“I will tell you what I can do,” said Joseph after deep thought.

“What is it?”

“I can innocently walk out of the front door, and loaf along the street until I reach the Hotel du Louvre.”

“And then?”

“Dame!  Clameran will come in and question Mme. Alexandre, whom you can instruct beforehand; and she is smart enough to put any sharper off the track.”

“Bad plan!” pronounced M. Verduret decidedly; “a scamp so compromised as Clameran is not easily put off the track; now his eyes are opened, he will be pretty hard to catch.”

Suddenly, in a brief tone of authority which admitted of no contradiction, the fat man said: 

“I have a way.  Has Clameran, since he found that his papers had been searched, seen Lagors?”

“No, patron.”

“Perhaps he has written to him?”

“I’ll bet you my head he has not.  Having your orders to watch his correspondence, I invented a little system which informs me every time he touches a pen; during the last twenty-four hours the pens have not been touched.”

“Clameran went out yesterday.”

“But the man who followed him says he wrote nothing on the way.”

“Then we have time yet!” cried Verduret.  “Hurry!  Hurry!  I give you fifteen minutes to make yourself a head; you know the sort; I will watch the rascal until you come up.”

The delighted Joseph disappeared in a twinkling; while Prosper and M. Verduret remained at the window observing Clameran, who, according to the movements of the crowd, was sometimes lost to sight, and sometimes just in front of the window, but was evidently determined not to quit his post until he had obtained the information he sought.

“Why do you devote yourself exclusively to the marquis?” asked Prosper.

“Because, my friend,” replied M. Verduret, “because—­that is my business, and not yours.”

Joseph Dubois had been granted a quarter of an hour in which to metamorphose himself; before ten minutes had elapsed he reappeared.

The dandified coachman with Bergami whiskers, red vest, and foppish manners, was replaced by a sinister-looking individual, whose very appearance was enough to scare any rogue.

His black cravat twisted around a paper collar, and ornamented by an imitation diamond pin; his long-tailed black boots and heavy cane, revealed the employee of the Rue de Jerusalem, as plainly as the shoulder-straps mark a soldier.

Joseph Dubois had vanished forever; and from his livery, phoenix-like and triumphant, arose the radiant Fanferlot, surnamed the Squirrel.

When Fanferlot entered the room, Prosper uttered a cry of surprise and almost fright.

He recognized the man who had assisted the commissary of police to examine the bank on the day of the robbery.

M. Verduret examined his aide with a satisfied look, and said: 

“Not bad!  There is enough of the police-court air about you to alarm even an honest man.  You understood me perfectly this time.”