“Why do you always interrupt me?” said M. Lecoq imperiously.  “Do what I tell you, and don’t disturb your mind about the rest.  Clameran is not a friend of Prosper’s, I know; but he is the friend and protector of Raoul de Lagors.  Why so?  Whence the intimacy of these two men of such different ages?  That is what I must find out.  I must also find out who this forge-master is who lives in Paris, and never goes to attend to his furnaces.  A jolly fellow, who takes it into his head to live at the Hotel du Louvre, in the midst of a tumultuous, ever-changing crowd, is a fellow difficult to watch.  Through you I will have an eye upon him.  He has a carriage, you are to drive it; and you will soon be able to give me an account of his manner of life, and of the sort of people with whom he associates.”

“You shall be obeyed, patron.”

“Another thing.  M. de Clameran is irritable and suspicious.  You will be presented to him under the name of Joseph Dubois.  He will demand your certificate of good character.  Here are three, which state that you have lived with the Marquis de Sairmeuse and the Count de Commarin, and that you have just left the Baron de Wortschen, who went to Germany the other day.  Now keep your eyes open; be careful of your dress and manners.  Be polite, but not excessively so.  And, above all things, don’t be obsequious; it might arouse suspicion.”

“I understand, patron.  Where shall I report to you?”

“I will call on you every day.  Until I tell you differently, don’t step foot in this house; you might be followed.  If anything important should happen, send a note to your wife, and she will inform me.  Go, and be prudent.”

The door closed on Fanferlot as M. Lecoq passed into his bedroom.

In the twinkling of an eye he had divested himself of the appearance of a police officer.  He took off his stiff cravat and gold spectacles, and removed the close wig from his thick black hair.  The official Lecoq had disappeared, leaving in his place the genuine Lecoq whom nobody knew—­a handsome young man, with a bold, determined manner, and brilliant, piercing eyes.

But he only remained himself for an instant.  Seated before a dressing-table covered with more cosmetics, paints, perfumes, false hair, and other unmentionable shams, than are to be found on the toilet-tables of our modern belles, he began to undo the work of nature, and make himself a new face.

He worked slowly, handling his brushes with great care.  But in an hour he had accomplished one of his daily masterpieces.  When he had finished, he was no longer Lecoq:  he was the large gentleman with red whiskers, whom Fanferlot had failed to recognize.

“Well,” he said, casting a last look in the mirror, “I have forgotten nothing:  I have left nothing to chance.  All my plans are fixed; and I shall make some progress to-day, provided the Squirrel does not waste time.”

But Fanferlot was too happy to waste a minute.  He did not run, he flew, toward the Palais de Justice.