cab-horse, which, having forgotten there is such a
thing as repose, is no longer conscious of fatigue, but travels on until
he falls down dead. The old detective felt that his limbs were failing
him; but Lecoq said: "It is necessary," and so he walked on.

They both went to Lecoq's lodgings, where they laid aside their
disguises and made themselves trim. Then after breakfasting they hastily
betook themselves to the Rue St. Lazare, where, entering one of the most
stylish houses in the street, Lecoq inquired of the concierge: "Is M.
Tabaret at home?"

"Yes, but he's ill," was the reply.

"Very ill?" asked Lecoq anxiously.

"It is hard to tell," replied the man: "it is his old complaint--gout."
And with an air of hypocritical commiseration, he added: "M. Tabaret is
not wise to lead the life he does. Women are very well in a way, but at
his age--"

The two detectives exchanged a meaning glance, and as soon as they were
out of hearing burst out laughing. Their hilarity had scarcely ceased
when they reached the first floor, and rang the bell at the door of one
of the apartments. The buxom-looking woman who appeared in answer to his
summons, informed them that her master would receive them, although
he was confined to his bed. "However, the doctor is with him now," she
added. "But perhaps the gentlemen would not mind waiting until he has
gone?" The gentlemen replying in the affirmative, she then conducted
them into a handsome library, and invited them to sit down.

The person whom Lecoq had come to consult was a man celebrated for
wonderful shrewdness and penetration, well-nigh exceeding the bounds of
possibility. For five-and-forty years he had held a petty post in one of
the offices of the Mont de Piete, just managing to exist upon the meagre
stipend he received. Suddenly enriched by the death of a relative, of
whom he had scarcely ever heard, he immediately resigned his functions,
and the very next day began to long for the same employment he had so
often anathematized. In his endeavors to divert his mind, he began
to collect old books, and heaped up mountains of tattered, worm-eaten
volumes in immense oak bookcases. But despite this pastime to many
so attractive, he could not shake off his weariness. He grew thin and
yellow, and his income of forty thousand francs was literally killing
him, when a sudden inspiration came to his relief. It came to him one
evening after reading the memoirs of a celebrated detective, o