“I am here,” continued the old fellow, “completely at the service of justice.”

“I wish to know,” said M. Daburon, “whether you can discover some clue that will put us upon the track of the assassin.  I will explain the—­”

“Oh, I know enough of it!” interrupted old Tabaret.  “Lecoq has told me the principal facts, just as much as I desire to know.”

“Nevertheless—­” commenced the commissary of police.

“If you will permit me, I prefer to proceed without receiving any details, in order to be more fully master of my own impressions.  When one knows another’s opinion it can’t help influencing one’s judgment.  I will, if you please, at once commence my researches, with Lecoq’s assistance.”

As the old fellow spoke, his little gray eyes dilated, and became brilliant as carbuncles.  His face reflected an internal satisfaction; even his wrinkles seemed to laugh.  His figure became erect, and his step was almost elastic, as he darted into the inner chamber.

He remained there about half an hour; then came out running, then re-entered and then again came out; once more he disappeared and reappeared again almost immediately.  The magistrate could not help comparing him to a pointer on the scent, his turned-up nose even moved about as if to discover some subtle odour left by the assassin.  All the while he talked loudly and with much gesticulation, apostrophising himself, scolding himself, uttering little cries of triumph or self-encouragement.  He did not allow Lecoq to have a moment’s rest.  He wanted this or that or the other thing.  He demanded paper and a pencil.  Then he wanted a spade; and finally he cried out for plaster of Paris, some water and a bottle of oil.

When more than an hour had elapsed, the investigating magistrate began to grow impatient, and asked what had become of the amateur detective.

“He is on the road,” replied the corporal, “lying flat in the mud, and mixing some plaster in a plate.  He says he has nearly finished, and that he is coming back presently.”

He did in fact return almost instantly, joyous, triumphant, looking at least twenty years younger.  Lecoq followed him, carrying with the utmost precaution a large basket.

“I have solved the riddle!” said Tabaret to the magistrate.  “It is all clear now, and as plain as noon-day.  Lecoq, my lad, put the basket on the table.”

Gevrol at this moment returned from his expedition equally delighted.

“I am on the track of the man with the earrings,” said he; “the boat went down the river.  I have obtained an exact description of the master Gervais.”

“What have you discovered, M. Tabaret!” asked the magistrate.

The old fellow carefully emptied upon the table the contents of the basket,—­a big lump of clay, several large sheets of paper, and three or four small lumps of plaster yet damp.  Standing behind this table, he presented a grotesque resemblance to those mountebank conjurers who in the public squares juggle the money of the lookers-on.  His clothes had greatly suffered; he was covered with mud up to the chin.