The prefect and his acolyte were feeling somewhat abashed at their failure, when the concierge who had taken Mme. de Combray back to the Palais asked to speak to them.  He told them that in the carriage the Marquise had offered him a large sum if he would take some letters to one of the prisoners.  Accustomed to these requests he had said neither yes nor no, but had told “the Combray woman” that he would see her at night, when going the rounds, and he had come to get the prefect’s orders concerning this correspondence.  Licquet urged that the concierge be authorised to receive the letters.  He hoped by intercepting them to learn much from the confidences and advice the Marquise would give her fellow-prisoners.  The idea was at first very repugnant to Savoye-Rollin, but the Marquise’s proposal seemed to establish her guilt so thoroughly, that he did not feel obliged to be delicate and consented, not without throwing on his secretary-general (one of Licquet’s titles) the responsibility for the proceeding.  Having obtained this concession Licquet took hold of the enquiry, and found it a good field for the employment of his particular talents.  No duel was ever more pitiless; never did a detective show more ingenuity and duplicity.  From “love of the art,” from sheer delight in it, Licquet worked himself up against his prisoners with a passion that would be inexplicable, did not his letters reveal the intense joy the struggle gave him.  He felt no hatred towards his victims, but only a ferocious satisfaction in seeing them fall into the traps he prepared and in unveiling the mysteries of a plot whose political significance seemed entirely indifferent to him.

With the keenest anticipation he awaited the time when Mme. de Combray’s letters to Bonnoeil and “Tourlour” should be handed to him.  He had to be patient till next day, and this first letter told nothing; the Marquise gave her accomplices a sketch of her examination, and did it so artfully that Licquet suspected her of having known that the letter was to pass through his hands.  The same day the concierge gave him another letter as insignificant as the first, which, however, ended with this sentence, whose perusal puzzled Licquet:  “Do you not know that Tourlour’s brother has burnt the muslin fichu?”

“Tourlour’s brother”—­that was d’Ache.  Had he recently returned to Tournebut?  Was he still there?  Another letter, given to the gaoler by Bonnoeil, answered these questions affirmatively.  It was addressed to a man of business named Legrand in the Rue Cauchoise, and ran thus:  “I implore you to start at once for Tournebut without telling any one of the object of your journey; go to Grosmenil (the little chateau), see the woman Bachelet, and burn everything she may have that seems suspicious; you will do us a great service.  Return this letter to me.  Tell Soyer that if any one asks if M. d’Ache has returned, it is two years since he was seen at Tournebut.”