“About eight o’clock.”

“Did you carry an umbrella?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you go?”

“I walked about.”

“Alone, without any object, all the evening?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now trace out your wanderings for me very carefully.”

“Ah, sir, that is very difficult to do!  I went out simply to walk about, for the sake of exercise, to drive away the torpor which had depressed me for three days.  I don’t know whether you can picture to yourself my exact condition.  I was half out of my mind.  I walked about at hazard along the quays.  I wandered through the streets,—­”

“All that is very improbable,” interrupted the magistrate.  M. Daburon, however, knew that it was at least possible.  Had not he himself, one night, in a similar condition, traversed all Paris?  What reply could he have made, had some one asked him next morning where he had been, except that he had not paid attention, and did not know?  But he had forgotten this; and his previous hesitations, too, had all vanished.

As the inquiry advanced, the fever of investigation took possession of him.  He enjoyed the emotions of the struggle, his passion for his calling became stronger than ever.

He was again an investigating magistrate, like the fencing master, who, once practising with his dearest friend, became excited by the clash of the weapons, and, forgetting himself, killed him.

“So,” resumed M. Daburon, “you met absolutely no one who can affirm that he saw you?  You did not speak to a living soul?  You entered no place, not even a cafe or a theatre, or a tobacconist’s to light one of your favourite trabucos?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, it is a great misfortune for you, yes, a very great misfortune; for I must inform you, that it was precisely during this Tuesday evening, between eight o’clock and midnight, that Widow Lerouge was assassinated.  Justice can point out the exact hour.  Again, sir, in your own interest, I recommend you to reflect,—­to make a strong appeal to your memory.”

This pointing out of the exact day and hour of the murder seemed to astound Albert.  He raised his hand to his forehead with a despairing gesture.  However he replied in a calm voice,—­“I am very unfortunate, sir:  but I can recollect nothing.”

M. Daburon’s surprise was immense.  What, not an alibi?  Nothing?  This could be no snare nor system of defence.  Was, then, this man as cunning as he had imagined?  Doubtless.  Only he had been taken unawares.  He had never imagined it possible for the accusation to fall upon him; and it was almost by a miracle it had done so.

The magistrate slowly raised, one by one, the large pieces of paper that covered the articles seized in Albert’s rooms.

“We will pass,” he continued, “to the examination of the charges which weigh against you.  Will you please come nearer?  Do you recognize these articles as belonging to yourself?”