“Of course.”

“Then they talked with each other.”

“Talked?  Why, the drunkard was so ‘gone’ I tell you, that he couldn’t have said ‘bread’ distinctly.  When he was placed in a cell, bang!  He fell down like a log of wood.  As soon as he recovered, we let him out.  I’m sure, they didn’t talk to each other.”

The young police agent had grown very thoughtful.  “I was evidently right,” he murmured.

“What did you say?” inquired the keeper.

“Nothing,” replied Lecoq, who was not inclined to communicate his reflections to the custodian of the guard-house.  These reflections of his were by no means pleasant ones.  “I was right,” he thought; “this pretended drunkard was none other than the accomplice.  He is evidently an adroit, audacious, cool-headed fellow.  While we were tracking his footprints he was watching us.  When we had got to some distance, he was bold enough to enter the hovel.  Then he came here and compelled them to arrest him; and thanks to an assumption of childish simplicity, he succeeded in finding an opportunity to speak with the murderer.  He played his part perfectly.  Still, I know that he did play a part, and that is something.  I know that one must believe exactly the opposite of what he said.  He talked of his family, his wife and children—­hence, he has neither children, wife, nor family.”

Lecoq suddenly checked himself, remembering that he had no time to waste in conjectures.  “What kind of fellow was this drunkard?” he inquired.

“He was tall and stout, with full ruddy cheeks, a pair of white whiskers, small eyes, a broad flat nose, and a good-natured, jovial manner.”

“How old would you suppose him to be?”

“Between forty and fifty.”

“Did you form any idea of his profession?”

“It’s my opinion, that what with his soft cap and his heavy brown overcoat, he must be either a clerk or the keeper of some little shop.”

Having obtained this description, which agreed with the result of his investigations, Lecoq was about to enter the station house when a sudden thought brought him to a standstill.  “I hope this man has had no communication with this Widow Chupin!” he exclaimed.

The keeper laughed heartily.  “How could he have had any?” he responded.  “Isn’t the old woman alone in her cell?  Ah, the old wretch!  She has been cursing and threatening ever since she arrived.  Never in my whole life have I heard such language as she has used.  It has been enough to make the very stones blush; even the drunken man was so shocked that he went to the grating in the door, and told her to be quiet.”

Lecoq’s glance and gesture were so expressive of impatience and wrath that the keeper paused in his recital much perturbed.  “What is the matter?” he stammered.  “Why are you angry?”

“Because,” replied Lecoq, furiously, “because—­” Not wishing to disclose the real cause of his anger, he entered the station house, saying that he wanted to see the prisoner.