e followed his comrades as far as the threshold to make
sure that they were really going, for he trembled at the thought that
Gevrol might reflect, change his mind, and return to solve the mystery,
as was his right.

His anxiety was needless, however. The squad gradually faded away in the
distance, and the cries of Widow Chupin died away in the stillness of
the night. It was only then that Lecoq reentered the room. He could
no longer conceal his delight; his eyes sparkled as might those of a
conqueror taking possession of some vast empire: he stamped his foot
upon the floor and exclaimed with exultation: "Now the mystery belongs
to us two alone!"

Authorized by Gevrol to choose one of his comrades to remain with him at
the Poivriere, Lecoq had requested the least intelligent of the party
to keep him company. He was not influenced by a fear of being obliged to
share the fruits of success with his companion, but by the necessity of
having an assistant from whom he could, in case of need, exact implicit
obedience.

The comrade Lecoq selected was a man of about fifty, who, after a term
of cavalry service, had become an agent of the prefecture. In the humble
office that he occupied he had seen prefect succeed prefect, and might
probably have filled an entire prison with the culprits he had arrested
with his own hands. Experience had not, however, made him any the
shrewder or any the more zealous. Still he had this merit, when he
received an order he executed it with military exactitude, so far as he
understood it. Of course if he had failed to understand it, so much the
worse. It might, indeed, be said of him, that he discharged his duties
like a blind man, like an old horse trained for a riding school.

When he had a moment's leisure, and a little money in his pocket, he
invariably got drunk. Indeed, he spent his life between two fits of
intoxication, without ever rising above a condition of semi-lucidity.
His comrades had known, but had forgotten, his name, and his partiality
for a certain beverage had accordingly induced them to call him "Father
Absinthe."

With his limited powers of observation, he naturally did not observe
the tone of triumph in his young companion's voice. "Upon my word," he
remarked, when they were alone, "your idea of keeping me here was a good
one, and I thank you for it. While the others spend the night paddling
about in the slush, I shall get a good sleep."

Here he stood, in a room that wa