Still following the chalk marks, Lecoq now reached the Odeon theatre.  Here were fresh signs, and what was more, Father Absinthe could be perceived under the colonnade, standing in front of one of the book-stalls, and apparently engrossed in the contemplation of a print.

Assuming the nonchalant manner of the loafer whose garb he wore, Lecoq took his stand beside his colleague.  “Where is he?” asked the young detective.

“There,” replied his companion, with a slight movement of his head in the direction of the steps.

The fugitive was, indeed, seated on one of the steps at the side of the theatre, his elbows resting on his knees and his face hidden in his hands, as if he felt the necessity of concealing the expression of his face from the passers-by.  Undoubtedly, at that moment, he gave himself up for lost.  Alone in the midst of Paris, without a penny, what was to become of him?  He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was being watched; that his steps were being dogged, that the first attempt he made to inform his accomplice of his whereabouts would cost him his secret—­the secret which he plainly held as more precious than life itself, and which, by immense sacrifices, he had so far been able to preserve.

Having for some short time contemplated in silence this unfortunate man whom after all he could but esteem and admire, Lecoq turned to his old companion:  “What did he do on the way?” he asked.

“He went into the shops of five dealers in second-hand clothing without success.  Then he addressed a man who was passing with a lot of old rubbish on his shoulder:  but the man wouldn’t even answer him.”

Lecoq nodded his head thoughtfully.  “The moral of this is, that there’s a vast difference between theory and practise,” he remarked.  “Here’s a fellow who has made some most discerning men believe that he’s only a poor devil, a low buffoon.  Well, now he’s free; and this so-called Bohemian doesn’t even know how to go to work to sell the clothes on his back.  The comedian who could play his part so well on the stage has disappeared; while the man remains—­the man who has always been rich, and knows nothing of the vicissitudes of life.”

The young detective suddenly ceased moralizing, for May had risen from his seat.  Lecoq was only ten yards distant, and could see that his face was pallid.  His attitude expressed profound dejection and one could read his indecision in his eyes.  Perhaps he was wondering if it would not be best to return and place himself again in the hands of his jailers, since he was without the resources upon which he had depended.

After a little, however, he shook off the torpor that had for a time overpowered him; his eyes brightened, and, with a gesture of defiance, he left the steps, crossed the open square and walked down the Rue de l’Ancienne-Comedie.  He strode onward now with the brisk, determined step of a man who has a definite aim in view.