“No one. And yet, ever since opening, we have had an immense crowd. If I were master here, on days like this, I would charge an admission fee of two sous a head, with half-price for children. It would bring in a round sum, more than enough to cover the expenses.”
The keeper’s reply seemed to offer an inducement to conversation, but Lecoq did not seize it. “Excuse me,” he interrupted, “didn’t a detective come here this morning?”
“Yes, there was one here.”
“Has he gone away then? I don’t see him anywhere?”
The keeper glanced suspiciously at his eager questioner, but after a moment’s hesitation, he ventured to inquire: “Are you one of them?”
“Yes, I am,” replied Lecoq, exhibiting his card in support of his assertion.
“And your name?”
“Is Lecoq.”
The keeper’s face brightened up. “In that case,” said he, “I have a letter for you, written by your comrade, who was obliged to go away. Here it is.”
The young detective at once tore open the envelope and read: “Monsieur Lecoq—”