intonations with which they were spoken.  In an inquest such as that of the crime of Orcival, when several officials find themselves face to face, they hold a certain reserve toward each other.  They know each other to have nearly equal experience, to be shrewd, clear-headed, equally interested in discovering the truth, not disposed to confide in appearances, difficult to surprise.  Each one, likely enough, gives a different interpretation to the facts revealed; each may have a different theory of the deed; but a superficial observer would not note these differences.  Each, while dissimulating his real thoughts, tries to penetrate those of his neighbor, and if they are opposed to his own, to convert him to his opinion.  The great importance of a single word justifies this caution.  Men who hold the liberty and lives of others in their hands, a scratch of whose pen condemns to death, are apt to feel heavily the burden of their responsibility.  It is an ineffable solace, to feel that this burden is shared by others.  This is, why no one dares take the initiative, or express himself openly; but each awaits other opinions, to adopt or oppose them.  They exchange fewer affirmations than suggestions.  They proceed by insinuation; then they utter commonplaces, ridiculous suppositions, asides, provocative, as it were, of other explanations.

In this instance, the judge of instruction and Plantat were far from being of the same opinion; they knew it before speaking a word.  But M. Domini, whose opinion rested on material and palpable facts, which appeared to him indisputable, was not disposed to provoke contradiction.  Plantat, on the contrary, whose system seemed to rest on impressions, on a series of logical deductions, would not clearly express himself, without a positive and pressing invitation.  His last speech, impressively uttered, had not been replied to; he judged that he had advanced far enough to sound the detective.

“Well, Monsieur Lecoq,” asked he, “have you found any new traces?”

M. Lecoq was at that moment curiously examining a large portrait of the Count Hector, which hung opposite the bed.  Hearing M. Plantat’s question, he turned.

“I have found nothing decisive,” answered he, “and I have found nothing to refute my conjectures.  But—­”

He did not finish; perhaps he too, recoiled before his share of the responsibility.

“What?” insisted M. Domini, sternly.

“I was going to say,” resumed M. Lecoq, “that I am not yet satisfied.  I have my lantern and a candle in it; I only need a match—­”

“Please preserve your decorum,” interrupted the judge severely.

“Very well, then,” continued M. Lecoq, in a tone too humble to be serious, “I still hesitate.  If the doctor, now, would kindly proceed to examine the countess’s body, he would do me a great service.”

“I was just going to ask the same favor, Doctor,” said M. Domini.