Left alone, the keeper began to swear in his turn.  “These police agents are all alike,” he grumbled.  “They question you, you tell them all they desire to know; and afterward, if you venture to ask them anything, they reply:  ‘nothing,’ or ‘because.’  They have too much authority; it makes them proud.”

Looking through the little latticed window in the door, by which the men on guard watch the prisoners, Lecoq eagerly examined the appearance of the assumed murderer.  He was obliged to ask himself if this was really the same man he had seen some hours previously at the Poivriere, standing on the threshold of the inner door, and holding the whole squad of police agents in check by the intense fury of his attitude.  Now, on the contrary, he seemed, as it were, the personification of weakness and despondency.  He was seated on a bench opposite the grating in the door, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin upon his hand, his under lip hanging low and his eyes fixed upon vacancy.

“No,” murmured Lecoq, “no, this man is not what he seems to be.”

So saying he entered the cell, the culprit raised his head, gave the detective an indifferent glance, but did not utter a word.

“Well, how goes it?” asked Lecoq.

“I am innocent!” responded the prisoner, in a hoarse, discordant voice.

“I hope so, I am sure—­but that is for the magistrate to decide.  I came to see if you wanted anything.”

“No,” replied the murderer, but a second later he changed his mind.  “All the same,” he said, “I shouldn’t mind a crust and a drink of wine.”

“You shall have them,” replied Lecoq, who at once went out to forage in the neighborhood for eatables of some sort.  In his opinion, if the murderer had asked for a drink after at first refusing to partake of anything, it was solely with the view of conveying the idea that he was really the kind of man he pretended to be.

At all events, whoever he might be, the prisoner ate with an excellent appetite.  He then took up the large glass of wine that had been brought him, drained it slowly, and remarked:  “That’s capital!  There can be nothing to beat that!”

This seeming satisfaction greatly disappointed Lecoq, who had selected, as a test, one of those horribly thick, bluish, nauseous mixtures in vogue around the barrieres—­hoping, nay, almost expecting, that the murderer would not drink it without some sign of repugnance.  And yet the contrary proved the case.  However, the young detective had no time to ponder over the circumstance, for a rumble of wheels now announced the approach of that lugubrious vehicle, the Black Maria.

When the Widow Chupin was removed from her cell she fought and scratched and cried “Murder!” at the top of her voice; and it was only by sheer force that she was at length got into the van.  Then it was that the officials turned to the assassin.  Lecoq certainly expected some sign of repugnance now, and he watched the prisoner closely.  But he was again doomed to disappointment.  The culprit entered the vehicle in the most unconcerned manner, and took possession of his compartment like one accustomed to it, knowing the most comfortable position to assume in such close quarters.