He would at once present me with a certificate for
admission into some lunatic asylum."
The young detective paused. While absorbed in thought, his legs, obeying
an instinctive impulse, had brought him to his lodgings. He rang the
bell; the door opened, and he groped his way slowly up to the fourth
floor. He had reached his room, and was about to enter, when some one,
whom he could not distinguish in the dark, called out: "Is that you,
Monsieur Lecoq?"
"Yes, it's I!" replied the young man, somewhat surprised; "but who are
you?"
"I'm Father Absinthe."
"Oh! indeed! Well, you are welcome! I didn't recognize your voice--will
you come in?"
They entered the room, and Lecoq lit a candle. Then the young man could
see his colleague, and, good heavens! he found him in a most pitiable
condition.
He was as dirty and as bespattered with mud as a lost dog that has been
wandering about in the rain and the mire for a week at the very least.
His overcoat bore the traces of frequent contact with damp walls; his
hat had lost its form entirely. His eyes wore an anxious look, and his
mustache drooped despondently. He spoke, moreover, so strangely that one
might have supposed his mouth was full of sand.
"Do you bring me bad news?" inquired Lecoq, after a short examination of
his companion.
"Yes, bad."
"The people you were following escaped you, then?"
The old man nodded his head affirmatively.
"It is unfortunate--very unfortunate!" said Lecoq.
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