May had instructed his driver to take him to the Place d'Italie:
requesting him, moreover, to stop exactly in the middle of the square.
This was about a hundred paces from the police station in which he
had been temporarily confined with the Widow Chupin. When the vehicle
halted, he sprang to the ground and cast a rapid glance around him, as
if looking for some dreaded shadow. He could see nothing, however, for
although surprised by the sudden stoppage, Lecoq had yet had time to
fling himself flat on his stomach under the body of the cab, regardless
of all danger of being crushed by the wheels. May was apparently
reassured. He paid the cabman and then retraced his course toward the
Rue Mouffetard.
With a bound, Lecoq was on his feet again, and started after the
fugitive as eagerly as a ravenous dog might follow a bone. He had
reached the shadow cast by the large trees in the outer boulevards when
a faint whistle resounded in his ears. "Father Absinthe!" he exclaimed
in a tone of delighted surprise.
"The same," replied the old detective, "and quite rested, thanks to a
passing cabman who picked me up and brought me here--"
"Oh, enough!" interrupted Lecoq. "Let us keep our eyes open."
May was now walking quite leisurely. He stopped first before one and
then before another of the numerous wine-shops and eating-houses that
abound in this neighborhood. He was apparently looking for some one or
something, which of the two Lecoq could not, of course, divine.
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