Father Absinthe was rendered uneasy by his colleague’s evident dejection.  “Where are we going?” he inquired; “to the Palais de Justice, or to the Prefecture de Police?”

Lecoq shuddered on hearing this question, which brought him face to face with the horrible reality of his situation.  “To the Prefecture!” he responded.  “Why should I go there?  To expose myself to Gevrol’s insults, perhaps?  I haven’t courage enough for that.  Nor do I feel that I have strength to go to M. Segmuller and say:  ’Forgive me:  you have judged me too favorably.  I am a fool!’”

“What are we to do?”

“Ah!  I don’t know.  Perhaps I shall embark for America—­perhaps I shall throw myself into the river.”

He had walked about a hundred yards when suddenly he stopped short.  “No!” he exclaimed, with a furious stamp of his foot.  “No, this affair shan’t end like this.  I have sworn to have the solution of the enigma—­and I will have it!” For a moment he reflected; then, in a calmer voice, he added:  “There is one man who can save us, a man who will see what I haven’t been able to discern, who will understand things that I couldn’t.  Let us go and ask his advice, my course will depend on his reply—­come!”

After such a day and such a night, it might have been expected that these two men would have felt an irresistible desire to sleep and rest.  But Lecoq was sustained by wounded vanity, intense disappointment, and yet unextinguished hope of revenge:  while poor Father Absinthe was not unlike some luckless cab-horse, which, having forgotten there is such a thing as repose, is no longer conscious of fatigue, but travels on until he falls down dead.  The old detective felt that his limbs were failing him; but Lecoq said:  “It is necessary,” and so he walked on.

They both went to Lecoq’s lodgings, where they laid aside their disguises and made themselves trim.  Then after breakfasting they hastily betook themselves to the Rue St. Lazare, where, entering one of the most stylish houses in the street, Lecoq inquired of the concierge:  “Is M. Tabaret at home?”

“Yes, but he’s ill,” was the reply.

“Very ill?” asked Lecoq anxiously.

“It is hard to tell,” replied the man:  “it is his old complaint—­gout.”  And with an air of hypocritical commiseration, he added:  “M.  Tabaret is not wise to lead the life he does.  Women are very well in a way, but at his age—­”

The two detectives exchanged a meaning glance, and as soon as they were out of hearing burst out laughing.  Their hilarity had scarcely ceased when they reached the first floor, and rang the bell at the door of one of the apartments.  The buxom-looking woman who appeared in answer to his summons, informed them that her master would receive them, although he was confined to his bed.  “However, the doctor is with him now,” she added.  “But perhaps the gentlemen would not mind waiting until he has gone?” The gentlemen replying in the affirmative, she then conducted them into a handsome library, and invited them to sit down.