The very day after M. Jandidier’s disappearance, Maitre Magloire appeared at the Palais de justice to report what he had done to the magistrate in charge of the affair.

“Ah! there you are, Monsieur Magloire,” said the magistrate; “so you’ve discovered something?”

“I am on the trail, monsieur.”

“Speak.”

“To begin with, Monsieur Jandidier did not leave home at half past six o’clock, but precisely seven.”

“Precisely?”

“Precisely. I ascertained that from a clock-maker in the Rue Saint Denis, who is sure of it, because while passing his shop, Monsieur Jandidier took out his watch to see if it was exactly like the clock over the door. He held an unlighted cigar in his mouth. Having discovered this last circumstance, I said to myself, ‘I have it! He’ll light his cigar somewhere.’ I reasoned correctly; he went into a retail shop on the Boulevard du Temple, whose mistress knows him very well. The fact was impressed on the woman’s memory because he always smoked sou cigars, and this time bought London ones.”

“How did he appear?”

“Absent-minded, the shop-keeper told me. It was from her I found out that he often went to the CafÉ Ture. I entered it, and was told that he had been there Saturday evening. He took two small glasses of brandy, and talked with his friends. He seemed dull. ‘The gentleman talked all the time about life insurance policies,’ the waiter told me. At half past eight o’clock our man left the with one of his friends, a merchant in the neighborhood, Monsieur Blandureau. I instantly went to this gentleman, who informed me that he walked up the boulevard with Monsieur Jandidier, who left him at the corner of the Rue Richelieu, pleading a business engagement. He was not in his usual spirits, and seemed to be assailed by the gloomiest presentiments.”

“Very well, so far,” murmured the magistrate.

“On leaving Monsieur Blandureau, I went to the Rue Roi-de-Sicile to ascertain from somebody in the house whether Monsieur Jandidier had any customers or friends in the Rue Richelieu, but no one lived there except his tailor. I therefore proceeded hap-hazard to the tailor. He saw our man Saturday. Monsieur Jandidier called on him after nine o’clock to order a pair of trousers. While his measure was being taken, he noticed that one of his vest buttons was nearly off, and asked to have it sewed on. He was obliged to take off his overcoat while the trifling repair was made, and as at the same time he removed the contents of the side pocket, the tailor noticed several hundred-franc bank-bills.”

“Ah!” that’s a clew, “He had a considerable sum of money with him?”

“Considerable, no; but tolerably large. The tailor estimates it at twelve or fourteen hundred francs.”

“Go on,” said the magistrate.

“While his vest was being repaired, Monsieur Jandidier complained of sudden indisposition, and sent a little boy for a carriage, saying that he was obliged to go to one of his workmen, who lived a long distance off. Unfortunately, the lad had forgotten the number of the carriage. He only recollected that it had yellow wheels, and was drawn by a large black horse. The vehicle was found. A circular sent to all who kept carriages for hire, put me on the track. I learned this morning that it was No. 6007. The driver, on being questioned, distinctly remembered having been stopped Saturday evening, about nine o’clock, in the Rue Richelieu, by a little boy, and waiting ten minutes in front of the Maison Gouin. The description he gave of his fare exactly suits our man, and he recognized the photograph among five different ones I showed him.”

Maitre Magloire stopped. He wanted to enjoy the approval visible in the magistrate’s expression.

“Monsieur Jandidier,” he continued, “ordered the driver to take him to No. 48 Rue d’Arras-Saint-Victor. In this house lives a workman named Jules Tarot, employed by Monsieur Jandidier.”

M. Magloire’s way of pronouncing this name was intended to rouse the magistrate’s attention, and did so.

“You have suspicions?” he asked.

“Not exactly, but this is the story. Monsieur Jandidier dismissed the carriage at the Rue d’Arras and went to Tarot’s about ten o’clock. At eleven the employer and workman came out together. The latter did not return until midnight, and here I lose all trace of my man. Of course I didn’t question Tarot, for fear of putting him on his guard.”

“Who is this Jules Tarot?”

“A workman in mother-of-pearl, a man who polishes shells on a grindstone to make them perfectly iridescent. He’s a skillful fellow, and, assisted by his wife, to whom he has taught his trade, can make nearly a hundred francs a week.”

“They are in easy circumstances, then?”

“Oh! no. They are both young, they have no children, they are Parisians. Deuce take it, they enjoy themselves. Monday regularly carries away what the other days bring.”

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