onfreres for his exquisite
suavity and unequalled urbanity. Even with his prisoners he was the
perfection of courtesy, and never was known to handcuff a man without
first obsequiously apologizing for being compelled to do so.

"You will be kind enough, my dear monsieur," he said, "to excuse the
great liberty I take; but I really am under the necessity of asking you
for a little information."

"Information! From me, monsieur?"

"From you, my dear monsieur; from M. Eugene Cavaillon."

"But I do not know you."

"Ah, yes; you remember seeing me this morning. It is only about a
trifling matter, and you will overwhelm me with obligations if you will
do me the honor to accept my arm, and step outside for a moment."

What could Cavaillon do? He took Fanferlot's arm, and went out with him.

The Rue Chaptal is not one of those noisy thoroughfares where
foot-passengers are in perpetual danger of being run over by numberless
vehicles dashing to and fro; there were but two or three shops, and from
the corner of Rue Fontaine occupied by an apothecary, to the entrance of
the Rue Leonie, extended a high, gloomy wall, broken here and there by a
small window which lighted the carpenters' shops behind.

It was one of those streets where you could talk at your ease, without
having to step from the sidewalk every moment. So Fanferlot and
Cavaillon were in no danger of being disturbed by passers-by.

"What I wished to say is, my dear monsieur," began the detective, "that
M. Prosper Bertomy threw you a note this morning."

Cavaillon vaguely foresaw that he was to be questioned about this note,
and instantly put himself on his guard.

"You are mistaken," he said, blushing to his ears.

"Excuse me, monsieur, for presuming to contradict you, but I am quite
certain of what I say."

"I assure you that Prosper never gave me anything."

"Pray, monsieur, do not persist in a denial; you will compel me to prove
that four clerks saw him throw you a note written in pencil and closely
folded."

Cavaillon saw the folly of further contradicting a man so well informed;
so he changed his tactics, and said:

"It is true Prosper gave me a note this morning; but it was intended for
me alone, and after reading it I tore it up, and threw the pieces in the
fire."

This might be the truth. Fanferlot feared so; but how could he assure
himself of the fact? He remembered that the most palpable tricks often
succeed the best, and trusting to his star