gled confusedly; then,
seeing that her friend was about to fall, she caught her up in her
strong arms and carried her--for you will see that the footprints made
by the woman with the small feet suddenly cease at this point."

Was Lecoq merely amusing himself by inventing this story? Was this scene
anything but a work of imagination? Was the accent of deep and sincere
conviction which he imparted to his words only feigned?

Father Absinthe was still in doubt, but he thought of a way in which he
might satisfy his uncertainty. He caught up the lantern and hurried off
to examine these footprints which he had not known how to read, which
had been speechless to him, but which yielded their secret to another.
He was obliged to agree with his companion. All that Lecoq had described
was written there; he saw the confused footprints, the circle made by
the sweeping skirts, the cessation of the tiny imprints.

On his return, his countenance betrayed a respectful and astonished
admiration, and it was with a shade of embarrassment that he said: "You
can scarcely blame an old man for being a little like St. Thomas. 'I
have touched it with my fingers,' and now I am content to follow you."

The young police agent could not, indeed, blame his colleague for his
incredulity. Resuming his recital, he continued: "Then the accomplice,
who had heard the fugitives coming, ran to meet them, and he aided the
woman with large feet in carrying her companion. The latter must have
been really ill, for the accomplice took off his hat and used it in
brushing the snow off this log. Then, thinking the surface was not
yet dry enough, he wiped it with the skirt of his overcoat. Were these
civilities pure gallantry, or the usual attentions of an inferior? I
have asked myself that question. This much, however, is certain,
while the woman with the small feet was recovering her strength, half
reclining upon this board, the other took the accomplice a little on
one side, five or six steps away to the left, just beside that enormous
block of granite. There she talked with him, and, as he listened, the
man leaned upon the snow-covered stone. His hand left a very distinct
imprint there. Then, as the conversation continued, he rested his elbow
upon the snowy surface."

Like all men of limited intelligence, Father Absinthe had suddenly
passed from unreasoning distrust to unquestioning confidence.
Henceforth, he could believe anything for the very same reason th