to hunt up Charles Breton at the address
he had given?

Bernardet hesitated a moment, then he said to himself that, in a case
like this, moments were precious; an hour lost was time wasted, and that
as the address which Breton had given was not far away, he would go
there first. "Rue de la Condamine, 16," that was only a short walk to
such a tramper as he was. He had good feet, a sharp eye and sturdy legs;
he would soon be at the Batignolles. He had taken some famous tramps in
his time, notably one night when he had scoured Paris in pursuit of a
malefactor. This, he admitted, had wearied him a little; but this walk
from the Avenue des Bons-Enfants to the Rue de la Condamine was but a
spurt. Would he find that a false name and a false address had been
given? This was but the infancy of art. If, however, he found that this
Charles Breton really did live at that address and that he had given his
true name, it would probably be a very simple matter to obtain all the
information he desired of Jacques Dantin.

"What do I risk? A short walk," thought Bernardet, "a little
fatigue--that can be charged up to Profit and Loss."

He hurried toward the street and number given. It was a large house,
several stories high. The concierge was sweeping the stairs, having left
a card bearing this inscription tacked on the front door. "The porter is
on the staircase." Bernardet hastened up the stairs, found the man and
questioned him. There was no Charles Breton in the house; there never
had been. The man who sold the portrait had given a false name and
address. Vainly did the police officer describe the individual who had
visited Mme. Colard's shop. The man insisted that he had never seen any
one who in the least resembled this toreador in the big felt hat. It was
useless to insist! Mme. Colard had been deceived. And now, how to find,
in this immense city of Paris, this bird of passage, who had chanced to
enter the bric-a-brac shop. The old adage of "the needle in the
haystack" came to Bernardet's mind and greatly irritated him. But, after
all, there had been others whom he looked for; the