All these thoughts flashed through the young detective’s brain with the quickness of lightning.  Throwing down his spade, and running toward a sergeant de ville, who was just coming out of the Palais de Justice, he gave him a letter which was ready in his pocket.  “Take this to M. Segmuller at once; it is a matter of importance,” said he.

The policeman attempted to question this “loafer” who was in correspondence with the magistrates; but Lecoq had already darted off on the prisoner’s trail.

May had covered but a short distance.  He was sauntering along with his hands in his pockets; his head high in the air, his manner composed and full of assurance.  Had he reflected that it would be dangerous to run while so near the prison from which he had just escaped?  Or was he of opinion that as an opportunity of flight had been willingly furnished him, there was no danger of immediate rearrest?  This was a point Lecoq could not decide.  At all events, May showed no signs of quickening his pace even after crossing the bridge; and it was with the same tranquil manner that he next crossed the Quai aux Fleurs and turned into the Hue de la Cite.

Nothing in his bearing or appearance proclaimed him to be an escaped prisoner.  Since his trunk—­that famous trunk which he pretended to have left at the Hotel de Mariembourg—­had been returned to him, he had been well supplied with clothing:  and he never failed, when summoned before the magistrate, to array himself in his best apparel.  The garments he wore that day were black cloth, and their cut, combined with his manner, gave him the appearance of a working man of the better class taking a holiday.

His tread, hitherto firm and decided, suddenly became uncertain when, after crossing the Seine, he reached the Rue St. Jacques.  He walked more slowly, frequently hesitated, and glanced continually at the shops on either side of the way.

“Evidently he is seeking something,” thought Lecoq:  “but what?”

It was not long before he ascertained.  Seeing a second-hand-clothes shop close by, May entered in evident haste.  Lecoq at once stationed himself under a gateway on the opposite side of the street, and pretended to be busily engaged lighting a cigarette.  The criminal being momentarily out of sight, Father Absinthe thought he could approach without danger.

“Ah, well,” said he, “there’s our man changing his fine clothes for coarser garments.  He will ask for the difference in money; and they will give it him.  You told me this morning:  ’May without a sou’—­that’s the trump card in our game!”

“Nonsense!  Before we begin to lament, let us wait and see what happens.  It is not likely that shopkeeper will give him any money.  He won’t buy clothing of the first passer-by.”

Father Absinthe withdrew to a little distance.  He distrusted these reasons, but not Lecoq who gave them.

In the mean while, in his secret soul, Lecoq was cursing himself.  Another blunder, thought he, another weapon left in the hands of the enemy.  How was it that he, who fancied himself so shrewd, had not foreseen this emergency?  Calmness of mind returned, however, a moment afterward when he saw May emerge from the shop attired as when he entered it.  Luck had for once been in the young detective’s favor.