“I say that if there is any one at the Hotel de Sairmeuse named Camille, I have the proof I wish for. Come, Papa Absinthe, let us hurry on.” And without another word of explanation, he dragged his companion rapidly towards the Seine. When they reached the Rue de Grenelle, Lecoq perceived a commissionaire leaning against the door of a wine-shop. He walked straight towards him. “Come, my good fellow,” said he. “I want you to go to the Hotel de Sairmeuse and ask for Camille. Tell her that her uncle is waiting for her here.” “But, sir----” “What, you haven’t gone yet?” The messenger started off, and the two police agents entered the wine-shop, Father Absinthe scarcely having time to swallow a glass of brandy before the envoy returned. “I was unable to see Mademoiselle Camille,” said he. “The house is closed from top to bottom. The duchess died very suddenly this morning.” “Ah! the wretch!” exclaimed the young police agent. Then controlling himself, he mentally added: “He must have killed his wife on returning home, but his fate is sealed. Now, I shall be allowed to continue my investigations.” In less than twenty minutes they arrived at the Palais de Justice. M. Segmuller did not seem to be immoderately surprised by Lecoq’s revelations, though he listened with evident doubt to the young police agent’s ingenious deductions; it was the circumstance of the starling which at last decided him. “Perhaps you are right, my dear Lecoq,” he said, “and to tell the truth, I quite agree with you. But I can take no further action in the matter until you can furnish proof so convincing in its nature that the Duke de Sairmeuse will be unable to think of denying it.” “Ah! sir, my superiors won’t allow me--” “On the contrary,” interrupted the magistrate, “they will allow you the fullest liberty after I have spoken to them.” Such action on M. Segmuller’s part, required no little courage; for in official circles there had been considerable merriment over the magistrate’s mysterious man with the iron mask, disguised as a mountebank; and the former by his persistent support of the young detective’s theories, had almost become an object of ridicule. “And when will you speak to them?” timidly inquired Lecoq. “At once.” The magistrate had already turned towards the door when the young police agent stopped him. “I have one more favour to ask you, sir,” he said, entreatingly. “You are so kind, you are the first person who has given me any encouragement--who has had any faith in me.” “Speak, my good fellow.” “Ah! sir, will you give me a message for M. d’Escorval? Any insignificant message--inform him of the prisoner’s escape. I will take it myself, and then--Oh! fear nothing, sir; I will be very prudent.” “Very well!” replied the magistrate, “I will write him a note.”