At last he left the neighborhood of the Rue des Gravelliers and made for a broader street.  Reaching the Boulevard de Sebastopol, he turned to the left, and took a fresh start.  He darted on with marvelous rapidity, with his elbows pressed close to his body—­husbanding his breath and timing his steps with the precision of a dancing-master.  Never pausing, and without once turning his head, he ever hurried on.  And it was at the same regular but rapid pace that he covered the Boulevard de Sebastopol, crossed the Place du Chatelet, and proceeded to mount the Boulevard Saint-Michel.

Here he suddenly halted before a cab-stand.  He spoke to one of the drivers, opened the door of his vehicle, and jumped in.  The cab started off at a rapid pace.  But May was not inside.  He had merely passed through the vehicle, getting out at the other door, and just as the driver was departing for an imaginary destination May slipped into an adjacent cab which left the stand at a gallop.  Perhaps, after so many ruses, after such formidable efforts, after this last stratagem—­perhaps May believed that he was free.

He was mistaken.  Behind the cab which bore him onward, and while he leaned back against the cushions to rest, a man was running; and this man was Lecoq.  Poor Father Absinthe had fallen by the way.  In front of the Palais de Justice he paused, exhausted and breathless, and Lecoq had little hope of seeing him again, since he had all he could do to keep his man in sight without stopping to make the chalk-marks agreed upon.

May had instructed his driver to take him to the Place d’Italie:  requesting him, moreover, to stop exactly in the middle of the square.  This was about a hundred paces from the police station in which he had been temporarily confined with the Widow Chupin.  When the vehicle halted, he sprang to the ground and cast a rapid glance around him, as if looking for some dreaded shadow.  He could see nothing, however, for although surprised by the sudden stoppage, Lecoq had yet had time to fling himself flat on his stomach under the body of the cab, regardless of all danger of being crushed by the wheels.  May was apparently reassured.  He paid the cabman and then retraced his course toward the Rue Mouffetard.

With a bound, Lecoq was on his feet again, and started after the fugitive as eagerly as a ravenous dog might follow a bone.  He had reached the shadow cast by the large trees in the outer boulevards when a faint whistle resounded in his ears.  “Father Absinthe!” he exclaimed in a tone of delighted surprise.

“The same,” replied the old detective, “and quite rested, thanks to a passing cabman who picked me up and brought me here—­”

“Oh, enough!” interrupted Lecoq.  “Let us keep our eyes open.”