“Here,” declared the young detective, “our fugitives met the man and took counsel with him.  One of the women, the one with the little feet, sat down upon this log.”

“We ought to make quite sure of that,” said Father Absinthe, in an oracular tone.

But his companion cut short his desire for verification.  “You, my old friend,” said he, “are going to do me the kindness to keep perfectly still:  pass me the lantern and do not move.”

Lecoq’s modest tone had suddenly become so imperious that his colleague dared offer no resistance.  Like a soldier at the command to halt, he remained erect, motionless, and mute, following his colleague’s movements with an inquisitive, wondering eye.

Quick in his motions, and understanding how to maneuvre the lantern in accordance with his wishes, the young police agent explored the surroundings in a very short space of time.  A bloodhound in pursuit of his prey would have been less alert, less discerning, less agile.  He came and went, now turning, now pausing, now retreating, now hurrying on again without any apparent reason; he scrutinized, he questioned every surrounding object:  the ground, the logs of wood, the blocks of stone, in a word, nothing escaped his glance.  For a moment he would remain standing, then fall upon his knees, and at times lie flat upon his stomach with his face so near the ground that his breath must have melted the snow.  He had drawn a tape-line from his pocket, and using it with a carpenter’s dexterity, he measured, measured, and measured.

And all his movements were accompanied with the wild gestures of a madman, interspersed with oaths or short laughs, with exclamations of disappointment or delight.  After a quarter of an hour of this strange exercise, he turned to Father Absinthe, placed the lantern on a stone, wiped his hands with his pocket-handkerchief, and said:  “Now I know everything!”

“Well, that is saying a great deal!”

“When I say everything, I mean all that is connected with the episode of the drama which ended in that bloody bout in the hovel.  This expanse of earth covered with snow is a white page upon which the people we are in search of have written, not only their movements, their goings, and comings, but also their secret thoughts, their alternate hopes and anxieties.  What do these footprints say to you, Papa Absinthe?  To me they are alive like the persons who made them; they breathe, speak, accuse!”

The old agent was saying to himself:  “Certainly, this fellow is intelligent, undeniably shrewd; but he is very disagreeable.”

“These are the facts as I have read them,” pursued Lecoq.  “When the murderer repaired to the Poivriere with the two women, his companion—­I should say his accomplice—­came here to wait.  He was a tall man of middle age; he wore a soft hat and a shaggy brown overcoat; he was, moreover, probably married, or had been so, as he had a wedding-ring on the little finger of his right hand—­”