s shake hands
with me less warmly did they know that Tirauclair and Tabaret were one
and the same."

Insensibly the crime became again the subject of conversation. It was
agreed, that, the first thing in the morning, M. Tabaret should install
himself at Bougival. He boasted that in eight days he should examine
all the people round about. On his side M. Daburon promised to keep him
advised of the least evidence that transpired, and recall him, if by any
chance he should procure the papers of Widow Lerouge.

"To you, M. Tabaret," said the magistrate in conclusion, "I shall be
always at home. If you have any occasion to speak to me, do not hesitate
to come at night as well as during the day. I rarely go out, and you
will always find me either at my home, Rue Jacob, or in my office at the
Palais de Justice. I will give orders for your admittance whenever you
present yourself."

The train entered the station at this moment. M. Daburon, having called
a cab, offered a seat to M. Tabaret. The old fellow declined.

"It is not worth while," he replied, "for I live, as I have had the
honour of telling you, in the Rue St. Lazare, only a few steps from
here."

"Till to-morrow, then!" said M. Daburon.

"Till to-morrow," replied old Tabaret; and he added, "We shall succeed."

CHAPTER III.

M. Tabaret's house was in fact not more than four minutes' walk from the
railway terminus of St. Lazare. It was a fine building carefully kept,
and which probably yielded a fine income though the rents were not too
high. The old fellow found plenty of room in it. He occupied on the
first floor, overlooking the street, some handsome apartments, well
arranged and comfortably furnished, the principal of which was his
collection of books. He lived very simply from taste, as well as habit,
waited on by an old servant, to whom on great occasions the concierge
lent a helping hand.

No one in the house had the slightest suspicion of the avocations of the
proprietor. Besides, even the humblest agent of police would be expected
to possess a degree of acuteness for which no one gave M. Tabaret
credit. Indeed, they mistook for incipient idiocy his continual
abstraction of mind.

It is true that all who knew him remarked the singularity of his
habits. His frequent absences from home had given to his proceedings an
appearance at once eccentric and mysterious. Never was young libertine
more irregular in his habits than this old man. He came or fai