the story in a sentence.  All the same, it is but natural; when one is pursuing a stag, one does not stop to shoot a blackbird.  But I see very well now, I did not draw him out enough.  On the other hand, by questioning him more, I might have awakened suspicions in Noel’s mind, and led him to discover that I am working for the Rue de Jerusalem.  To be sure, I do not blush for my connection with the police, I am even vain of it; but at the same time, I prefer that no one should know of it.  People are so stupid, that they detest the police, who protect them; I must be calm and on my best behaviour, for here I am at the end of my journey.”

M. Daburon had just gone to bed, but had given orders to his servant; so that M. Tabaret had but to give his name, to be at once conducted to the magistrate’s sleeping apartment.  At sight of his amateur detective, M. Daburon raised himself in his bed, saying, “There is something extraordinary!  What have you discovered? have you got a clue?”

“Better than that,” answered the old fellow, smiling with pleasure.

“Speak quickly!”

“I know the culprit!”

Old Tabaret ought to have been satisfied; he certainly produced an effect.  The magistrate bounded in his bed.  “Already!” said he.  “Is it possible?”

“I have the honour to repeat to you, sir,” resumed the old fellow, “that I know the author of the crime of La Jonchere.”

“And I,” said M. Daburon, “I proclaim you the greatest of all detectives, past or future.  I shall certainly never hereafter undertake an investigation without your assistance.”

“You are too kind, sir.  I have had little or nothing to do in the matter.  The discovery is due to chance alone.”

“You are modest, M. Tabaret.  Chance assists only the clever, and it is that which annoys the stupid.  But I beg you will be seated and proceed.”

Then with the lucidness and precision of which few would have believed him capable, the old fellow repeated to the magistrate all that he had learned from Noel.  He quoted from memory the extracts from the letters, almost without changing a word.

“These letters,” added he, “I have seen; and I have even taken one, in order to verify the writing.  Here it is.”

“Yes,” murmured the magistrate—­“Yes, M. Tabaret, you have discovered the criminal.  The evidence is palpable, even to the blind.  Heaven has willed this.  Crime engenders crime.  The great sin of the father has made the son an assassin.”

“I have not given you the names, sir,” resumed old Tabaret.  “I wished first to hear your opinion.”

“Oh! you can name them,” interrupted M. Daburon with a certain degree of animation, “no matter how high he may have to strike, a French magistrate has never hesitated.”

“I know it, sir, but we are going very high this time.  The father who has sacrificed his legitimate son for the sake of his bastard is Count Rheteau de Commarin, and the assassin of Widow Lerouge is the bastard, Viscount Albert de Commarin!”