As soon as the detective found himself alone with M. Plantat: 

“Well,” he said, drawing a long breath, as if relieved of a heavy burden, “now we can get on.”

Plantat smiled; the detective munched a lozenge, and added: 

“It was very annoying to find the investigation already going on when I reached here.  Those who were here before me have had time to get up a theory, and if I don’t adopt it at once, there is the deuce to pay!”

M. Domini’s voice was heard in the entry, calling out to his clerk.

“Now there’s the judge of instruction,” continued Lecoq, “who thinks this a very simple affair; while I, Lecoq, the equal at least of Gevrol, the favorite pupil of Papa Tabaret—­I do not see it at all clearly yet.”

He stopped; and after apparently going over in his mind the result of his discoveries, went on:  “No; I’m off the track, and have almost lost my way.  I see something underneath all this—­but what? what?”

M. Plantat’s face remained placid, but his eyes shone.

“Perhaps you are right,” said he, carelessly; “perhaps there is something underneath.”  The detective looked at him; he didn’t stir.  His face seemed the most undisturbed in the world.  There was a long silence, by which M. Lecoq profited to confide to the portrait of the defunct the reflections which burdened his brain.

“See here, my dear darling,” said he, “this worthy person seems a shrewd old customer, and I must watch his actions and gestures carefully.  He does not argue with the judge; he’s got an idea that he doesn’t dare to tell, and we must find it out.  At the very first he guessed me out, despite these pretty blond locks.  As long as he thought he could, by misleading me, make me follow M. Domini’s tack, he followed and aided me showing me the way.  Now that he sees me on the scent, he crosses his arms and retires.  He wants to leave me the honor of the discovery.  Why?  He lives here—­perhaps he is afraid of making enemies.  No.  He isn’t a man to fear much of anything.  What then?  He shrinks from his own thoughts.  He has found something so amazing, that he dares not explain himself.”

A sudden reflection changed the course of M. Lecoq’s confidences.

“A thousand imps!” thought he.  “Suppose I’m wrong!  Suppose this old fellow is not shrewd at all!  Suppose he hasn’t discovered anything, and only obeys the inspirations of chance!  I’ve seen stranger things.  I’ve known so many of these folks whose eyes seem so very mysterious, and announce such wonders; after all, I found nothing, and was cheated.  But I intend to sound this old fellow well.”

And, assuming his most idiotic manner, he said aloud: 

“On reflection, Monsieur, little remains to be done.  Two of the principals are in custody, and when they make up their minds to talk—­they’ll do it, sooner or later, if the judge is determined they shall—­we shall know all.”