and hope--filled Father Absinthe's heart. What should he believe? what
should he refuse to believe? He did not know. How was he to separate the
true from the false among all these equally surprising assertions? On
the other hand, the gravity of his companion, which certainly was not
feigned, dismissed all idea of pleasantry.

Finally, curiosity began to torture him. "We had reached the point where
the women made their appearance," said he.

"Yes, indeed," responded Lecoq, "but here all certainty ceases; no more
proofs, only suppositions. Still, I have every reason to believe that
our fugitives left the drinking den before the beginning of the fight,
before the cries that attracted our attention. Who were they? I can only
conjecture. I suspect, however, that they were not equals in rank. I am
inclined to think that one was the mistress, the other her servant."

"That is proved," ventured the old man, "by the great difference in
their feet and in their shoes."

This shrewd observation elicited a smile from Lecoq. "That difference,"
he replied, seriously, "is something, of course; but it was not that
which decided me in my opinion. If greater or less perfection of the
extremities regulated social distinctions, many mistresses would be
servants. What struck me was this: when the two women rushed wildly from
Mother Chupin's house, the woman with the small feet sprang across the
garden with one bound, she darted on some distance in advance of the
other. The terror of the situation, the vileness of the den, the horror
of the scandal, the thought of safety, inspired her with marvelous
energy. But her strength, as often happens with delicate and nervous
women, lasted only a few seconds. She was not half-way from the