“I don’t know,” stammered the latter.  “They didn’t tell me—­I thought—­”

M. Lecoq raised his hands as if to call the heavens to witness:  in his heart, he was charmed with this fine occasion to revenge himself for M. Domini’s disdain.  He could not, dared not say anything to the judge; but he had the right to banter the agent and visit his wrath upon him.

“Ah so, my lad,” said he, “what did you go to Paris for?  To show Guespin’s picture and detail the crime to the people at Vulcan’s Forges?  They ought to be very grateful to you; but Madame Petit, Monsieur Plantat’s housekeeper, would have done as much.”

At this stroke the man began to get angry; he frowned, and in his bluffest tone, began: 

“Look here now, you—­”

“Ta, ta, ta,” interrupted M. Lecoq.  “Let me alone, and know who is talking to you.  I am Monsieur Lecoq.”

The effect of the famous detective’s name on his antagonist was magical.  He naturally laid down his arms and surrendered, straightway becoming respectful and obsequious.  It almost flattered him to be roughly handled by such a celebrity.  He muttered, in an abashed and admiring tone: 

“What, is it possible?  You, Monsieur Lecoq!”

“Yes, it is I, young man; but console yourself; I bear no grudge against you.  You don’t know your trade, but you have done me a service and you have brought us a convincing proof of Guespin’s innocence.”

M. Domini looked on at this scene with secret chagrin.  His recruit went over to the enemy, yielding without a struggle to a confessed superiority.  M. Lecoq’s presumption, in speaking of a prisoner’s innocence whose guilt seemed to the judge indisputable, exasperated him.

“And what is this tremendous proof, if you please?” asked he.

“It is simple and striking,” answered M. Lecoq, putting on his most frivolous air as his conclusions narrowed the field of probabilities.

“You doubtless recollect that when we were at Valfeuillu we found the hands of the clock in the bedroom stopped at twenty minutes past three.  Distrusting foul play, I put the striking apparatus in motion—­do you recall it?  What happened?  The clock struck eleven.  That convinced us that the crime was committed before that hour.  But don’t you see that if Guespin was at the Vulcan’s Forges at ten he could not have got back to Valfeuillu before midnight?  Therefore it was not—­he who did the deed.”

The detective, as he came to this conclusion, pulled out the inevitable box and helped himself to a lozenge, at the same time bestowing upon the judge a smile which said: 

“Get out of that, if you can.”

The judge’s whole theory tumbled to pieces if M. Lecoq’s deductions were right; but he could not admit that he had been so much deceived; he could not renounce an opinion formed by deliberate reflection.

“I don’t pretend that Guespin is the only criminal,” said he.  “He could only have been an accomplice; and that he was.”