M. Lecoq had on this day assumed a handsome wig of lank hair, of that vague color called Paris blonde, parted on the side by a line pretentiously fanciful; whiskers of the same color puffed out with bad pomade, encircled a pallid face.  His big eyes seemed congealed within their red border, an open smile rested on his thick lips, which, in parting, discovered a range of long yellow teeth.  His face, otherwise, expressed nothing in particular.  It was a nearly equal mixture of timidity, self-sufficiency, and contentment.  It was quite impossible to concede the least intelligence to the possessor of such a phiz.  One involuntarily looked for a goitre.  The retail haberdashers, who, having cheated for thirty years in their threads and needles, retire with large incomes, should have such heads as this.  His apparel was as dull as his person.  His coat resembled all coats, his trousers all trousers.  A hair chain, the same color as his whiskers, was attached to a large silver watch, which bulged out his left waistcoat pocket.  While speaking, he fumbled with a confection-box made of transparent horn, full of little square lozenges, and adorned by a portrait of a very homely, well-dressed woman—­“the defunct,” no doubt.  As the conversation proceeded, according as he was satisfied or disturbed, M. Lecoq munched a lozenge, or directed glances toward the portrait which were quite a poem in themselves.

Having examined the man a long time, the judge of instruction shrugged his shoulders.  “Well,” said M. Domini, finally, “now that you are here, we will explain to you what has occurred.”

“Oh, that’s quite useless,” responded Lecoq, with a satisfied air, “perfectly useless, sir.”

“Nevertheless, it is necessary that you should know—­”

“What? that which monsieur the judge knows?” interrupted the detective, “for that I already know.  Let us agree there has been a murder, with theft as its motive; and start from that point.  The countess’s body has been found—­not so that of the count.  What else?  Bertaud, an acknowledged rogue, is arrested; he merits a little punishment, doubtless.  Guespin came back drunk; ah, there are sad charges against this Guespin!  His past is deplorable; it is not known where he passed the night, he refuses to answer, he brings no alibi—­this is indeed grave!”

M. Plantat gazed at the detective with visible pleasure.

“Who has told you about these things?” asked M. Domini.

“Well—­everybody has told me a little.”

“But where?”

“Here:  I’ve already been here two hours, and even heard the mayor’s speech.”

And, satisfied with the effect he had produced, M. Lecoq munched a lozenge.

“You were not aware, then,” resumed the judge, “that I was waiting for you?”

“Pardon me,” said the detective; “I hope you will be kind enough to hear me.  You see, it is indispensable to study the ground; one must look about, establish his batteries.  I am anxious to catch the general rumor—­public opinion, as they say, so as to distrust it.”