“Ah, wretch!”

And almost immediately a loud shout rent the air, and the detective’s mocking tones were heard: 

“There he is!  I’ve persuaded him to pay his respects to us—­light me up a little.”

The doctor and his host hastened to the lamp; their zeal caused a delay, and at the moment that the doctor raised the lamp, the door was rudely pushed open.

“I beg to present to you,” said M. Lecoq, “Master Robelot, bone-setter of Orcival, herborist by prudence, and poisoner by vocation.”

The stupefaction of the others was such that neither could speak.

It was really the bone-setter, working his jaws nervously.  His adversary had thrown him down by the famous knee-stroke which is the last resort of the worst prowlers about the Parisian barriers.  But it was not so much Robelot’s presence which surprised M. Plantat and his friend.  Their stupor was caused by the detective’s appearance; who, with his wrist of steel—­as rigid as handcuffs—­ held the doctor’s ex-assistant, and pushed him forward.  The voice was certainly Lecoq’s; there was his costume, his big-knotted cravat, his yellow-haired watch-chain—­still it was no longer Lecoq.  He was blond, with highly cultivated whiskers, when he jumped out the window; he returned, brown, with a smooth face.  The man who had jumped out was a middle-aged person, with an expressive face which was in turn idiotic and intelligent; the man who returned by the door was a fine young fellow of thirty-five, with a beaming eye and a sensitive lip; a splendid head of curly black hair, brought out vividly the pallor of his complexion, and the firm outline of his head and face.  A wound appeared on his neck, just below the chin.

“Monsieur Lecoq!” cried M. Plantat, recovering his voice.

“Himself,” answered the detective, “and this time the true Lecoq.”  Turning to Robelot, he slapped him on the shoulder and added: 

“Go on, you.”

Robelot fell upon a sofa, but the detective continued to hold him fast.

“Yes,” he continued, “this rascal has robbed me of my blond locks.  Thanks to him and in spite of myself, you see me as I am, with the head the Creator gave me, and which is really my own.”  He gave a careless gesture, half angry, half good-humored.  “I am the true Lecoq; and to tell the truth, only three persons besides yourselves really know him—­two trusted friends, and one who is infinitely less so—­she of whom I spoke a while ago.”

The eyes of the other two met as if to question each other, and M. Lecoq continued: 

“What can a fellow do?  All is not rose color in my trade.  We run such dangers, in protecting society, as should entitle us to the esteem, if not the affection of our fellow-men:  Why, I am condemned to death, at this moment, by seven of the most dangerous criminals in France.  I have caught them, you see, and they have sworn—­they are men of their word, too—­that I should only die by their hands.  Where are these wretches?  Four at Cayenne, one at Brest; I’ve had news of them.  But the other two?  I’ve lost their track.  Who knows whether one of them hasn’t followed me here, and whether to-morrow, at the turning of some obscure road, I shall not get six inches of cold steel in my stomach?”