“He told me that it was the portrait of one of his customers.  A month ago this customer came to him to buy a complete set of furniture—­drawing-room, dining-room, bed-room, and the rest—­for a little house which he had just rented.  He did not beat him down at all, and only made one condition to the purchase, and that was, that everything should be ready and in place, and the curtains and carpets put in, within three weeks from that time; that is a week ago last Monday.”

“And what was the sum-total of the purchase?”

“Eighteen thousand francs, half paid down in advance, and half on the day of delivery.”

“And who carried the last half of the money to the upholsterer?”

“A servant.”

“What name did this customer give?”

“He called himself Monsieur James Wilson; but Monsieur Rech said he did not seem like an English-man.”

“Where does he live?”

“The furniture was carried to a small house, No. 34 Rue St. Lazare, near the Havre station.”

M. Lecoq’s face, which had up to that moment worn an anxious expression, beamed with joy.  He felt the natural pride of a captain who has succeeded in his plans for the enemy’s destruction.  He tapped the old justice of the peace familiarly on the shoulder, and pronounced a single word: 

“Nipped!”

Palot shook his head.

“It isn’t certain,” said he.

“Why?”

“You may imagine, Monsieur Lecoq, that when I got the address, having some time on my hands, I went to reconnoitre the house.”

“Well?”

“The tenant’s name is really Wilson, but it’s not the man of the photograph, I’m certain.”

M. Plantat gave a groan of disappointment, but M. Lecoq was not so easily discouraged.

“How did you find out?”

“I pumped one of the servants.”

“Confound you!” cried M. Plantat.  “Perhaps you roused suspicions.”

“Oh, no,” answered M. Lecoq.  “I’ll answer for him.  Palot is a pupil of mine.  Explain yourself, Palot.”

“Recognizing the house—­an elegant affair it is, too—­I said to myself:  ‘I’ faith, here’s the cage; let’s see if the bird is in it.’  I luckily happened to have a napoleon in my pocket; and I slipped it without hesitation into the drain which led from the house to the street-gutter.”

“Then you rang?”

“Exactly.  The porter—­there is a porter—­opened the door, and with my most vexed air I told him how, in pulling out my handkerchief, I had dropped a twenty-franc piece in the drain, and begged him to lend me something to try to get it out.  He lent me a poker and took another himself, and we got the money out with no difficulty; I began to jump about as if I were delighted, and begged him to let me treat him to a glass of wine.”

“Not bad.”