“You must see that you only aggravate your situation,” observed the governor.

“Not in the least.  I am innocent; you wish to ruin me.  I only defend myself.  Get anything more out of me now, if you can.  But you had better give me back what they took from me at the station-house.  My hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous.  I shall need them when I get out of this place.  I want you to make a note of them on the register.  Where are they?”

The money had been given to Lecoq by the keeper of the station-house, who had found it upon the prisoner when he was placed in his custody.  Lecoq now laid it upon the table.

“Here are your hundred and thirty-six francs and eight sous,” said he, “and also your knife, your handkerchief, and four cigars.”

An expression of lively contentment was discernible on the prisoner’s features.

“Now,” resumed the clerk, “will you answer?”

But the governor perceived the futility of further questioning; and silencing the clerk by a gesture, he told the prisoner to take off his boots.

Lecoq thought the assassin’s glance wavered as he heard this order.  Was it only a fancy?

“Why must I do that?” asked the culprit.

“To pass under the beam,” replied the clerk.  “We must make a note of your exact height.”

The prisoner made no reply, but sat down and drew off his heavy boots.  The heel of the right one was worn down on the inside.  It was, moreover, noticed that the prisoner wore no socks, and that his feet were coated with mud.

“You only wear boots on Sundays, then?” remarked Lecoq.

“Why do you think that?”

“By the mud with which your feet are covered, as high as the ankle-bone.”

“What of that?” exclaimed the prisoner, in an insolent tone.  “Is it a crime not to have a marchioness’s feet?”

“It is a crime you are not guilty of, at all events,” said the young detective slowly.  “Do you think I can’t see that if the mud were picked off your feet would be white and neat?  The nails have been carefully cut and polished—­”

He paused.  A new idea inspired by his genius for investigation had just crossed Lecoq’s mind.  Pushing a chair in front of the prisoner, and spreading a newspaper over it, he said:  “Will you place your foot there?”

The man did not comply with the request.

“It is useless to resist,” exclaimed the governor, “we are in force.”

The prisoner delayed no longer.  He placed his foot on the chair, as he had been ordered, and Lecoq, with the aid of a knife, proceeded to remove the fragments of mud that adhered to the skin.

Anywhere else so strange and grotesque a proceeding would have excited laughter, but here, in this gloomy chamber, the anteroom of the assize court, an otherwise trivial act is fraught with serious import.  Nothing astonishes; and should a smile threaten to curve one’s lips, it is instantly repressed.