“In what direction?”

“Oh! they were running toward the Rue de Varennes.”

Lecoq was baffled again; however, he bowed civilly to the concierge, whom he might possibly have need of at another time, and then went back to the cab.  “As I had supposed, they do not live here,” he remarked to the driver.

The latter shrugged his shoulders in evident vexation, which would inevitably have vent in a torrent of words, if Lecoq, who had consulted his watch, had not forestalled the outburst by saying:  “Nine o’clock—­I am an hour behind time already:  still I shall have some news to tell.  Now take me to the Morgue as quickly as possible.”

When a mysterious crime has been perpetrated, or a great catastrophe has happened, and the identity of the victims has not been established, “a great day” invariably follows at the Morgue.  The attendants are so accustomed to the horrors of the place that the most sickly sight fails to impress them; and even under the most distressing circumstances, they hasten gaily to and fro, exchanging jests well calculated to make an ordinary mortal’s flesh creep.  As a rule, they are far less interested in the corpses laid out for public view on the marble slabs in the principal hall than in the people of every age and station in life who congregate here all day long; at times coming in search of some lost relative or friend, but far more frequently impelled by idle curiosity.

As the vehicle conveying Lecoq reached the quay, the young detective perceived that a large, excited crowd was gathered outside the building.  The newspapers had reported the tragedy at the Widow Chupin’s drinking-den, of course, more or less correctly, and everybody wished to see the victims.

On drawing near the Pont Notre Dame, Lecoq told the driver to pull up.  “I prefer to alight here, rather than in front of the Morgue,” he said, springing to the ground.  Then, producing first his watch, and next his purse, he added:  “We have been an hour and forty minutes, my good fellow, consequently I owe you—­”

“Nothing at all,” replied the driver, decidedly.

“But—­”

“No—­not a sou.  I am too worried already to think that I took the money these hussies offered me.  It would only have served me right if the liquor I bought with it had given me the gripes.  Don’t be uneasy about the score, and if you need a trap use mine for nothing, till you have caught the jades.”  As Lecoq’s purse was low, he did not insist.  “You will, at least, take my name and address?” continued the driver.

“Certainly.  The magistrate will want your evidence, and a summons will be sent you.”

“All right, then.  Address it to Papillon (Eugene), driver, care of M. Trigault.  I lodge at his place, because I have some small interest in the business, you see.”

The young detective was hastening away, when Papillon called him back.  “When you leave the Morgue you will want to go somewhere else,” he said, “you told me that you had another appointment, and that you were already late.”