“And what for, my boy?”
“What for? Why, to find my fugitive, to be sure!”
Had the young detective been less engrossed with his idea, he would have detected a slight smile that curved Papa Tirauclair’s thick lips.
“Ah, my son! is it possible that you don’t suspect the real name of this pretended buffoon?” inquired the oracle somewhat despondently.
Lecoq trembled and averted his face. He did not wish Tabaret to see his eyes. “No,” he replied, “I don’t suspect—”
“You are uttering a falsehood!” interrupted the sick man. “You know as well as I do, that May resides in the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain, and that he is known as the Duc de Sairmeuse.”
On hearing these words, Father Absinthe indulged in a hearty laugh: “Ah! that’s a good joke!” he exclaimed. “Ah, ha!”
Such was not Lecoq’s opinion, however. “Well, yes, Monsieur Tabaret,” said he, “the idea did occur to me; but I drove it away.”
“And why, if you please?”
“Because—because—”