“Good Lord!” murmured Lecoq, greatly chagrined, “does he indeed recognize the place?”

And his sense of disappointment and disquietude increased when, without waiting for a word, a motion, or a sign, the prisoner turned toward one of the five or six doors that opened into the courtyard.  Without an instant’s hesitation he walked straight toward the very doorway he was expected to enter—­Lecoq asked himself was it chance?  But his amazement and disappointment increased tenfold when, after entering the gloomy corridor, he saw the culprit proceed some little distance, resolutely turn to the left, pass by the keeper’s room, and finally enter the registrar’s office.  An old offender could not have done better.

Big drops of perspiration stood on Lecoq’s forehead.  “This man,” thought he, “has certainly been here before; he knows the ropes.”

The registrar’s office was a large room heated almost to suffocation by an immense stove, and badly lighted by three small windows, the panes of which were covered with a thick coating of dust.  There sat the clerk reading a newspaper, spread out over the open register—­that fatal book in which are inscribed the names of all those whom misconduct, crime, misfortune, madness, or error have brought to these grim portals.

Three or four attendants, who were awaiting the hour for entering upon their duties, reclined half asleep upon the wooden benches that lined three sides of the room.  These benches, with a couple of tables, and some dilapidated chairs, constituted the entire furniture of the office, in one corner of which stood a measuring machine, under which each culprit was obliged to pass, the exact height of the prisoners being recorded in order that the description of their persons might be complete in every respect.

At the entrance of the culprit accompanied by Lecoq, the clerk raised his head.  “Ah!” said he, “has the van arrived?”

“Yes,” responded Lecoq.  And showing the orders signed by M. d’Escorval, he added:  “Here are this man’s papers.”

The registrar took the documents and read them.  “Oh!” he exclaimed, “a triple assassination!  Oh! oh!” The glance he gave the prisoner was positively deferential.  This was no common culprit, no ordinary vagabond, no vulgar thief.

“The investigating magistrate orders a private examination,” continued the clerk, “and I must get the prisoner other clothing, as the things he is wearing now will be used as evidence.  Let some one go at once and tell the superintendent that the other occupants of the van must wait.”

At this moment, the governor of the Depot entered the office.  The clerk at once dipped his pen in the ink, and turning to the prisoner he asked:  “What is your name?”

“May.”

“Your Christian name?”

“I have none.”

“What, have you no Christian name?”

The prisoner seemed to reflect for a moment, and then answered, sulkily:  “I may as well tell you that you need not tire yourself by questioning me.  I shan’t answer any one else but the magistrate.  You would like to make me cut my own throat, wouldn’t you?  A very clever trick, of course, but one that won’t do for me.”