The Corbeil policeman was now undoubtedly Lecoq’s most enthusiastic listener.  Goulard literally drank in his chief’s words.  He had never heard any of his colleagues express themselves with such fervor and authority; he had had no idea of such eloquence, and he stood erect, as if some of the admiration which he saw in all the faces were reflected back on him.  He grew in his own esteem as he thought that he was a soldier in an army commanded by such generals.  He had no longer any opinion excepting that of his superior.  It was not so easy to persuade, subjugate, and convince the judge.

“But,” objected the latter, “you saw Guespin’s countenance?”

“Ah, what matters the countenance—­what does that prove?  Don’t we know if you and I were arrested to-morrow on a terrible charge, what our bearing would be?”

M. Domini gave a significant start; this hypothesis scarcely pleased him.

“And yet you and I are familiar with the machinery of justice.  When I arrested Lanscot, the poor servant in the Rue Marignan, his first words were:  ‘Come on, my account is good.’  The morning that Papa Tabaret and I took the Viscount de Commarin as he was getting out of bed, on the accusation of having murdered the widow Lerouge, he cried:  ‘I am lost.’  Yet neither of them were guilty; but both of them, the viscount and the valet, equal before the terror of a possible mistake of justice, and running over in their thoughts the charges which would be brought against them, had a moment of overwhelming discouragement.”

“But such discouragement does not last two days,” said M. Domini.

M. Lecoq did not answer this; he went on, growing more animated as he proceeded.

“You and I have seen enough prisoners to know how deceitful appearances are, and how little they are to be trusted.  It would be foolish to base a theory upon a prisoner’s bearing.  He who talked about ‘the cry of innocence’ was an idiot, just as the man was who prated about the ‘pale stupor’ of guilt.  Neither crime nor virtue have, unhappily, any especial countenance.  The Simon girl, who was accused of having killed her father, absolutely refused to answer any questions for twenty-two days; on the twenty-third, the murderer was caught.  As to the Sylvain affair—­”

M. Domini rapped lightly on his desk to check the detective.  As a man, the judge held too obstinately to his opinions; as a magistrate he was equally obstinate, but was at the same time ready to make any sacrifice of his self-esteem if the voice of duty prompted it.  M. Lecoq’s arguments had not shaken his convictions, but they imposed on him the duty of informing himself at once, and to either conquer the detective or avow himself conquered.

“You seem to be pleading,” said he to M. Lecoq.  “There is no need of that here.  We are not counsel and judge; the same honorable intentions animate us both.  Each, in his sphere, is searching after the truth.  You think you see it shining where I only discern clouds; and you may be mistaken as well as I.”