silent and sad, and only responded by monosyllables.  He tried to speak out and to struggle against the hesitation he felt.  He did not think, when he came, that he should have this reluctance; he had said to himself that he would go in and explain himself.  Did he fear to be ridiculed?  No.  His passion was above the fear of sarcasm or irony.  And what did he risk?  Nothing.  Had not M. Lecoq already divined the secret thoughts he dared not impart to him, and read his heart from the first?  He was reflecting thus when the door-bell rang.  Janouille went to the door, and speedily returned with the announcement that Goulard begged to speak with M. Lecoq, and asked if she should admit him.

“Certainly.”

The chains clanked and the locks scraped, and presently Goulard made his appearance.  He had donned his best clothes, with spotless linen, and a very high collar.  He was respectful, and stood as stiffly as a well-drilled grenadier before his sergeant.

“What the deuce brought you here?” said M. Lecoq, sternly.  “And who dared to give you my address?”

“Monsieur,” said Goulard, visibly intimidated by his reception, “please excuse me; I was sent by Doctor Gendron with this letter for Monsieur Plantat.”

“Oh,” cried M. Plantat, “I asked the doctor, last evening, to let me know the result of the autopsy, and not knowing where I should put up, took the liberty of giving your address.”

M. Lecoq took the letter and handed it to his guest.  “Read it, read it,” said the latter.  “There is nothing in it to conceal.”

“All right; but come into the other room.  Janouille, give this man some breakfast.  Make yourself at home, Goulard, and empty a bottle to my health.”

When the door of the other room was closed, M. Lecoq broke the seal of the letter, and read: 

“My dear Plantat: 

“You asked me for a word, so I scratch off a line or two which I shall send to our sorcerer’s—­”

“Oh, ho,” cried M. Lecoq.  “Monsieur Gendron is too good, too flattering, really!”

No matter, the compliment touched his heart.  He resumed the letter: 

“At three this morning we exhumed poor Sauvresy’s body.  I certainly deplore the frightful circumstances of this worthy man’s death as much as anyone; but on the other hand, I cannot help rejoicing at this excellent opportunity to test the efficacy of my sensitive paper—­”

“Confound these men of science,” cried the indignant Plantat.  “They are all alike!”

“Why so?  I can very well comprehend the doctor’s involuntary sensations.  Am I not ravished when I encounter a fine crime?”

And without waiting for his guest’s reply, he continued reading the letter: