What could have been done in the face of such obstinacy?  M. Segmuller did not even attempt to argue the point, but quietly retired, followed by his companions.  Until they reached the governor’s office, he did not utter a word; then, sinking down into an armchair, he exclaimed:  “We must confess ourselves beaten.  This man will always remain what he is—­an inexplicable enigma.”

“But what is the meaning of the comedy he has just played?  I do not understand it at all,” remarked the governor.

“Why,” replied Lecoq, “don’t you see that he wished to persuade the magistrate that the first note, the one that fell into the cell while you and I were there yesterday, had been written by me in a mad desire to prove the truth of my theory at any cost?  It was a hazardous project; but the importance of the result to be gained must have emboldened him to attempt it.  Had he succeeded, I should have been disgraced; and he would have remained May—­the stroller, without any further doubt as to his identity.  But how could he know that I had discovered his secret correspondence, and that I was watching him from the loft overhead?  That will probably never be explained.”

The governor and the young detective exchanged glances of mutual distrust.  “Eh! eh!” thought the former, “yes, indeed, that note which fell into the cell while I was there the other day might after all have been this crafty fellow’s work.  His Father Absinthe may have served him in the first instance just as he did subsequently.”

While these reflections were flitting through the governor’s mind, Lecoq suspiciously remarked to himself:  “Who knows but what this fool of a governor confided everything to Gevrol?  If he did so, the General, jealous as he is, would not have scrupled to play one such a damaging trick.”

His thoughts had gone no further when Goguet, the smiling clerk, boldly broke the silence with the trite remark:  “What a pity such a clever comedy didn’t succeed.”

These words startled the magistrate from his reverie.  “Yes, a shameful farce,” said he, “and one I would never have authorized, had I not been blinded by a mad longing to arrive at the truth.  Such tricks only bring the sacred majesty of justice into contempt!”

At these bitter words, Lecoq turned white with anger.  This was the second affront within an hour.  The prisoner had first insulted him, and now it was the magistrate’s turn.  “I am defeated,” thought he.  “I must confess it.  Fate is against me!  Ah! if I had only succeeded!”

Disappointment alone had impelled M. Segmuller to utter these harsh words; they were both cruel and unjust, and the magistrate soon regretted them, and did everything in his power to drive them from Lecoq’s recollection.  They met every day after this unfortunate incident; and every morning, when the young detective came to give an account of his investigations, they had a long conference together.  For Lecoq still continued his efforts; still labored on with an obstinacy intensified by constant sneers; still pursued his investigations with that cold and determined zeal which keeps one’s faculties on the alert for years.