“Bah!” growled Lecoq, “how much further will they carry this nonsense?”

They carried it farther than the young detective had ever imagined.  May suddenly sprang on to his companion’s shoulders, and raised himself to a level with the summit of the wall.  An instant afterward a heavy thud might have been heard.  He had let himself drop into the garden.  The man in the slouch hat remained in the street to watch.

The enigmatical fugitive had accomplished this strange, inconceivable design so swiftly that Lecoq had neither the time nor the desire to oppose him.  His amazement at this unexpected misfortune was so great that for, an instant he could neither think nor move.  But he quickly regained his self-possession, and at once decided what was to be done.  With a sure eye he measured the distance separating him from May’s accomplice, and with three bounds he was upon him.  The man in the slouched hat attempted to shout, but an iron hand stifled the cry in his throat.  He tried to escape, and to beat off his assailant, but a vigorous kick stretched him on the ground as if he had been a child.  Before he had time to think of further resistance he was bound, gagged, and carried, half-suffocated, to the corner of the Rue de la Chaise.  No sound had been heard; not a word, not an ejaculation, not even a noise of shuffling—­nothing.  Any suspicious sound might have reached May, on the other side of the wall, and warned him of what was going on.

“How strange,” murmured Father Absinthe, too much amazed to lend a helping hand to his younger colleague.  “How strange!  Who would have supposed—­”

“Enough! enough!” interrupted Lecoq, in that harsh, imperious voice, which imminent peril always gives to energetic men.  “Enough!—­we will talk to-morrow.  I must run away for a minute, and you will remain here.  If May shows himself, capture him; don’t allow him to escape.”

“I understand; but what is to be done with the man who is lying there?”

“Leave him where he is.  I have bound him securely, so there is nothing to fear.  When the night-police pass, we will give him into charge—­”

He paused and listened.  A short way down the street, heavy, measured footsteps could be heard approaching.

“There they come,” said Father Absinthe.

“Ah!  I dared not hope it!  I shall have a good chance now.”

At the same moment, two sergeants de ville, whose attention had been attracted by this group at the street corner, hastened toward them.  In a few words, Lecoq explained the situation, and it was decided that one of the sergeants should take the accomplice to the station-house, while the other remained with Father Absinthe to cut off May’s retreat.

“And now,” said Lecoq, “I will run round to the Rue de Grenelle and give the alarm.  To whose house does this garden belong?”

“What!” replied one of the sergeants in surprise, “don’t you know the gardens of the Duke de Sairmeuse, the famous duke who is a millionaire ten times over, and who was formerly the friend—­”