"This is a bad beginning," thought Lecoq. "I will go and get some
dinner--that, perhaps, will change the luck; at all events, I have
certainly earned the bottle of good wine to which I intend to treat
myself."
It was a happy thought. A hearty meal washed down with a couple of
glasses of Bordeaux sent new courage and energy coursing through his
veins. If he still felt a trifle weary, the sensation of fatigue was at
all events greatly diminished when he left the restaurant with a cigar
between his lips.
Just at that moment he longed for Father Papillon's trap and sturdy
steed. Fortunately, a cab was passing: he hired it, and as eight o'clock
was striking, alighted at the corner of the square in front of the
Northern Railway Station. After a brief glance round, he began his
search for the hotel where the murderer pretended to have left a box of
clothes.
It must be understood that he did not present himself in his official
capacity. Hotel proprietors fight shy of detectives, and Lecoq was aware
that if he proclaimed his calling he would probably learn nothing at
all. By brushing back his hair and turning up his coat collar, he made,
however, a very considerable alteration in his appearance; and it was
with a marked English accent that he asked the landlords and servants of
various hostelries surrounding the station for information concerning a
"foreign workman named May."
He conducted his search with considerable address, but everywhere he
received the same reply.
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