“He?” cried Lecoq.  “No danger of that.  He works so much for the glory of success that he often spends money from his own pocket.  It’s his amusement, you see!  At the Prefecture we have nicknamed him ‘Tirauclair,’ from a phrase he is constantly in the habit of repeating.  Ah! he is sharp, the old weasel!  It was he who in the case of that banker’s wife, you remember, guessed that the lady had robbed herself, and who proved it.”

“True!” retorted Gevrol; “and it was also he who almost had poor Dereme guillotined for killing his wife, a thorough bad woman; and all the while the poor man was innocent.”

“We are wasting our time, gentlemen,” interrupted M. Daburon.  Then, addressing himself to Lecoq, he added:—­“Go and find M. Tabaret.  I have heard a great deal of him, and shall be glad to see him at work here.”

Lecoq started off at a run, Gevrol was seriously humiliated.  “You have of course, sir, the right to demand the services of whom you please,” commenced he, “but yet—­”

“Do not,” interrupted M. Daburon, “let us lose our tempers, M. Gevrol.  I have known you for a long time, and I know your worth; but to-day we happen to differ in opinion.  You hold absolutely to your sunburnt man in the blouse, and I, on my side, am convinced that you are not on the right track!”

“I think I am right,” replied the detective, “and I hope to prove it.  I shall find the scoundrel, be he whom he may!”

“I ask nothing better,” said M. Daburon.

“Only, permit me, sir, to give—­what shall I say without failing in respect?—­a piece of advice?”

“Speak!”

“I would advise you, sir, to distrust old Tabaret.”

“Really?  And for what reason?”

“The old fellow allows himself to be carried away too much by appearances.  He has become an amateur detective for the sake of popularity, just like an author; and, as he is vainer than a peacock, he is apt to lose his temper and be very obstinate.  As soon as he finds himself in the presence of a crime, like this one, for example, he pretends he can explain everything on the instant.  And he manages to invent a story that will correspond exactly with the situation.  He professes, with the help of one single fact, to be able to reconstruct all the details of an assassination, as a savant pictures an antediluvian animal from a single bone.  Sometimes he divines correctly; very often, though, he makes a mistake.  Take, for instance, the case of the tailor, the unfortunate Dereme, without me—­”

“I thank you for your advice,” interrupted M. Daburon, “and will profit by it.  Now commissary,” he continued, “it is most important to ascertain from what part of the country Widow Lerouge came.”

The procession of witnesses under the charge of the corporal of gendarmes were again interrogated by the investigating magistrate.

But nothing new was elicited.  It was evident that Widow Lerouge had been a singularly discreet woman; for, although very talkative, nothing in any way connected with her antecedents remained in the memory of the gossips of La Jonchere.