M. Plantat was dismayed.  How could he, a man of delicacy, prudence and finesse, have committed such an awkward mistake?  He had just cruelly wounded this man, who was so well disposed toward him, and he had everything to fear from his resentment.

“Far be it from me, dear friend,” he commenced, “to intend the offence you imagine.  You have misunderstood an insignificant phrase, which I let escape carelessly, and had no meaning at all.”

M. Lecoq grew calmer.

“Perhaps so.  You will forgive my being so susceptible, as I am more exposed to insults than most people.  Let’s leave the subject, which is a painful one, and return to Tremorel.”

M. Plantat was just thinking whether he should dare to broach his projects again, and he was singularly touched by M. Lecoq’s delicately resuming the subject of them.

“I have only to await your decision,” said the justice of the peace.

“I will not conceal from you,” resumed M. Lecoq, “that you are asking a very difficult thing, and one which is contrary to my duty, which commands me to search for Tremorel, to arrest him, and deliver him up to justice.  You ask me to protect him from the law—­”

“In the name of an innocent creature whom you will thereby save.”

“Once in my life I sacrificed my duty.  I could not resist the tears of a poor old mother, who clung to my knees and implored pardon for her son.  To-day I am going to exceed my right, and to risk an attempt for which my conscience will perhaps reproach me.  I yield to your entreaty.”

“Oh, my dear Lecoq, how grateful I am!” cried M. Plantat, transported with joy.

But the detective remained grave, almost sad, and reflected.

“Don’t let us encourage a hope which may be disappointed,” he resumed.  “I have but one means of keeping a criminal like Tremorel out of the courts; will it succeed?”

“Yes, yes.  If you wish it, it will!”

M. Lecoq could not help smiling at the old man’s faith.

“I am certainly a clever detective,” said he.  “But I am only a man after all, and I can’t answer for the actions of another man.  All depends upon Hector.  If it were another criminal, I should say I was sure.  I am doubtful about him, I frankly confess.  We ought, above all, to count upon the firmness of Mademoiselle Courtois; can we, think you?”

“She is firmness itself.”

“Then there’s hope.  But can we really suppress this affair?  What will happen when Sauvresy’s narrative is found?  It must be concealed somewhere in Valfeuillu, and Tremorel, at least, did not find it.”

“It will not be found,” said M. Plantat, quickly.

“You think so?”

“I am sure of it.”

M. Lecoq gazed intently at his companion, and simply said: 

“Ah!”

But this is what he thought:  “At last I am going to find out where the manuscript which we heard read the other night, and which is in two handwritings, came from.”