Pale, agitated, and nervous, the young police agent tried to read upon the magistrate’s impassive face the impression produced by the document.  His future depended upon the magistrate’s approval or disapproval; and it was not with a fuddled mind like that of Father Absinthe that he had now to deal, but with a superior intelligence.

“If I could only plead my own cause,” he thought.  “What are cold written phrases in comparison with spoken, living words, palpitating with emotion and imbued with the convictions of the speaker.”

However, he was soon reassured.  The magistrate’s face retained its immobility, but again and again did M. d’Escorval nod his head in token of approval, and occasionally some point more ingenious than the others extorted from his lips the exclamations:  “Not bad—­very good!”

When he had finished the perusal he turned to the commissary and remarked:  “All this is very unlike your report of this morning, which represented the affair as a low broil between a party of miserable vagabonds.”

The observation was only too just and fair; and the commissary deeply regretted that he had trusted to Gevrol’s representations, and remained in bed.  “This morning,” he responded evasively, “I only gave you my first impressions.  These have been modified by subsequent researches, so that—­”

“Oh!” interrupted the magistrate, “I did not intend to reproach you; on the contrary, I must congratulate you.  One could not have done better nor acted more promptly.  The investigation that has been carried out shows great penetration and research, and the results are given with unusual clearness, and wonderful precision.”

Lecoq’s head whirled.

The commissary hesitated for an instant.  At first he was sorely tempted to confiscate this praise to his own profit.  If he drove away the unworthy thought, it was because he was an honest man, and more than that, because he was not displeased to have the opportunity to do Gevrol a bad turn and punish him for his presumptuous folly.

“I must confess,” he said with some embarrassment, “that the merit of this investigation does not belong to me.”

“To whom, then, shall I attribute it—­to the inspector?” thought M. d’Escorval, not without surprise, for having occasionally employed Gevrol, he did not expect from him such ingenuity and sagacity as was displayed in this report.  “Is it you, then, who have conducted this investigation so ably?” he asked.

“Upon my word, no!” responded Inspector Gevrol.  “I, myself, am not so clever as all that.  I content myself with telling what I actually discover; and I only give proofs when I have them in hand.  May I be hung if the grounds of this report have any existence save in the brains of the man who imagined them.”  Perhaps the inspector really believed what he said, being one of those persons who are blinded by vanity to such a degree that, with the most convincing evidence before their eyes, they obstinately deny it.