a rush of blood to the head; it will do
him no harm whatever, but he will fall down as if he were in a fit. The
drug can be put into wine or coffee; either will do equally well. You
carry your man to bed at once, and undress him to see that he is not
dying. As soon as you are alone, you give him a slap on the shoulder,
and _presto!_ the letters will appear."

"Why, that is just nothing at all," said Poiret.

"Well, do you agree?" said Gondureau, addressing the old maid.

"But, my dear sir, suppose there are no letters at all," said Mlle.
Michonneau; "am I to have the two thousand francs all the same?"

"No."

"What will you give me then?"

"Five hundred francs."

"It is such a thing to do for so little! It lies on your conscience just
the same, and I must quiet my conscience, sir."

"I assure you," said Poiret, "that mademoiselle has a great deal of
conscience, and not only so, she is a very amiable person, and very
intelligent."

"Well, now," Mlle. Michonneau went on, "make it three thousand francs if
he is Trompe-la-Mort, and nothing at all if he is an ordinary man."

"Done!" said Gondureau, "but on the condition that the thing is settled
to-morrow."

"Not quite so soon, my dear sir; I must consult my confessor first."

"You are a sly one," said the detective as he rose to his feet.
"Good-bye till to-morrow, then. And if you should want to see me in a
hurry, go to the Petite Rue Saint-Anne at the bottom of the Cour de la
Sainte-Chapelle. There is one door under the archway. Ask there for M.
Gondureau."

Bianchon, on his way back from Cuvier's lecture, overheard the
sufficiently striking nickname of _Trompe-la-Mort_, and caught the
celebrated chief detective's "_Done!_"

"Why didn't you close with him? It would be three hundred francs a
year," said Poiret to Mlle. Michonneau.

"Why didn't I?" she asked. "Why, it wants thinking over. Suppose that M.
Vautrin is this Trompe-la-Mort, perhaps we might do better for ourselves
with him. Still, on the other hand, if you ask him for money, it would
put him on his guard, and he is just the man to clear out without
paying, and that would be an abominable sell."

"And suppose you did warn him," Poiret went on, "didn't that gentleman
say that he was closely watched? You would spoil everything."

"Anyhow," thought Mlle. Michonneau, "I can't abide him. He says nothing
but disagreeable things to me."

"But you can do better than that," Poiret resumed. "As that