"You may imagine, Monsieur Lecoq, that when I got the address, having some time on my hands, I went to reconnoitre the house." "Well?" "The tenant's name is really Wilson, but it's not the man of the photograph, I'm certain." M. Plantat gave a groan of disappointment, but M. Lecoq was not so easily discouraged. "How did you find out?" "I pumped one of the servants." "Confound you!" cried M. Plantat. "Perhaps you roused suspicions." "Oh, no," answered M. Lecoq. "I'll answer for him. Palot is a pupil of mine. Explain yourself, Palot." "Recognizing the house--an elegant affair it is, too--I said to myself: 'I' faith, here's the cage; let's see if the bird is in it.' I luckily happened to have a napoleon in my pocket; and I slipped it without hesitation into the drain which led from the house to the street-gutter." "Then you rang?" "Exactly. The porter--there is a porter--opened the door, and with my most vexed air I told him how, in pulling out my handkerchief, I had dropped a twenty-franc piece in the drain, and begged him to lend me something to try to get it out. He lent me a poker and took another himself, and we got the money out with no difficulty; I began to jump about as if I were delighted, and begged him to let me treat him to a glass of wine." "Not bad." "Oh, Monsieur Lecoq, it is one of your tricks, you know. My porter accepted my invitation, and we soon got to be the best friends in the world over some wine in a shop just across the street from the house. We were having a jolly talk together when, all of a sudden, I leaned over as if I had just espied something on the floor, and picked up--the photograph, which I had dropped and soiled a little with my foot. 'What,' cried I, 'a portrait?' My new friend took it, looked at it, and didn't seem to recognize it. Then, to be certain, I said, 'He's a very good-looking fellow, ain't he now? Your master must be some such a man.' But he said no, that the photograph was of a man who was bearded, while his master was as clean-faced as an abbe. 'Besides,' he added, 'my master is an American; he gives us our orders in French, but Madame and he always talk English together.'" M. Lecoq's eye glistened as Palot proceeded. "Tremorel speaks English, doesn't he?" asked he of M. Plantat. "Quite well; and Laurence too." "If that is so, we are on the right track, for we know that Tremorel shaved his beard off on the night of the murder. We can go on--" Palot meanwhile seemed a little uneasy at not receiving the praise he expected. "My lad," said M. Lecoq, turning to him, "I think you have done admirably, and a good reward shall prove it to you. Being ignorant of what we know, your conclusions were perfectly right. But let's go to the house at once; have you got a plan of the ground-floor?"