But his companion evinced no enthusiasm.

“Yes, you were right,” he responded, in woebegone tones.

“Do you think we are ruined by two or three mistakes?  Nonsense!  I will soon turn our defeat of today into a glorious victory.”

“Ah! you might do so perhaps, if—­they do not dismiss us from the force.”

This doleful remark recalled Lecoq to a realizing sense of the present situation.

They had allowed a prisoner to slip through their fingers.  That was vexatious, it is true; but they had captured one of the most notorious of criminals—­Joseph Conturier.  Surely there was some comfort in that.

But while Lecoq could have borne dismissal, he could not endure the thought that he would not be allowed to follow up this affair of the Poivriere.

What would his superior officers say when he told them that May and the Duc de Sairmeuse were one and the same person?

They would, undoubtedly, shrug their shoulders and turn up their noses.

“Still, Monsieur Segmuller will believe me,” he thought.  “But will he dare to take any action in the matter without incontrovertible evidence?”

This was very unlikely.  Lecoq realized it all too well.

“Could we not make a descent upon the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and, on some pretext or other, compel the duke to show himself, and identify him as the prisoner May?”

He entertained this idea only for an instant, then abruptly dismissed it.

“A stupid expedient!” he exclaimed.  “Are two such men as the duke and his accomplice likely to be caught napping?  They are prepared for such a visit, and we should only have our labor for our pains.”

He made these reflections sotto voce; and Father Absinthe’s curiosity was aroused.

“Excuse me,” said he, “I did not quite understand you.”

“I say that we must find some tangible proof before asking permission to proceed further.”

He paused with knitted brows.

In seeking a circumstance which would establish the complicity between some member of the duke’s household and the witnesses who had been called upon to give their testimony, Lecoq thought of Mme. Milner, the owner of the Hotel de Mariembourg, and his first meeting with her.

He saw her again, standing upon a chair, her face on a level with a cage, covered with a large piece of black silk, persistently repeating three or four German words to a starling, who as persistently retorted:  “Camille!  Where is Camille?”

“One thing is certain,” resumed Lecoq; “if Madame Milner—­who is a German and who speaks with the strongest possible German accent—­had raised this bird, it would either have spoken German or with the same accent as its mistress.  Therefore it cannot have been in her possession long, and who gave it to her?”

Father Absinthe began to grow impatient.

“In sober earnest, what are you talking about?” he asked, petulantly.