“Do you think we are ruined by two or three mistakes? Nonsense! I will soon turn to-day’s defeat into a glorious victory.” “Ah! you might do so perhaps, if--they don’t dismiss us from the force.” This doleful remark recalled Lecoq to a sense of his present position. He and Absinthe had allowed a prisoner to slip through their fingers. That was vexatious, it is true; but, on the other hand, they had captured a most notorious criminal--Joseph Couturier. Surely there was some comfort in that. Still, of course, they both might be dismissed--and yet Lecoq could have borne the prospect, dismal as it was, if it had not been for the thought that dismissal would for ever prevent him from following up the Poivriere affair. What would his superiors say when he told them that May and the Duke de Sairmeuse were one and the same person. They would, no doubt, shrug their shoulders and turn up their noses. “Still, M. Segmuller will believe me,” he thought. “But will he dare to take any action in the matter without patent evidence before him?” This was very unlikely, as Lecoq fully realized, and for a moment he asked himself if he and his fellows could not make a descent on the Hotel de Sairmeuse, and, on some pretext or other, compel the duke to show himself. It would then be easy to identify him as the prisoner May. However, after a little thought he dismissed the idea. “It would be a stupid expedient!” he exclaimed. “Two such men as the duke and his accomplice are not likely to be caught napping. They are prepared for such a visit, and we should only have our labour for our pains.” He made these reflections in a low tone of voice; and Father Absinthe’s curiosity was aroused. “Excuse me,” said the old veteran, “I don’t quite understand you.” “I say that we must find some tangible proof before asking permission to proceed further--” Lecoq paused with knitted brows. An idea had occurred to him. He fancied he could prove complicity between at least one of the witnesses summoned to give evidence, and some member of the duke’s household. He was indeed thinking of Madame Milner, the landlady of the Hotel de Mariembourg, and of his first meeting with her. He saw her again, in his mind’s eye, standing on a chair, her face on a level with a cage, covered with a large piece of black silk, while she persistently repeated three or four German words to a starling, who with equal persistency retorted: “Camille! Where is Camille?” “One thing is certain,” exclaimed Lecoq aloud, “if Madame Milner--who is a German, and who speaks French with the strongest possible German accent--had reared this bird, it would either have spoken in German or else in French, and in the latter case with the same accent as its mistress. So it can’t have been in her possession long; but then who can have given it to her?” Father Absinthe was beginning to grow impatient “In sober earnest, what are you talking about?” he asked, petulantly.