M. Daburon refused this request.  He declared, that, for the present, the prisoner must continue to remain strictly in solitary confinement.  By way of consolation, he added that, in three or four days, he might perhaps be able to reconsider this decision, as the motives which prompted it would then no longer exist.

“Your refusal is cruel, sir,” said M. Tabaret; “but I understand it, and submit.”

That was his only complaint:  and he withdrew almost immediately, fearing that he could no longer master his indignation.  He felt that, besides the great happiness of saving an innocent man, compromised by his imprudence, he would experience unspeakable delight in avenging himself for the magistrate’s obstinacy.

“Three or four days,” he muttered, “that is the same as three or four years to the unfortunate prisoner.  He takes things quite at his ease, this charming magistrate.  But I must find out the real truth of the case between now and then.”

Yes, M. Daburon only required three or four days to wring a confession from Albert, or at least to make him abandon his system of defence.

The difficulty of the prosecution was not being able to produce any witness who had seen the prisoner during the evening of Shrove Tuesday.

One deposition alone to that effect would have such great weight, that M. Daburon, as soon as Tabaret had left him, turned all his attention in that direction.  He could still hope for a great deal.  It was only Saturday, the day of the murder was remarkable enough to fix people’s memories, and up till then there had not been time to start a proper investigation.

He arranged for five of the most experienced detectives in the secret service to be sent to Bougival, supplied with photographs of the prisoner.  They were to scour the entire country between Rueil and La Jonchere, to inquire everywhere, and make the most minute investigations.  The photographs would greatly aid their efforts.  They had orders to show them everywhere and to everybody and even to leave a dozen about the neighbourhood, as they were furnished with a sufficient number to do so.  It was impossible, that, on an evening when so many people were about, no one had noticed the original of the portrait either at the railway station at Rueil or upon one of the roads which lead to La Jonchere, the high road, and the path by the river.

These arrangements made, the investigating magistrate proceeded to the Palais de Justice, and sent for Albert.  He had already in the morning received a report, informing him hour by hour of the acts, gestures, and utterances of the prisoner, who had been carefully watched.  Nothing in him, the report said, betrayed the criminal.  He seemed very sad, but not despairing.  He had not cried out, nor threatened, nor cursed justice, nor even spoken of a fatal error.  After eating lightly, he had gone to the window of his cell, and had there remained standing for more than an hour.  Then he laid down, and had quietly gone to sleep.