When he finally left the office, Lecoq was fully authorized to proceed with his investigations, and he carried in his pocket M. Segmuller’s letter to M. d’Escorval. His satisfaction was so intense that he did not deign to notice the sneers bestowed upon him as he passed along the corridors; but on the threshold downstairs he encountered Gevrol the general, who was evidently watching for him. “Ah ha!” laughed the inspector, as Lecoq passed out, “here’s one of those simpletons who fish for whales and don’t even catch a gudgeon.” For an instant Lecoq felt angry. He turned round abruptly and looked Gevrol full in the face. “At all events,” retorted he in the tone of a man _who_ knows what he’s saying. “That’s better than assisting prisoners to carry on a surreptitious correspondence with people outside.” In his surprise, Gevrol almost lost countenance, and his blush was equivalent to a confession. But Lecoq did not add another word. What did it matter to him now if Gevrol had betrayed him! Was he not about to win a glorious revenge! He spent the remainder of the day in preparing his plan of action, and in thinking what he should say when he took M. Segmuller’s note to Maurice d’Escorval. The next morning at about eleven o’clock he presented himself at the latter’s house. “M. d’Escorval is in his study with a young man,” replied the servant to the young detective’s inquiry, “but, as he gave me no orders to the contrary, you may go in.” Lecoq entered, but found the study unoccupied. From the adjoining room, however, only separated from the study by velvet hangings, came a sound of stifled exclamations, of sobs mingled with kisses. Not knowing whether to remain or to retire, the young police-agent stood for a moment undecided; when suddenly he perceived an open letter lying on the carpet. Impelled by an impulse stronger than his will, Lecoq picked the letter up, and his eyes meeting the signature, he started back in surprise. He could not now refrain from reading this missive which ran as follows: “The bearer of this letter is Marie-Anne’s son--your son, Maurice. I have given him all the proofs necessary to establish his identity. It was to his education that I consecrated poor Marie-Anne’s inheritance. Those to whose care I confided him have made a noble man of him. If I restore him to you, it is only because the life I lead is not a fitting life for him. Yesterday, the miserable woman who murdered my sister died from poison administered by her own hand. Poor Marie-Anne! she would have been far more terribly avenged had not an accident which happened to me saved the Duke and the Duchess de Sairmeuse from the snare into which I had drawn them. “JEAN LACHENEUR.”