He was right in trusting implicitly to his agent’s punctuality; for, as soon as he came out of the Hotel des Folies, a man passed by him, and without seeming to address him, or even to recognize him, said in a whisper, “What news?” “Nothing,” he replied, “except that the Fortins are notified. The trap is well set. Keep your eyes open now, and spot any one who comes to ask about Mlle. Lucienne.” And he hurried on, still followed by Maxence, who walked along like a body without soul, tortured by the most frightful anguish. As he had been away the whole evening, four or five persons were waiting for him at his office on matters of current business. He despatched them in less than no time; after which, addressing himself to an agent on duty, “This evening,” he said, “at about nine o’clock, in a restaurant on the Boulevard, a quarrel took place. A person tried to pick a quarrel with another. “You will proceed at once to that restaurant; you will get the particulars of what took place; and you will ascertain exactly who this man is, his name, his profession, and his residence.” Like a man accustomed to such errands, “Can I have a description of him?” inquired the agent. “Yes. He is a man past middle age, military bearing, heavy mustache, ribbons in his buttonhole.” “Yes, I see: one of your regular fighting fellows.” “Very well. Go then. I shall not retire before your return. Ah, I forgot; find out what they thought to-night on the ‘street’ about the Mutual Credit affair, and what they said of the arrest of one Saint Pavin, editor of ‘The Financial Pilot,’ and of a banker named Jottras.” “Can I take a carriage?” “Do so.” The agent started; and he was not fairly out of the house, when the commissary, opening a door which gave into a small study, called, “Felix!” It was his secretary, a man of about thirty, blonde, with a gentle and timid countenance, having, with his long coat, somewhat the appearance of a theological student. He appeared immediately. “You call me, sir?” “My dear Felix,” replied the commissary, “I have seen you, sometimes, imitate very nicely all sorts of hand-writings.” The secretary blushed very much, no doubt on account of Maxence, who was sitting by the side of his employer. He was a very honest fellow; but there are certain little talents of which people do not like to boast; and the talent of imitating the writing of others is of the number, for the reason, that, fatally and at once, it suggests the idea of forgery. “It was only for fun that I used to do that, sir,” he stammered. “Would you be here if it had been otherwise?” said the commissary. “Only this time it is not for fun, but to do me a favor that I wish you to try again.” And, taking out of his pocket the letter taken by M. de Tregars from the man in the restaurant, “Examine this writing,” he said, “and see whether you feel capable of imitating it tolerably well.”