M. Plantat had evidently been expecting some immediate and decisive action, for M. Lecoq’s remark filled him with alarm.

“If that’s so,” said he mournfully, “it’s all over with our project.”

“How so?”

“Because Tremorel will not leave Laurence by herself for a moment.”

“Then I’ll try to entice him out.”

“And you, you who are usually so clear-sighted, really think that he will let himself be taken in by a trick!  You don’t consider his situation at this moment.  He must be a prey to boundless terrors.  We know that Sauvresy’s declaration will not be found, but he does not; he thinks that perhaps it has been found, that suspicions have been aroused, and that he is already being searched for and pursued by the police.”

“I’ve considered all that,” responded M. Lecoq with a triumphant smile, “and many other things besides.  Well, it isn’t easy to decoy Tremorel out of the house.  I’ve been cudgelling my brain about it a good deal, and have found a way at last.  The idea occurred to me just as we were coming in here.  The Count de Tremorel, in an hour from now, will be in the Faubourg St. Germain.  It’s true it will cost me a forgery, but you will forgive me under the circumstances.  Besides, he who seeks the end must use the means.”

He took up a pen, and as he smoked his cigar, rapidly wrote the following: 

“Monsieur Wilson: 

“Four of the thousand-franc notes which you paid me are counterfeits; I have just found it out by sending them to my banker’s.  If you are not here to explain the matter before ten o’clock, I shall be obliged to put in a complaint this evening before the procureur.

“Rech.”

“Now,” said M. Lecoq, passing the letter to his companion.  “Do you comprehend?”

The old justice read it at a glance and could not repress a joyful exclamation, which caused the waiters to turn around and stare at him.

“Yes,” said he, “this letter will catch him; it’ll frighten him out of all his other terrors.  He will say to himself that he might have slipped some counterfeit notes among those paid to the upholsterer, that a complaint against him will provoke an inquiry, and that he will have to prove that he is really Monsieur Wilson or he is lost.”

“So you think he’ll come out?”

“I’m sure of it, unless he has become a fool.”

“I tell you we shall succeed then, for this is the only serious obstacle—­”

He suddenly interrupted himself.  The restaurant door opened ajar, and a man passed his head in and withdrew it immediately.

“That’s my man,” said M. Lecoq, calling the waiter to pay for the dinner, “he is waiting for us in the passage; let us go.”

A young man dressed like a journeyman upholsterer was standing in the passage looking in at the shop-windows.  He had long brown locks, and his mustache and eyebrows were coal-black.  M. Plantat certainly did not recognize him as Palot, but M. Lecoq did, and even seemed dissatisfied with his get-up.