Even when presumptive evidence points clearly to the criminal, and common sense recognises him, justice is at times compelled to acknowledge her defeat, for lack of what the jury consider sufficient proof of guilt.  Thus, unhappily, many crimes escape punishment.  An old advocate-general said one day that he knew as many as three assassins, living rich, happy, and respected, who would probably end by dying in their beds, surrounded by their families, and being followed to the grave with lamentations, and praised for their virtues in their epitaphs.

At the idea that a murderer might escape the penalty of his crime, and steal away from the assize court, old Tabaret’s blood fairly boiled in his veins, as at the recollection of some deadly insult.

Such a monstrous event, in his opinion, could only proceed from the incapacity of those charged with the preliminary inquiry, the clumsiness of the police, or the stupidity of the investigating magistrate.

“It is not I,” he muttered, with the satisfied vanity of success, “who would ever let my prey escape.  No crime can be committed, of which the author cannot be found, unless, indeed, he happens to be a madman, whose motive it would be difficult to understand.  I would pass my life in pursuit of a criminal, before avowing myself vanquished, as Gevrol has done so many times.”

Assisted by chance, he had again succeeded, so he kept repeating to himself, but what proofs could he furnish to the accusation, to that confounded jury, so difficult to convince, so precise and so cowardly?  What could he imagine to force so cunning a culprit to betray himself?  What trap could he prepare?  To what new and infallible stratagem could he have recourse?

The amateur detective exhausted himself in subtle but impracticable combinations, always stopped by that exacting jury, so obnoxious to the agents of the Rue de Jerusalem.  He was so deeply absorbed in his thoughts that he did not hear the door open, and was utterly unconscious of the magistrate’s presence.

M. Daburon’s voice aroused him from his reverie.

“You will excuse me, M. Tabaret, for having left you so long alone.”

The old fellow rose and bowed respectfully.

“By my faith, sir,” replied he, “I have not had the leisure to perceive my solitude.”

M. Daburon crossed the room, and seated himself, facing his agent before a small table encumbered with papers and documents relating to the crime.  He appeared very much fatigued.

“I have reflected a good deal,” he commenced, “about this affair—­”

“And I,” interrupted old Tabaret, “was just asking myself what was likely to be the attitude assumed by the viscount at the moment of his arrest.  Nothing is more important, according to my idea, than his manner of conducting himself then.  Will he fly into a passion?  Will he attempt to intimidate the agents?  Will he threaten to turn them out of the house?  These are generally the tactics of titled criminals.  My opinion, however, is, that he will remain perfectly cool.  He will declare himself the victim of a misunderstanding, and insist upon an immediate interview with the investigating magistrate.  Once that is accorded him, he will explain everything very quickly.”