The evidence was now conclusive.  To persist in searching the garden any longer would be worse than folly.  Accordingly, the young detective decided to recall his auxiliaries.  “That’s enough,” he said, in a despondent voice.  “It is now certain that the criminal is no longer in the garden.”

Was he cowering in some corner of the great house, white with fear, and trembling at the noise made by his pursuers?  One might reasonably suppose this to be the case; and such was the opinion of the servants.  Above all, such was the opinion of the Suisse who renewed with growing assurance his affirmations of a few moments before.

“I have not moved from the threshold of the house to-night,” he said, “and I should certainly have seen any person who passed out.”

“Let us go into the house, then,” said Lecoq.  “But first let me ask my companion, who is waiting for me in the street, to join me.  It is unnecessary for him to remain any longer where he is.”

When Father Absinthe had responded to the summons all the lower doors were carefully closed and guarded, and the search recommenced inside the house, one of the largest and most magnificent residences of the Faubourg Saint-Germain.  But at this moment all the treasures of the universe could not have won a single glance or a second’s attention from Lecoq.  All his thoughts were occupied with the fugitive.  He passed through several superb drawing-rooms, along an unrivaled picture gallery, across a magnificent dining-room, with sideboards groaning beneath their load of massive plate, without paying the slightest attention to the marvels of art and upholstery that were offered to his view.  He hurried on, accompanied by the servants who were guiding and lighting him.  He lifted heavy articles of furniture as easily as he would have lifted a feather; he moved each chair and sofa from its place, he explored each cupboard and wardrobe, and drew back in turns all the wall-hangings, window-curtains, and portieres.  A more complete search would have been impossible.  In each of the rooms and passages that Lecoq entered not a nook was left unexplored, not a corner was forgotten.  At length, after two hours’ continuous work, Lecoq returned to the first floor.  Only five or six servants had accompanied him on his tour of inspection.  The others had dropped off one by one, weary of this adventure, which had at first possessed the attractions of a pleasure party.

“You have seen everything, gentlemen,” declared an old footman.

“Everything!” interrupted the Suisse, “everything!  Certainly not.  There are the private apartments of Monseigneur and those of Madame la Duchesse still to be explored.”

“Alas!” murmured Lecoq, “What good would it be?”

But the Suisse had already gone to rap gently at one of the doors opening into the hall.  His interest equaled that of the detectives.  They had seen the murderer enter; he had not seen him go out; therefore the man was in the house and he wished him to be found.