ppressive feeling which is experienced when one is about to do
something which has been decided on with hesitation and regret.
The detective, who, like all men of great activity, was a great
eater, vainly essayed to entertain his guest, and filled his glass
with the choicest Chateau Margaux; the old man sat silent and sad,
and only responded by monosyllables. He tried to speak out and to
struggle against the hesitation he felt. He did not think, when he
came, that he should have this reluctance; he had said to himself
that he would go in and explain himself. Did he fear to be
ridiculed? No. His passion was above the fear of sarcasm or irony.
And what did he risk? Nothing. Had not M. Lecoq already divined
the secret thoughts he dared not impart to him, and read his heart
from the first? He was reflecting thus when the door-bell rang.
Janouille went to the door, and speedily returned with the
announcement that Goulard begged to speak with M. Lecoq, and asked
if she should admit him.

"Certainly."

The chains clanked and the locks scraped, and presently Goulard
made his appearance. He had donned his best clothes, with spotless
linen, and a very high collar. He was respectful, and stood as
stiffly as a well-drilled grenadier before his sergeant.

"What the deuce brought you here?" said M. Lecoq, sternly. "And
who dared to give you my address?"

"Monsieur," said Goulard, visibly intimidated by his reception,
"please excuse me; I was sent by Doctor Gendron with this letter
for Monsieur Plantat."

"Oh," cried M. Plantat, "I asked the doctor, last evening, to let
me know the result of the autopsy, and not knowing where I should
put up, took the liberty of giving your address."

M. Lecoq took the letter and handed it to his guest. "Read it,
read it," said the latter. "There is nothing in it to conceal."

"All right; but come into the other room. Janouille, give this man
some breakfast. Make yourself at home, Goulard, and empty a bottle
to my health."

When the door of the other room was closed, M. Lecoq broke the seal
of the letter, and read:

"MY DEAR PLANTAT:

"You asked me for a word, so I scratch off a line or two which I
shall send to our sorcerer's--"

"Oh, ho," cried M. Lecoq. "Monsieur Gendron is too good, too
flattering, really!"

No matter, the compliment touched his heart. He resumed the letter:

"At three this morning we exhumed poor Sauvresy's body. I
certainly deplore the frightful circumstances