aris, some saying he was
insane, and that he was looking for his brother; others, that he was
searching for the murderer. One day he entered the police-office where
he had first made his unlucky complaint.

"Have you arrested him yet?" he asked of the officer in charge.

"Whom?" inquired the officer, not recognising his visitor.

"Picard. I am Adolph Delore."

"It was not Picard who committed the crime. He was in London at the
time, and is there still."

"Ah! He said he was in the north of Paris when he was with me in the
south. He is a liar. He blew up the shop."

"I quite believe he planned it, but the deed was done by another. It
was done by Lamoine, who left for Brussels next morning and went to
London by way of Antwerp. He is living with Picard in London at this
moment."

"If you know that, why has neither of them been taken?"

"To know is one thing; to be able to prove quite another. We cannot get
these rascals from England merely on suspicion, and they will take good
care not to set foot in France for some time to come."

"You are waiting for evidence, then?"

"We are waiting for evidence."

"How do you expect to get it?"

"We are having them watched. They are very quiet just now, but it won't
be for long. Picard is too restless. Then we may arrest some one soon
who will confess."

"Perhaps I could help. I am going to London. Will you give me Picard's
address?"

"Here is his address, but I think you had better leave the case alone.
You do not know the language, and you may merely arouse his suspicions
if you interfere. Still, if you learn anything, communicate with me."

The former frank, honest expression in Adolph's eyes had given place to
a look of cunning, that appealed to the instincts of a French police-
officer. He thought something might come of this, and his instincts did
not mislead him.

Delore with great craftiness watched the door of the house in London,
taking care that no one should suspect his purpose. He saw Picard come
out alone on several occasions, and once with another of his own
stripe, whom he took to be Lamoine.

One evening, when crossing Leicester Square, Picard was accosted by a
stranger in his own language. Looking round with a start, he saw at his
side a cringing tramp, worse than shabbily dressed.

"What did you say?" asked Picard, with a tremor in his voice.

"Could you assist a poor countryman?" whined Delore.

"I have no money."

"Perhaps you could help