Short as was the distance to his house, old Tabaret was a good quarter of an hour in reaching it.  On leaving M. Daburon his thoughts reverted to the scene of the murder; and, so blinded was the old fellow to external objects, that he moved along the street, first jostled on the right, then on the left, by the busy passers by, advancing one step and receding two.  He repeated to himself for the fiftieth time the words uttered by Widow Lerouge, as reported by the milk-woman.  “If I wished for any more, I could have it.”

“All is in that,” murmured he.  “Widow Lerouge possessed some important secret, which persons rich and powerful had the strongest motives for concealing.  She had them in her power, and that was her fortune.  She made them sing to her tune; she probably went too far, and so they suppressed her.  But of what nature was this secret, and how did she become possessed of it?  Most likely she was in her youth a servant in some great family; and whilst there, she saw, heard, or discovered, something—­What?  Evidently there is a woman at the bottom of it.  Did she assist her mistress in some love intrigue?  What more probable?  And in that case the affair becomes even more complicated.  Not only must the woman be found but her lover also; for it is the lover who has moved in this affair.  He is, or I am greatly deceived, a man of noble birth.  A person of inferior rank would have simply hired an assassin.  This man has not hung back; he himself has struck the blow and by that means avoiding the indiscretion or the stupidity of an accomplice.  He is a courageous rascal, full of audacity and coolness, for the crime has been admirably executed.  The fellow left nothing behind of a nature to compromise him seriously.  But for me, Gevrol, believing in the robbery, would have seen nothing.  Fortunately, however, I was there.  But yet it can hardly be that,” continued the old man.  “It must be something worse than a mere love affair.”

Old Tabaret entered the porch of the house.  The concierge seated by the window of his lodge saw him as he passed beneath the gas lamp.

“Ah,” said he, “the proprietor has returned at last.”

“So he has,” replied his wife, “but it looks as though his princess would have nothing to do with him to-night.  He seems more loose than ever.”

“Is it not positively indecent,” said the concierge, “and isn’t he in a state!  His fair ones do treat him well!  One of these fine mornings I shall have to take him to a lunatic asylum in a straight waistcoat.”

“Look at him now!” interrupted his wife, “just look at him now, in the middle of the courtyard!”

The old fellow had stopped at the extremity of the porch.  He had taken off his hat, and, while talking to himself, gesticulated violently.

“No,” said he, “I have not yet got hold of the clue, I am getting near it; but have not yet found it out.”

He mounted the staircase, and rang his bell, forgetting that he had his latch-key in his pocket.  His housekeeper opened the door.