the sombreros which the bull
fighters wear.

Possibly, a few people passing through Paris might be found wearing such
hats. But they would probably be rare, and in order to find the seller
of Jacques Dantin's portrait, Bernardet had only this one clew.

"Oh! such a mean, little, weak, clew! But one must use it, just the
same!" Bernardet had said.

What if this young man with the strange hat was, by chance, the unknown
for whom he was seeking? It was not at all probable. No, when one
thought of it--not at all probable. But truth is sometimes made up of
improbabilities, and Bernardet again experienced the same shock, the
instinctive feeling that he had struck the trail, which he felt when the
young man entered the wine shop.

"That hat!" murmured Bernardet, sipping his wine and stealing glances
over the rim of his glass at the young man. The unknown seemed to play
directly into the police officer's hand. After standing by the door a
few moments, and looking about the place, he walked over to the
coffin-shaped table at which Bernardet was seated, bringing himself face
to face with the officer. One of the waiters in his mourning dress came
to take his order, and lighted another candle, which he placed where its
rays fell directly on the young man's face. Thus Bernardet was able to
study him at his ease. The pale face, with its expression, uneasy and
slightly intense, struck Bernardet at once. That white face, with its
black beard, with its gleaming eyes, was not to be passed by with a
casual glance. The waiter placed a glass of brandy before him; he placed
his elbows on the table and leaned his chin upon his hands. He was
evidently not a habitue of the place nor a resident of the quarter.
There was something foreign about his appearance. His glance was steady,
as that of one who searches the horizon, looks at running water,
contemplates the sea, asking for some "good luck" of the unknown.

"It would be strange," thought Bernardet, "if a simple hat and no other
clew should put us upon the track of the man for whom we are searching."

At once, with the ingenuity of a master of dramatic art, the agent began
to plot, and to put into action what lawyers, pleading and turning and
twisting a cause this way and that, call _an effect_. He waited until
the manager informed them that they were about to pass into the Cave of
Death, and gave them all an invitation into the adjoining hall; then,
profiting by the general movement, h