But by the time he reached the Rue Montmartre, where M. Lecoq lived, his courage had vanished; he pulled his hat over his eyes, and hung his head, as if looking for relief among the paving-stones.  He slowly ascended the steps, pausing several times, and looking around as if he would like to fly.

Finally he reached the third floor, and stood before a door decorated with the arms of the famous detective—­a cock, the symbol of vigilance—­and his heart failed him so that he had scarcely the courage to ring the bell.

The door was opened by Janouille, M. Lecoq’s old servant, who had very much the manner and appearance of a grenadier.  She was as faithful to her master as a watch-dog, and always stood ready to attack anyone who did not treat him with the august respect which she considered his due.

“Well, M. Fanferlot,” she said, “you come in time for once in your life.  Your patron wants to see you.”

Upon this announcement, Fanferlot was seized with a violent desire to retreat.  By what chance could Lecoq want anything of him?

While he thus hesitated, Janouille seized him by the arm, and pulled him in, saying: 

“Do you want to take root there?  Come along, your patron is waiting for you.”

In the middle of a large room curiously furnished, half library and half green-room, was seated at a desk the same person with gold spectacles, who had said to Prosper at the police-office, “Have courage.”

This was M. Lecoq in his official character.

Upon Fanferlot’s entrance, as he advanced respectfully, bowing till his backbone was a perfect curve, M. Lecoq laid down his pen, and said, looking sharply at him: 

“Ah, here you are, young man.  Well, it seems that you haven’t made much progress in the Bertomy case.”

“Why,” murmured Fanferlot, “you know—­”

“I know that you have muddled everything until you can’t see your way out; so that you are ready to give up.”

“But, M. Lecoq, it was not I——­”

M. Lecoq arose, and walked up and down the room:  suddenly he confronted Fanferlot, and said, in a tone of scornful irony: 

“What would you think, Master Squirrel, of a man who abuses the confidence of those who employ him, who reveals just enough to lead the prosecution on the wrong scent, who sacrifices to his own foolish vanity the cause of justice and the liberty of an unfortunate man?”

Fanferlot started back with a frightened look.

“I should say,” he stammered, “I should say—­”

“You would say this man ought to be punished, and dismissed from his employment; and you are right.  The less a profession is honored, the more honorable should those be who belong to it.  And yet you have been false to yours.  Ah!  Master Fanferlot, we are ambitious, and we try to make the police force serve our own views!  We let Justice stray her way, and we go ours.  One must be a more cunning bloodhound than you are, my friend, to be able to hunt without a huntsman.  You are too self-reliant by half.”