But he paused, chilled as he was by M. Daubigeon’s icy face, and amazed at M. Galpin’s refusal to take his proffered hand.

“Why,” he said, “what is the matter, my dear friend?”

The magistrate had never been stiffer in his life, when he replied,—­

“We shall have to forget our relations, sir.  It is not as a friend I come to-day, but as a magistrate.”

M. de Boiscoran looked confounded; but not a shadow of trouble appeared on his frank and open face.

“I’ll be hanged,” he said, “if I understand”—­

“Let us go in,” said M. Galpin.

They went in; and, as they passed the door, Mechinet whispered into the attorney’s ear,—­

“Sir, that man is certainly innocent.  A guilty man would never have received us thus.”

“Silence, sir!” said the commonwealth attorney, however much he was probably of his clerk’s opinion.  “Silence!”

And grave and sad he went and stood in one of the window embrasures.  M. Galpin remained standing in the centre of the room, trying to see every thing in it, and to fix it in his memory, down to the smallest details.  The prevailing disorder showed clearly how hastily M. de Boiscoran had gone to bed the night before.  His clothes, his boots, his shirt, his waistcoat, and his straw hat lay scattered about on the chairs and on the floor.  He wore those light gray trousers, which had been succcessively seen and recognized by Cocoleu, by Ribot, by Gaudry, and by Mrs. Courtois.

“Now, sir,” began M. de Boiscoran, with that slight angry tone of voice which shows that a man thinks a joke has been carried far enough, “will you please tell me what procures for me the honor of this early visit?”

Not a muscle in M. Galpin’s face was moving.  As if the question had been addressed to some one else, he said coldly,—­

“Will you please show us your hands, sir?”

M. de Boiscoran’s cheeks turned crimson; and his eyes assumed an expression of strange perplexity.

“If this is a joke,” he said, “it has perhaps lasted long enough.”

He was evidently getting angry.  M. Daubigeon thought it better to interfere, and thus he said,—­

“Unfortunately, sir, the question is a most serious one.  Do what the magistrate desires.”

More and more amazed, M. de Boiscoran looked rapidly around him.  In the door stood Anthony, his faithful old servant, with anguish on his face.  Near the fireplace, the clerk had improvised a table, and put his paper, his pens, and his horn inkstand in readiness.  Then with a shrug of his shoulders, which showed that he failed to understand, M. de Boiscoran showed his hands.

They were perfectly clean and white:  the long nails were carefully cleaned also.

“When did you last wash your hands?” asked M. Galpin, after having examined them minutely.

At this question, M. de Boiscoran’s face brightened up; and, breaking out into a hearty laugh, he said,—­