All these feelings combined, inspired M. Daburon with a feverish hatred, and urged him on in the path which he had chosen.  It was now less the proofs of Albert’s guilt which he sought for than the justification of his own conduct as magistrate.  The investigation became embittered like a personal matter.

In fact, were the prisoner innocent, he would become inexcusable in his own eyes; and, in proportion as he reproached himself the more severely, and as the knowledge of his own failings grew, he felt the more disposed to try everything to conquer his former rival, even to abusing his own power.  The logic of events urged him on.  It seemed as though his honour itself was at stake; and he displayed a passionate activity, such as he had never before been known to show in any investigation.

M. Daburon passed all Sunday in listening to the reports of the detectives he had sent to Bougival.

They had spared no trouble, they stated, but they could report nothing new.

They had heard many people speak of a woman, who pretended, they said, to have seen the assassin leave Widow Lerouge’s cottage; but no one had been able to point this woman out to them, or even to give them her name.

They all thought it their duty, however, to inform the magistrate that another inquiry was going on at the same time as theirs.  It was directed by M. Tabaret, who personally scoured the country round about in a cabriolet drawn by a very swift horse.  He must have acted with great promptness; for, no matter where they went, he had been there before them.  He appeared to have under his orders a dozen men, four of whom at least certainly belonged to the Rue de Jerusalem.  All the detectives had met him; and he had spoken to them.  To one, he had said:  “What the deuce are you showing this photograph for?  In less than no time you will have a crowd of witnesses, who, to earn three francs, will describe some one more like the portrait than the portrait itself.”

He had met another on the high-road, and had laughed at him.

“You are a simple fellow,” he cried out, “to hunt for a hiding man on the high-way; look a little aside, and you may find him.”

Again he had accosted two who were together in a cafe at Bougival, and had taken them aside.

“I have him,” he said to them.  “He is a smart fellow; he came by Chatois.  Three people have seen him—­two railway porters and a third person whose testimony will be decisive, for she spoke to him.  He was smoking.”

M. Daburon became so angry with old Tabaret, that he immediately started for Bougival, firmly resolved to bring the too zealous man back to Paris, and to report his conduct in the proper quarter.  The journey, however, was useless.  M. Tabaret, the cabriolet, the swift horse, and the twelve men had all disappeared, or at least were not to be found.

On returning home, greatly fatigued, and very much out of temper, the investigating magistrate found the following telegram from the chief of the detective force awaiting him; it was brief, but to the point: