“We have outwitted Lecoq.”
In this he was right.
But he thought himself forever beyond the reach of the wily, keen-witted detective; and in this he was wrong.
Lecoq was not the man to sit down with folded hands and brood over the humiliation of his defeat.
Before he went to Father Tabaret, he was beginning to recover from his stupor and despondency; and when he left that experienced detective’s presence, he had regained his courage, his command over his faculties, and sufficient energy to move the world, if necessary.
“Well, my good man,” he remarked to Father Absinthe, who was trotting along by his side, “you have heard what the great Monsieur Tabaret said, did you not? So you see I was right.”
But his companion evinced no enthusiasm.
“Yes, you were right,” he responded, in woebegone tones.
“Do you think we are ruined by two or three mistakes? Nonsense! I will soon turn our defeat of today into a glorious victory.”
“Ah! you might do so perhaps, if—they do not dismiss us from the force.”