to insure the success of his plans?  Yes; I told him all that, and yet I give up the game in despair as soon as I meet with a single circumstance that I can not instantly explain.  It is evident that such a prisoner would not resort to old, hackneyed, commonplace expedients.  Time, patience, and research are requisite to find a flaw in his defense.  With such a man as he is, the more appearances are against my presumptions, and in favor of his narrative, the more certain it is that I am right—­or else logic is no longer logic.”

At this thought, Lecoq burst into a hearty laugh.  “Still,” continued he, “it would perhaps be premature to expose this theory at headquarters in Gevrol’s presence.  He would at once present me with a certificate for admission into some lunatic asylum.”

The young detective paused.  While absorbed in thought, his legs, obeying an instinctive impulse, had brought him to his lodgings.  He rang the bell; the door opened, and he groped his way slowly up to the fourth floor.  He had reached his room, and was about to enter, when some one, whom he could not distinguish in the dark, called out:  “Is that you, Monsieur Lecoq?”

“Yes, it’s I!” replied the young man, somewhat surprised; “but who are you?”

“I’m Father Absinthe.”

“Oh! indeed!  Well, you are welcome!  I didn’t recognize your voice—­will you come in?”

They entered the room, and Lecoq lit a candle.  Then the young man could see his colleague, and, good heavens! he found him in a most pitiable condition.

He was as dirty and as bespattered with mud as a lost dog that has been wandering about in the rain and the mire for a week at the very least.  His overcoat bore the traces of frequent contact with damp walls; his hat had lost its form entirely.  His eyes wore an anxious look, and his mustache drooped despondently.  He spoke, moreover, so strangely that one might have supposed his mouth was full of sand.

“Do you bring me bad news?” inquired Lecoq, after a short examination of his companion.

“Yes, bad.”

“The people you were following escaped you, then?”

The old man nodded his head affirmatively.

“It is unfortunate—­very unfortunate!” said Lecoq.  “But it is useless to distress ourselves about it.  Don’t be so cast down, Father Absinthe.  To-morrow, between us, we will repair the damage.”

This friendly encouragement only increased the old man’s evident embarrassment.  He blushed, this veteran, as if he had been a schoolgirl, and raising his hands toward heaven, he exclaimed:  “Ah, you wretch! didn’t I tell you so?”

“Why! what is the matter with you?” inquired Lecoq.

Father Absinthe made no reply.  Approaching a looking-glass that hung against the wall, he surveyed himself reproachfully and began to heap cruel insults upon the reflection of his features.

“You old good-for-nothing!” he exclaimed.  “You vile deserter! have you no shame left?  You were entrusted with a mission, were you not?  And how have you fulfilled it?  You have got drunk, you old wretch, so drunk as to have lost your wits.  Ah, you shan’t escape punishment this time, for even if M. Lecoq is indulgent, you shan’t taste another drop for a week.  Yes, you old sot, you shall suffer for this escapade.”