M. Daburon surveyed the detective pityingly, much as he would have looked at a remarkable monomaniac.  When the old fellow had finished,—­“My worthy M. Tabaret,” the magistrate said to him:  “you have but one fault.  You err through an excess of subtlety, you accord too freely to others the wonderful sagacity with which you yourself are endowed.  Our man has failed in prudence, simply because he believed his rank would place him above suspicion.”

“No, sir, no, a thousand times no.  My culprit,—­the true one,—­he whom we have missed catching, feared everything.  Besides, does Albert defend himself?  No.  He is overwhelmed because he perceives coincidences so fatal that they appear to condemn him, without a chance of escape.  Does he try to excuse himself?  No.  He simply replies, ‘It is terrible.’  And yet all through his examination I feel reticence that I cannot explain.”

“I can explain it very easily; and I am as confident as though he had confessed everything.  I have more than sufficient proofs for that.”

“Ah, sir, proofs!  There are always enough of those against an arrested man.  They existed against every innocent man who was ever condemned.  Proofs!  Why, I had them in quantities against Kaiser, the poor little tailor, who—­”

“Well,” interrupted the magistrate, hastily, “if it is not he, the most interested one, who committed the crime, who then is it?  His father, the Count de Commarin?”

“No:  the true assassin is a young man.”

M. Daburon had arranged his papers, and finished his preparations.  He took up his hat, and, as he prepared to leave, replied:  “You must then see that I am right.  Come and see me by-and-by, M. Tabaret, and make haste and get rid of all your foolish ideas.  To-morrow we will talk the whole matter over again.  I am rather tired to-night.”  Then he added, addressing his clerk, “Constant, look in at the record office, in case the prisoner Commarin should wish to speak to me.”

He moved towards the door; but M. Tabaret barred his exit.

“Sir,” said the old man, “in the name of heaven listen to me!  He is innocent, I swear to you.  Help me, then, to find the real culprit.  Sir, think of your remorse should you cause an—­”

But the magistrate would not hear more.  He pushed old Tabaret quickly aside, and hurried out.

The old man now turned to Constant.  He wished to convince him.  Lost trouble:  the tall clerk hastened to put his things away, thinking of his soup, which was getting cold.

So that M. Tabaret soon found himself locked out of the room and alone in the dark passage.  All the usual sounds of the Palais had ceased:  the place was silent as the tomb.  The old detective desperately tore his hair with both hands.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “Albert is innocent; and it is I who have cast suspicion upon him.  It is I, fool that I am, who have infused into the obstinate spirit of this magistrate a conviction that I can no longer destroy.  He is innocent and is yet enduring the most horrible anguish.  Suppose he should commit suicide!  There have been instances of wretched men, who in despair at being falsely accused have killed themselves in their cells.  Poor boy!  But I will not abandon him.  I have ruined him:  I will save him!  I must, I will find the culprit; and he shall pay dearly for my mistake, the scoundrel!”