Other circumstances occurred, each of which had its influence, and one and all of them speaking in the prisoner’s favor.  For instance, the second bureau of the Prefecture de Police found positive traces of the existence of a strolling artist, named Tringlot, who was probably the man referred to in May’s story.  This Tringlot had been dead several years.  Then again, inquiries made in Germany revealed the fact that a certain M. Simpson was very well known in that country, where he had achieved great celebrity as a circus manager.

In presence of this information and the negative result of the scrutiny to which May had been subjected, the governor of the Depot abandoned his views and openly confessed that he had been mistaken.  “The prisoner, May,” he wrote to the magistrate, “is really and truly what he pretends to be.  There can be no further doubt on the subject.”  This message, it may be added, was sent at Gevrol’s instigation.

So thus it was that M. Segmuller and Lecoq alone remained of their opinion.  This opinion was at least worthy of consideration, as they alone knew all the details of the investigation which had been conducted with such strict secrecy; and yet this fact was of little import.  It is not merely unpleasant, but often extremely dangerous to struggle on against all the world, and unfortunately for truth and logic one man’s opinion, correct though it may be, is nothing in the balance of daily life against the faulty views of a thousand adversaries.

The “May affair” had soon become notorious among the members of the police force; and whenever Lecoq appeared at the Prefecture he had to brave his colleagues’ sarcastic pleasantry.  Nor did M. Segmuller escape scot free; for more than one fellow magistrate, meeting him on the stairs or in the corridor, inquired, with a smile, what he was doing with his Casper Hauser, his man in the Iron Mask, in a word, with his mysterious mountebank.  When thus assailed, both M. Segmuller and Lecoq could scarcely restrain those movements of angry impatience which come naturally to a person who feels certain he is in the right and yet can not prove it.

“Ah, me!” sometimes exclaimed the magistrate, “why did D’Escorval break his leg?  Had it not been for that cursed mishap, he would have been obliged to endure all these perplexities, and I—­I should be enjoying myself like other people.”

“And I thought myself so shrewd!” murmured the young detective by his side.

Little by little anxiety did its work.  Magistrate and detective both lost their appetites and looked haggard; and yet the idea of yielding never once occurred to them.  Although of very different natures, they were both determined to persevere in the task they had set themselves—­that of solving this tantalizing enigma.  Lecoq, indeed, had resolved to renounce all other claims upon his time, and to devote himself entirely to the study of the case.  “Henceforth,” he said to M. Segmuller, “I also will constitute myself a prisoner; and although the suspected murderer will be unable to see me, I shall not lose sight of him!”