but--"

"Then what would you ask more? Do you think that I shall not know how to
find this driver to-morrow? He was returning with his empty vehicle, his
day's work was ended; hence, his stable is in the neighborhood. Do you
suppose that he will have forgotten that he took up two persons in the
Rue du Chevaleret? He will tell us where he drove them; but that will
not do us any good, for, of course, they will not have given him their
real address. But at all events he can probably give us a description
of them, tell us how they were dressed, describe their appearance, their
manner, and their age. And with that, and what we already know--"

An eloquent gesture expressed the remainder of his thought, then he
added: "We must now go back to the Poivriere, and go quickly. And you,
my friend, may now extinguish your lantern."

While doing his best to keep pace with his companion, who was in such
haste to get back to the Poivriere that he almost ran, Father Absinthe's
thoughts were as busy as his legs, and an entirely new train of ideas
was awakened in his mind.

During the twenty-five years that he had been connected with the police
force, the good man--to use his own expression--had seen many of his
colleagues walk over him and win, after only a few months' work, a
promotion that his long years of service had not gained for him. In
these cases he had not failed to accuse his superiors of injustice, and
his fortunate rivals of gross flattery. In his opinion, seniority was
the only claim to advancement--the only, the best, the most respectable
claim; and he was wont to sum up all his opinions, all his grief and
bitterness of mind in one phrase: "It is infamous to pass over an old
member of the service."

To-night, however, Father Absinthe discovered that there is something
else in the world besides seniority, and sufficient reasons for what
he had formerly regarded as favoritism. He secretly confessed that this
newcomer whom he had treated so carelessly had just followed up a clue
as he, veteran though he was, would never have succeeded in doing.

But communing with himself was not this good man's forte; he soon grew
weary of reflection; and on reaching a place where they were obliged to
proceed more slowly on account of the badness of the road, he deemed
it a favorable opportunity to resume the conversation. "You are silent,
comrade," he ventured to remark, "and one might swear that you were not
exactly pleased."

This