Just then the bird, as if it had understood the question, cried very distinctly:  “Camille!  Where is Camille?”

But Lecoq was too preoccupied to pay any further attention to the incident.  “Madame,” he began, “I wish to speak to the proprietor of this hotel.”

“I am the proprietor.”

“Oh! very well.  I was expecting a mechanic—­from Leipsic—­to meet me here in Paris.  To my great surprise, he has not made his appearance; and I came to inquire if he was stopping here.  His name is May.”

“May!” repeated the hostess, thoughtfully.  “May!”

“He ought to have arrived last Sunday evening.”

The woman’s face brightened.  “Wait a moment,” said she.  “Was this friend of yours a middle-aged man, of medium size, of very dark complexion—­wearing a full beard, and having very bright eyes?”

Lecoq could scarcely conceal his agitation.  This was an exact description of the supposed murderer.  “Yes,” he stammered, “that is a very good portrait of the man.”

“Ah, well! he came here on Shrove Sunday, in the afternoon.  He asked for a cheap room, and I showed him one on the fifth floor.  The office-boy was not here at the time, and he insisted upon taking his trunk upstairs himself.  I offered him some refreshments; but he declined to take anything, saying that he was in a great hurry; and he went away after giving me ten francs as security for the rent.”

“Where is he now?” inquired the young detective.

“Dear me! that reminds me,” replied the woman.  “He has never returned, and I have been rather anxious about him.  Paris is such a dangerous place for strangers!  It is true he spoke French as well as you or I; but what of that?  Yesterday evening I gave orders that the commissary of police should be informed of the matter.”

“Yesterday—­the commissary?”

“Yes.  Still, I don’t know whether the boy obeyed me.  I had forgotten all about it.  Allow me to ring for the boy, and ask him.”

A bucket of iced water falling upon Lecoq’s head could not have astonished him more than did this announcement from the proprietress of the Hotel de Mariembourg.  Had the prisoner indeed told the truth?  Was it possible?  Gevrol and the governor of the prison were right, then, and M. Segmuller and he, Lecoq, were senseless fools, pursuing a fantom.  These ideas flashed rapidly through the young detective’s brain.  But he had no time for reflection.  The boy who had been summoned now made his appearance, and proved to be a big overgrown lad with frank, chubby face.

“Fritz,” asked his mistress, “did you go to the commissary’s office?”

“Yes, madame.”

“What did he say?”

“He was not in; but I spoke to his secretary, M. Casimir, who said you were not to worry yourself, as the man would no doubt return.”

“But he has not returned.”

The boy rejoined, with a movement of the shoulders that plainly implied:  “How can I help that?”