The young detective paused in evident embarrassment.  He plainly had some idea in his head to which he feared to give expression.

“And besides?” repeated the magistrate.

“Ah, well, sir!  I will be perfectly frank with you.  I find that Gevrol enjoys too much liberty at the Depot; he is perfectly at home there, he comes and goes as he likes, and no one ever thinks of asking what he is doing, where he is going, or what he wants.  No pass is necessary for his admission, and he can influence the governor just as he likes.  Now, to tell the truth, I distrust Gevrol.”

“Oh!  Monsieur Lecoq!”

“Yes, I know very well that it’s a bold accusation, but a man is not master of his presentiments:  so there it is, I distrust Gevrol.  Did the prisoner know that I was watching him from the loft, and that I had discovered his secret correspondence, was he ignorant of it?  To my mind he evidently knew everything, as the last scene we had with him proves.”

“I must say that’s my own opinion,” interrupted M. Segmuller.

“But how could he have known it?” resumed Lecoq.  “He could not have discovered it by himself.  I endured tortures for a while in the hope of solving the problem.  But all my trouble was wasted.  Now the supposition of Gevrol’s intervention would explain everything.”

M. Segmuller had turned pale with anger.  “Ah! if I could really believe that!” he exclaimed; “if I were sure of it!  Have you any proofs?”

The young man shook his head.  “No,” said he, “I haven’t; but even if my hands were full of proofs I should not dare to show them.  I should ruin my future.  Ah, if ever I succeed, I must expect many such acts of treachery.  There is hatred and rivalry in every profession.  And, mark this, sir—­I don’t doubt Gevrol’s honesty.  If a hundred thousand francs were counted out upon the table and offered to him, he wouldn’t even try to release a prisoner.  But he would rob justice of a dozen criminals in the mere hope of injuring me, jealous as he is, and fearing lest I might obtain advancement.”

How many things these simple words explained.  Did they not give the key to many and many an enigma which justice has failed to solve, simply on account of the jealousy and rivalry that animate the detective force?  Thus thought M. Segmuller, but he had no time for further reflection.

“That will do,” said he, “go into the drawing-room for a moment.  I will dress and join you there.  I will send for a cab:  for we must make haste if I am to see the public prosecutor to-day.”

Less than a quarter of an hour afterward M. Segmuller, who usually spent considerable time over his toilet, was dressed and ready to start.  He and Lecoq were just getting into the cab that had been summoned when a footman in a stylish livery was seen approaching.

“Ah!  Jean,” exclaimed the magistrate, “how’s your master?”

“Improving, sir,” was the reply.  “He sent me to ask how you were, and to inquire how that affair was progressing?”