ations of the
crime which seemed so simple to M. Domini. His subtle mind had
connected together all the circumstances which had been disclosed
to him during the day, and now he sincerely admired the old
justice of the peace. As he gazed at his beloved portrait, he
thought, "Between the two of us--this old fox and I--we will
unravel the whole web." He would not, however, show himself to be
inferior to his companion.

"Monsieur," said he, "while you were questioning this rogue, who
will be very useful to us, I did not lose any time. I've been
looking about, under the furniture and so on, and have found this
slip of paper."

"Let's see."

"It is the envelope of the young lady's letter. Do you know where
her aunt, whom she was visiting, lives?"

"At Fontainebleau, I believe."

"Ah; well, this envelope is stamped 'Paris,' Saint-Lazare branch
post-office. I know this stamp proves nothing--"

"It is, of course, an indication."

"That is not all; I have read the letter itself--it was here on
the table."

M. Plantat frowned involuntarily.

"It was, perhaps, a liberty," resumed M. Lecoq, "but the end
justifies the means. Well, you have read this letter; but have you
studied it, examined the hand-writing, weighed the words, remarked
the context of the sentences?"

"Ah," cried Plantat, "I was not mistaken then--you had the same
idea strike you that occurred to me!"

And, in the energy of his excitement he seized the detective's hands
and pressed them as if he were an old friend. They were about to
resume talking when a step was heard on the staircase; and presently
Dr. Gendron appeared.

"Courtois is better," said he, "he is in a doze, and will recover."

"We have nothing more, then, to keep us here," returned M. Plantat.
"Let's be off. Monsieur Lecoq must be half dead with hunger."

As they went away, M. Lecoq slipped Laurence's letter, with the
envelope, into his pocket.

X

M. Plantat's house was small and narrow; a philosopher's house.
Three large rooms on the ground-floor, four chambers in the first
story, an attic under the roof for the servants, composed all its
apartments. Everywhere the carelessness of a man who has withdrawn
from the world into himself, for years, ceasing to have the least
interest in the objects which surround him, was apparent. The
furniture was shabby, though it had been elegant; the mouldings
had come off, the clocks had ceased to keep time,