He was instructed to track the cashier who had fled, having a deficit of several millions.  Goudar had caught him in Canada, after pursuing him for three months all over America; but, on the day of his arrest, this cashier had in his pocket-book and his trunk only some forty thousand francs.

What had become of the millions?

When he was questioned, he said he had spent them.  He had gambled in stocks, he had become unfortunate, etc.

Everybody believed him except Goudar.

Stimulated by the promise of a magnificent reward, he began his campaign once more; and, in less than six weeks, he had gotten hold of sixteen hundred thousand francs which the cashier had deposited in London with a woman of bad character.

The story is well known; but what is not known is the genius, the fertility of resources, and the ingenuity of expedients, which Goudar displayed in obtaining such a success.  M. Folgat, however, was fully aware of it; for he had been the counsel of the stockholders of the Mutual Discount Society; and he had vowed, that, if ever the opportunity should come, he would employ this marvellously able man.

Goudar, who was married, and had a child, lived out of the world on the road to Versailles, not far from the fortifications.  He occupied with his family a small house which he owned,—­a veritable philosopher’s home, with a little garden in front, and a vast garden behind, in which he raised vegetables and admirable fruit, and where he kept all kinds of animals.

When M. Folgat stepped out of his carriage before this pleasant home, a young woman of twenty-five or twenty-six, of surpassing beauty, young and fresh, was playing in the front garden with a little girl of three or four years, all milk and roses.

“M.  Goudar, madam?” asked M. Folgat, raising his hat.

The young woman blushed slightly, and answered modestly, but without embarrassment, and in a most pleasing voice,—­

“My husband is in the garden; and you will find him, if you will walk down this path around the house.”

The young man followed the direction, and soon saw his man at a distance.  His head covered with an old straw hat, without a coat, and in slippers, with a huge blue apron such as gardeners wear, Goudar had climbed up a ladder, and was busy dropping into a horsehair bag the magnificent Chasselas grapes of his trellises.  When he heard the sand grate under the footsteps of the newcomer, he turned his head, and at once said,—­

“Why, M. Folgat?  Good morning, sir!”

The young advocate was not a little surprised to see himself recognized so instantaneously.  He should certainly never have recognized the detective.  It was more than three years since they had seen each other; and how often had they seen each other then?  Twice, and not an hour each time.

It is true that Goudar was one of those men whom nobody remembers.  Of middle height, he was neither stout nor thin, neither dark nor light haired, neither young nor old.  A clerk in a passport office would certainly have written him down thus:  Forehead, ordinary; nose, ordinary; mouth, ordinary, eyes, neutral color; special marks, none.