hurrying away as fast as they could."

"In what direction?"

"Oh! they were running toward the Rue de Varennes."

Lecoq was baffled again; however, he bowed civilly to the concierge,
whom he might possibly have need of at another time, and then went back
to the cab. "As I had supposed, they do not live here," he remarked to
the driver.

The latter shrugged his shoulders in evident vexation, which would
inevitably have vent in a torrent of words, if Lecoq, who had consulted
his watch, had not forestalled the outburst by saying: "Nine o'clock--I
am an hour behind time already: still I shall have some news to tell.
Now take me to the Morgue as quickly as possible."

When a mysterious crime has been perpetrated, or a great catastrophe has
happened, and the identity of the victims has not been established,
"a great day" invariably follows at the Morgue. The attendants are so
accustomed to the horrors of the place that the most sickly sight fails
to impress them; and even under the most distressing circumstances, they
hasten gaily to and fro, exchanging jests well calculated to make an
ordinary mortal's flesh creep. As a rule, they are far less interested
in the corpses laid out for public view on the marble slabs in the
principal hall than in the people of every age and station in life who
congregate here all day long; at times coming in search of some lost
relative or friend, but far more frequently impelled by idle curiosity.

As the vehicle conveying Lecoq reached the quay, the young detective