May was now walking quite leisurely.  He stopped first before one and then before another of the numerous wine-shops and eating-houses that abound in this neighborhood.  He was apparently looking for some one or something, which of the two Lecoq could not, of course, divine.  However, after peering through the glass doors of three of these establishments and then turning away, the fugitive at last entered the fourth.  The two detectives, who were enabled to obtain a good view of the shop inside, saw the supposed murderer cross the room and seat himself at a table where a man of unusually stalwart build, ruddy-faced and gray-whiskered, was already seated.

“The accomplice!” murmured Father Absinthe.

Was this really the redoubtable accomplice?  Under other circumstances Lecoq would have hesitated to place dependence on a vague similarity in personal appearance; but here probabilities were so strongly in favor of Father Absinthe’s assertion that the young detective at once admitted its truth.  Was not this meeting the logical sequence of May and Madame Milner’s chance interview a few hours before?

“May,” thought Lecoq, “began by taking all the money Madame Milner had about her, and then instructed her to tell his accomplice to come and wait for him in some cheap restaurant near here.  If he hesitated and looked inside the different establishments, it was only because he hadn’t been able to specify any particular one.  Now, if they don’t throw aside the mask, it will be because May is not sure he has eluded pursuit and because the accomplice fears that Madame Milner may have been followed.”

The accomplice, if this new personage was really the accomplice, had resorted to a disguise not unlike that which May and Lecoq had both adopted.  He wore a dirty blue blouse and a hideous old slouch hat, which was well-nigh in tatters.  He had, in fact, rather exaggerated his make-up, for his sinister physiognomy attracted especial attention even beside the depraved and ferocious faces of the other customers in the shop.  For this low eating-house was a regular den of thieves and cut-throats.  Among those present there were not four workmen really worthy of that name.  The others occupied in eating and drinking there were all more or less familiar with prison life.  The least to be dreaded were the barriere loafers, easily recognized by their glazed caps and their loosely-knotted neckerchiefs.  The majority of the company appeared to consist of this class.

And yet May, that man who was so strongly suspected of belonging to the highest social sphere, seemed to be perfectly at home.  He called for the regular “ordinary” and a “chopine” of wine, and then, after gulping down his soup, bolted great pieces of beef, pausing every now and then to wipe his mouth on the back of his sleeve.  But was he conversing with his neighbor?  This it was impossible to discern through the glass door, all obscured by smoke and steam.