“That is a very good idea,” said the commissary, approvingly.

“Here is his shako,” added the young police agent.  “It bears the number 3,129.”

The officials followed Lecoq’s advice, and soon discovered that each article of clothing worn by the unfortunate man bore a different number.

“The deuce!” murmured the sergeant; “there is every indication—­But it is very singular.”

Invited to consider what he was going to say, the brave trooper evidently made an effort to collect his intellectual faculties.  “I would stake my epaulets that this fellow never was a soldier,” he said at last.  “He must have disguised himself to take part in the Shrove Sunday carnival.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Oh, I know it better than I can explain it.  I know it by his hair, by his nails, by his whole appearance, by a certain je ne sais quoi; in short, I know it by everything and by nothing.  Why look, the poor devil did not even know how to put on his shoes; he has laced his gaiters wrong side outwards.”  Evidently further doubt was impossible after this evidence, which confirmed the truth of Lecoq’s first remark to Inspector Gevrol.

“Still, if this person was a civilian, how could he have procured this clothing?” insisted the commissary.  “Could he have borrowed it from the men in your company?”

“Yes, that is possible; but it is difficult to believe.”

“Is there no way by which you could ascertain?”

“Oh! very easily.  I have only to run over to the fort and order an inspection of clothing.”

“Do so,” approved the commissary; “it would be an excellent way of getting at the truth.”

But Lecoq had just thought of a method quite as convincing, and much more prompt.  “One word, sergeant,” said he, “isn’t cast off military clothing sold by public auction?”

“Yes; at least once a year, after the inspection.”

“And are not the articles thus sold marked in some way?”

“Assuredly.”

“Then see if there isn’t some mark of the kind on this poor wretch’s uniform.”

The sergeant turned up the collar of the coat and examined the waist-band of the pantaloons.  “You are right,” he said, “these are condemned garments.”

The eyes of the young police agent sparkled.  “We must then believe that the poor devil purchased this costume,” he observed.  “Where?  Necessarily at the Temple, from one of the dealers in military clothing.  There are only five or six of these establishments.  I will go from one to another of them, and the person who sold these clothes will certainly recognize them by some trade mark.”