Her little boy furnished a striking contrast.  He was pale and puny; his eyes gleamed with a phosphorescent brilliancy; and his hair was of a faded flaxen tint.  One little circumstance attracted both detectives’ attention.  If the mother was attired in an old, thin, faded calico dress, the child was warmly clad in stout woolen material.

“Madame, you have doubtless heard of a dreadful crime, committed in your mother-in-law’s establishment,” began Lecoq in a soft voice.

“Alas! yes, sir,” replied Toinon the Virtuous, quickly adding:  “But my husband could not have been implicated in it, since he is in prison.”

Did not this objection, forestalling, as it were, suspicion, betray the most horrible apprehensions?

“Yes, I am aware of that,” replied Lecoq.  “Polyte was arrested a fortnight ago—­”

“Yes, and very unjustly, sir,” replied the neglected wife.  “He was led astray by his companions, wicked, desperate men.  He is so weak when he has taken a glass of wine that they can do whatever they like with him.  If he were only left to himself he would not harm a child.  You have only to look at him—­”

As she spoke, the virtuous Toinon turned her red and swollen eyes to a miserable photograph hanging against the wall.  This blotchy smudge portrayed an exceedingly ugly, dissipated-looking young man, afflicted with a terrible squint, and whose repulsive mouth was partially concealed by a faint mustache.  This rake of the barrieres was Polyte Chupin.  And yet despite his unprepossessing aspect there was no mistaking the fact that this unfortunate woman loved him—­had always loved him; besides, he was her husband.

A moment’s silence followed her indication of the portrait—­an act which clearly revealed how deeply she worshiped her persecutor; and during this pause the attic door slowly and softly opened.  Not of itself, however, for suddenly a man’s head peered in.  The intruder, whoever he was, instantly withdrew, uttering as he did so a low exclamation.  The door was swiftly closed again; the key—­which had been left on the outside—­grated in the lock, and the occupants of the garret could hear hurried steps descending the stairs.

Lecoq was sitting with his back to the door, and could not, therefore, see the intruder’s face.  Quickly as he had turned, he had failed to see who it was:  and yet he was far from being surprised at the incident.  Intuition explained its meaning.

“That must have been the accomplice!” he cried.

Thanks to his position, Father Absinthe had seen the man’s face.  “Yes,” said he, “yes, it was the same man who made me drink with him yesterday.”

With a bound, both detectives threw themselves against the door, exhausting their strength in vain attempts to open it.  It resisted all their efforts, for it was of solid oak, having been purchased by the landlord from some public building in process of demolition, and it was, moreover, furnished with a strong and massive fastening.