“That is not your final decision, my dear Goudar?” he said. “Pardon me. I am not my own master. I have my duty to fulfil, and my daily occupation.” “You can at any time obtain leave of absence for a month.” “So I might; but they would certainly wonder at such a furlough at headquarters. They would probably have me watched; and, if they found out that I was doing police work for private individuals, they would scold me grievously, and deprive themselves henceforth of my services.” “Oh!” “There is no ‘oh!’ about it. They would do what I tell you, and they would be right; for, after all, what would become of us, and what would become of the safety and liberty of us all, if any one could come and use the agents of the police for his private purposes? And what would become of me if I should lose my place?” “M. de Boiscoran’s family is very rich, and they would prove their gratitude magnificently to the man who would save him.” “And if I did not save him? And if, instead of gathering proof of his innocence, I should only meet with more evidence of his guilt?” The objection was so well founded, that M. Folgat preferred not to discuss it. “I might,” he said, “hand you at once, and as a retainer, a considerable sum, which you could keep, whatever the result might be.” “What sum? A hundred Napoleons? Certainly a hundred Napoleons are not to be despised; but what would they do for me if I were turned out? I have to think of somebody else besides myself. I have a wife and a child; and my whole fortune consists in this little cottage, which is not even entirely paid for. My place is not a gold-mine; but, with the special rewards which I receive, it brings me, good years and bad years, seven or eight thousand francs, and I can lay by two or three thousand.” The young lawyer stopped him by a friendly gesture, and said,-- “If I were to offer you ten thousand francs?” “A year’s income.” “If I offered you fifteen thousand!” Goudar made no reply; but his eyes spoke. “It is a most interesting case, this case of M. de Boiscoran,” continued M. Folgat, “and such as does not occur often. The man who should expose the emptiness of the accusation would make a great reputation for himself.” “Would he make friends also at the bar?” “I admit he would not.” The detective shook his head. “Well, I confess,” he said, “I do not work for glory, nor from love of my art. I know very well that vanity is the great motive-power with some of my colleagues; but I am more practical. I have never liked my profession; and, if I continue to practise it, it is because I have not the money to go into any other. It drives my wife to despair, besides: she is only half alive as long as I am away; and she trembles every morning for fear I may be brought home with a knife between my shoulders.” M. Folgat had listened attentively; but at the same time he had pulled out a pocket-book, which looked decidedly plethoric, and placed it on the table.