Hence, in order to know which way to go, Lecoq had only to glance
at the buildings around him. The task was neither long nor
difficult, for on the front of the third shop beyond that of the
second-hand-clothes dealer a superb dash of the crayon instructed him to
turn into the Rue Saint-Jacques.
On he rushed in that direction, his mind busy at work with the incident
that had just occurred. What a terrible warning that old-clothes
dealer's declaration had been! Ah! that mysterious accomplice was a
man of foresight. He had even done his utmost to insure his comrade's
salvation in the event of his being allowed to escape. What did the
package the shopkeeper had spoken of contain? Clothes, no doubt.
Everything necessary for a complete disguise--money, papers, a forged
passport most likely.
While these thoughts were rushing through Lecoq's mind, he had reached
the Rue Soufflot, where he paused for an instant to learn his way
from the walls. This was the work of a second. A long chalk mark on a
watchmaker's shop pointed to the Boulevard Saint-Michel, whither the
young detective at once directed his steps. "The accomplice," said he to
himself, resuming his meditation, "didn't succeed with that old-clothes
dealer; but he isn't a man to be disheartened by one rebuff. He has
certainly taken other measures. How shall I divine what they are in
order to defeat them?"
The supposed murderer had crossed the Boulevard Saint-Michel, and had
then taken to the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, as Father Absinthe's dashes of
the crayon proclaimed with many eloquent flourishes.
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