name written by that man:

"Jacques Dantin."

The name awakened no remembrance in Bernardet's mind, and now it was a
living problem that he had to solve.

"Tell no one that you have seen that man," he hastily said to Mme.
Moniche. "No one! Do you hear?" And he hurried out into the Boulevard,
picking his way through the crowd and watching out to find that Jacques
Dantin, whom he wished to follow.

CHAPTER IX.

JACQUES DANTIN, moreover, was not difficult to find in the crowd. He
stood near the funeral car; his air was very sad. Bernardet had a fine
opportunity to examine him at his ease. He was an elegant looking man,
slender, with a resolute air, and frowning eyebrows which gave his face
a very energetic look. His head bared to the cold wind, he stood like a
statue while the bearers placed the casket in the funeral car, and
Bernardet noticed the shaking of the head--a distressed shaking. The
longer the police officer looked at him, studied him, the stronger grew
the resemblance to the image in the photograph. Bernardet would soon
know who this Jacques Dantin was, and even at this moment he asked a
question or two of some of the assistants.

"Do you know who that gentleman is standing near the hearse?"

"No."

"Do you know what Jacques Dantin does? Was he one of M. Rovere's
intimate friends?"

"Jacques Dantin?"

"Yes; see, there, with the pointed beard."

"I do not know him."

Bernardet thought that if he addressed the question to M. Dantin himself
he might learn all he wished to know at once, and he approached him at
the moment the procession started, and walked along with him almost to
the cemetery, striving to enter into conversation with him. He spoke of
the dead man, sadly lamenting M. Rovere's sad fate. But he found his
neighbor very silent. Upon the sidewalk of the Boulevard the dense crowd
stood in respectful silence and uncovered as the cortege passed, and the
officer noticed that some loose petals from the flowers dropped upon the
roadway.

"There are a great many flowers," he remarked to his neighbor. "It is
rather surprising, as M. Rovere seemed to have so few friends."

"He has had many," the man brusquely remarked. His voice was hoarse, and
quivered with emotion. Bernardet saw that he was strongly moved. Was it
sorrow? Was it bitterness of spirit? Remorse, perhaps! The man did not
seem, moreover, in a very softened mood. He walked along with his eyes