“Did these people recollect at last that the snow might betray them? Did they take the middle of the road?” grumbled the young police agent.
Certainly they could not have crossed to a vacant space as they had done just before, for on the other side of the street extended a long factory wall.
“Ah!” sighed Father Absinthe, “we have our labor for our pains.”
But Lecoq possessed a temperament that refused to acknowledge defeat. Animated by the cold anger of a man who sees the object which he was about to seize disappear from before his eyes, he recommenced his search, and was well repaid for his efforts.
“I understand!” he cried suddenly, “I comprehend—I see!”
Father Absinthe drew near. He did not see nor divine anything! but he no longer doubted his companion’s powers.
“Look there,” said Lecoq; “what are those marks?”
“Marks left by the wheels of some carriage that plainly turned here.”
“Very well, papa, these tracks explain everything. When they reached this spot, our fugitives saw the light of an approaching cab, which was returning from the centre of Paris. It was empty, and proved their salvation. They waited, and when it came nearer they hailed the driver. No doubt they promised him a handsome fare; this is indeed evident, since he consented to go back again. He turned round here; they got into the vehicle, and that is why the footprints go no further.”
This explanation did not please Lecoq’s companion. “Have we made any great progress now that we know that?” he asked.
Lecoq could not restrain an impulse to shrug his shoulders. “Did you expect that the tracks made by the fugitives would lead us through Paris and up to their very doors?” he asked.
“No; but—”
“Then what would you ask more? Do you think that I shall not know how to find this driver tomorrow? He was returning with his empty vehicle, his day’s work was ended; hence, his stable is in the neighborhood. Do you suppose that he will have forgotten that he took up two persons in the Rue du Chevaleret? He will tell us where he drove them; but that will not do us any good, for, of course, they will not have given him their real address. But at all events he can probably give us a description of them, tell us how they were dressed, describe their appearance, their manner, and their age. And with that, and what we already know—”
An eloquent gesture expressed the remainder of his thought, then he added: “We must now go back to the Poivrière, and go quickly. And you, my friend, may now extinguish your lantern.”
While doing his best to keep pace with his companion, who was in such haste to get back to the Poivrière that he almost ran, Father Absinthe’s thoughts were as busy as his legs, and an entirely new train of ideas was awakened in his mind.
During the twenty-five years that he had been connected with the police force, the good man—to use his own expression—had seen many of his colleagues walk over him and win, after only a few months’ work, a promotion that his long years of service had not gained for him. In these cases he had not failed to accuse his superiors of injustice, and his fortunate rivals of gross flattery. In his opinion, seniority was the only claim to advancement—the only, the best, the most respectable claim; and he was wont to sum up all his opinions, all his grief and bitterness of mind in one phrase: “It is infamous to pass over an old member of the service.”
Tonight, however, Father Absinthe discovered that there is something else in the world besides seniority, and sufficient reasons for what he had formerly regarded as favoritism. He secretly confessed that this newcomer whom he had treated so carelessly had just followed up a clue as he, veteran though he was, would never have succeeded in doing.
But communing with himself was not this good man’s forte; he soon grew weary of reflection; and on reaching a place where they were obliged to proceed more slowly on account of the badness of the road, he deemed it a favorable opportunity to resume the conversation. “You are silent, comrade,” he ventured to remark, “and one might swear that you were not exactly pleased.”
This surprising result of the old man’s reflections would have amazed Lecoq, if his mind had not been a hundred leagues away. “No, I am not pleased,” he responded.
“And why, pray? Only ten minutes ago you were as gay as a lark.”
“Then I did not see the misfortune that threatens us.”
“A misfortune!”
“A very great misfortune. Do you not perceive that the weather has undesirably changed. It is evident that the wind is now coming from the south. The fog has disappeared, but the sky is cloudy and threatening. It will rain in less than an hour.”
“A few drops are falling now; I just felt one.”
These words produced on Lecoq much the same effect as a whip-up on a spirited horse. He sprang forward, and, adopting a still more hurried pace, exclaimed: “Let us make haste! let us make haste!”
The old police agent followed him as in duty bound; but his mind was, if possible, still more troubled by the replies of his young companion. A great misfortune! The wind from the south! Rain! He did not, he could not see the connection.
Greatly puzzled, and not a little anxious, Father Absinthe asked for an explanation, although he had but little more breath than was absolutely necessary to enable him to continue the forced march he was making. “Upon my word,” said he, “I have racked my brains—”
His companion took pity on his anxiety. “What!” he exclaimed, as he still hastened forward, “you do not understand that our investigation, my success, and your reward, are dependent upon those black clouds which the wind is
