"No one. And yet, ever since opening, we have had an immense crowd. If I
were master here, on days like this, I would charge an admission fee of
two sous a head, with half-price for children. It would bring in a round
sum, more than enough to cover the expenses."
The keeper's reply seemed to offer an inducement to conversation, but
Lecoq did not seize it. "Excuse me," he interrupted, "didn't a detective
come here this morning?"
"Yes, there was one here."
"Has he gone away then? I don't see him anywhere?"
The keeper glanced suspiciously at his eager questioner, but after a
moment's hesitation, he ventured to inquire: "Are you one of them?"
"Yes, I am," replied Lecoq, exhibiting his card in support of his
assertion.
"And your name?"
"Is Lecoq."
The keeper's face brightened up. "In that case," said he, "I have a
letter for you, written by your comrade, who was obliged to go away.
Here it is."
The young detective at once tore open the envelope and read: "Monsieur
Lecoq--"
"Monsieur?" This simple formula of politeness brought a faint smile to
his lips. Was it not, on Father Absinthe's part, an evident recognition
of his colleague's superiority. Indeed, our hero accepted it as a token
of unquestioning devotion which it would be his duty to repay with a
master's kind protection toward his first disciple. However, he had no
time to waste in thought, and accordingly at once proceeded to peruse
the note, which ran as follows:
"Monsieur Lecoq--I had been standing on duty since the opening of the
Morgue, when at about nine o'clock three young men entered, arm-in-arm.
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