This time Lecoq was stupefied.  “Ought I to have allowed him to escape me?” he inquired.

“No; but if I had been by your side in the gallery of the Odeon, when you so clearly divined the prisoner’s intentions, I should have said to you:  ’This fellow, friend Lecoq, will hasten to Madame Milner’s house to inform her of his escape.  Let us run after him.’  I shouldn’t have tried to prevent his seeing her, mind.  But when he had left the Hotel de Mariembourg, I should have added:  ’Now, let him go where he chooses; but attach yourself to Madame Milner; don’t lose sight of her; cling to her as closely as her own shadow, for she will lead you to the accomplice—­that is to say—­to the solution of the mystery.’”

“That’s the truth; I see it now.”

“But instead of that, what did you do?  You ran to the hotel, you terrified the boy!  When a fisherman has cast his bait and the fish are swimming near, he doesn’t sound a gong to frighten them all away!”

Thus it was that old Tabaret reviewed the entire course of investigation and pursuit, remodeling it in accordance with his own method of induction.  Lecoq had originally had a magnificent inspiration.  In his first investigations he had displayed remarkable talent; and yet he had not succeeded.  Why?  Simply because he had neglected the axiom with which he started:  “Always distrust what seems probable!”

But the young man listened to the oracle’s “summing up” with divided attention.  A thousand projects were darting through his brain, and at length he could no longer restrain himself.  “You have saved me from despair,” he exclaimed, “I thought everything was lost; but I see that my blunders can be repaired.  What I neglected to do, I can do now; there is still time.  Haven’t I the diamond earring, as well as various effects belonging to the prisoner, still in my possession?  Madame Milner still owns the Hotel de Mariembourg, and I will watch her.”

“And what for, my boy?”

“What for?  Why, to find my fugitive, to be sure!”

Had the young detective been less engrossed with his idea, he would have detected a slight smile that curved Papa Tirauclair’s thick lips.

“Ah, my son! is it possible that you don’t suspect the real name of this pretended buffoon?” inquired the oracle somewhat despondently.

Lecoq trembled and averted his face.  He did not wish Tabaret to see his eyes.  “No,” he replied, “I don’t suspect—­”

“You are uttering a falsehood!” interrupted the sick man.  “You know as well as I do, that May resides in the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain, and that he is known as the Duc de Sairmeuse.”

On hearing these words, Father Absinthe indulged in a hearty laugh:  “Ah! that’s a good joke!” he exclaimed.  “Ah, ha!”

Such was not Lecoq’s opinion, however.  “Well, yes, Monsieur Tabaret,” said he, “the idea did occur to me; but I drove it away.”

“And why, if you please?”