“Evidently.”

“Of course he would furnish them sumptuously, both because he is fond of luxury and has plenty of money, and because he couldn’t carry a young girl from a luxurious home to a garret.  I’d wager that they have as fine a drawing-room as that at Valfeuillu.”

“Alas!  How can that help us?”

“Peste!  It helps us much, my dear friend, as you shall see.  Hector, as he wished for a good deal of expensive furniture, did not have recourse to a broker; nor had he time to go to the Faubourg St. Antoine.  Therefore, he simply went to an upholsterer.”

“Some fashionable upholsterer—­”

“No, he would have risked being recognized.  It is clear that he assumed a false name, the same in which he had hired his rooms.  He chose some shrewd and humble upholsterer, ordered his goods, made sure that they would be delivered on a certain day, and paid for them.”

M. Plantat could not repress a joyful exclamation; he began to see M. Lecoq’s drift.

“This merchant,” pursued the latter, “must have retained his rich customer in his memory, this customer who did not beat him down, and paid cash.  If he saw him again, he would recognize him.”

“What an idea!” cried M. Plantat, delighted.  “Let’s get photographs and portraits of Tremorel as quick as we can—­let’s send a man to Orcival for them.”

M. Lecoq smiled shrewdly and proceeded: 

“Keep yourself easy; I have done what was necessary.  I slipped three of the count’s cartes-de-visite in my pocket yesterday during the inquest.  This morning I took down, out of the directory, the names of all the upholsterers in Paris, and made three lists of them.  At this moment three of my men, each with a list and a photograph, are going from upholsterer to upholsterer showing them the picture and asking them if they recognize it as the portrait of one of their customers.  If one of them answers ‘yes,’ we’ve got our man.”

“And we will get him!” cried the old man, pale with emotion.

“Not yet; don’t shout victory too soon.  It is possible that Hector was prudent enough not to go to the upholsterer’s himself.  In this case we are beaten in that direction.  But no, he was not so sly as that—­”

M. Lecoq checked himself.  Janouille, for the third time, opened the door, and said, in a deep bass voice: 

“Breakfast is ready.”

Janouille was a remarkable cook; M. Plantat had ample experience of the fact when he began upon her dishes.  But he was not hungry, and could not force himself to eat; he could not think of anything but a plan which he had to propose to his host, and he had that oppressive feeling which is experienced when one is about to do something which has been decided on with hesitation and regret.  The detective, who, like all men of great activity, was a great eater, vainly essayed to entertain his guest, and filled his glass with the choicest Chateau Margaux; the old man sat