He paused, and then handing Lecoq’s missive to the magistrate, quietly added:  “It was rolled up in a bit of bread.”

This declaration was so unexpected, that it struck all the officials dumb with surprise, but the prisoner, without seeming to notice the effect he had produced, placidly continued:  “I suppose the person who threw it, made a mistake in the window.  I know very well that it’s a mean piece of business to denounce a companion in prison.  It’s a cowardly act and one may get into trouble by doing so; still, a fellow must be prudent when he’s charged with murder as I am, and with something very unpleasant, perhaps, in store for him.”

A terribly significant gesture of severing the head from the body left no doubt whatever as to what May meant by the “something very unpleasant.”

“And yet I am innocent,” continued May, in a sorrowful, reproachful tone.

The magistrate had by this time recovered the full possession of his faculties.  Fixing his eyes upon the prisoner and concentrating in one magnetic glance all his power of will, he slowly exclaimed:  “You speak falsely!  It was for you that this note was intended.”

“For me!  Then I must be the greatest of fools, or why should I have sent for you to show it you?  For me?  In that case, why didn’t I keep it?  Who knew, who could know that I had received it?”

These words were uttered with such a marvelous semblance of honesty, May’s gaze was frank and open, his voice rang so true, and his reasoning was so specious, that all the governor’s doubts returned.

“And what if I could prove that you are uttering a falsehood?” insisted M. Segmuller.  “What if I could prove it—­here and now?”

“You would have to lie to do so!  Oh! pardon!  Excuse me; I mean—­”

But the magistrate was not in a frame of mind to stickle for nicety of expression.  He motioned May to be silent; and, turning to Lecoq, exclaimed:  “Show the prisoner that you have discovered the key to his secret correspondence.”

A sudden change passed over May’s features.  “Ah! it is this agent of police who says the letter was for me,” he remarked in an altered tone.  “The same agent who asserts that I am a grand seigneur.”  Then, looking disdainfully at Lecoq, he added:  “Under these circumstances there’s no hope for me.  When the police are absolutely determined that a man shall be found guilty, they contrive to prove his guilt; everybody knows that.  And when a prisoner receives no letters, an agent, who wishes to show that he is corresponding knows well enough how to write to him.”

May’s features wore such an expression of marked contempt that Lecoq could scarcely refrain from making an angry reply.  He restrained his impulse, however, in obedience to a warning gesture from the magistrate, and taking from the table the volume of Beranger’s songs, he endeavored to prove to the prisoner that each number in the note which he had shown M. Segmuller corresponded with a word on the page indicated, and that these various words formed several intelligible phrases.  This overpowering evidence did not seem to trouble May in the least.  After expressing the same admiration for this novel system of correspondence that a child would show for a new toy, he declared his belief that no one could equal the police in such machinations.