All the spectators, from the governor of the prison to the keepers, had witnessed many other incidents equally absurd; and no one thought of inquiring the detective’s motive.  This much was known already; that the prisoner was trying to conceal his identity.  Now it was necessary to establish it, at any cost, and Lecoq had probably discovered some means of attaining this end.

The operation was soon concluded; and Lecoq swept the dust off the paper into the palm of his hand.  He divided it into two parts, enclosing one portion in a scrap of paper, and slipping it into his own pocket.  With the remainder he formed a package which he handed to the governor, saying:  “I beg you, sir, to take charge of this, and to seal it up here, in presence of the prisoner.  This formality is necessary, so that by and by he may not pretend that the dust has been changed.”

The governor complied with the request, and as he placed this “bit of proof” (as he styled it) in a small satchel for safe keeping, the prisoner shrugged his shoulders with a sneering laugh.  Still, beneath this cynical gaiety Lecoq thought he could detect poignant anxiety.  Chance owed him the compensation of this slight triumph; for previous events had deceived all his calculations.

The prisoner did not offer the slightest objection when he was ordered to undress, and to exchange his soiled and bloodstained garments for the clothing furnished by the Government.  Not a muscle of his face moved while he submitted his person to one of those ignominous examinations which make the blood rush to the forehead of the lowest criminal.  It was with perfect indifference that he allowed an inspector to comb his hair and beard, and to examine the inside of his mouth, so as to make sure that he had not concealed either some fragment of glass, by the aid of which captives can sever the strongest bars, or one of those microscopical bits of lead with which prisoners write the notes they exchange, rolled up in a morsel of bread, and called “postilions.”

These formalities having been concluded, the superintendent rang for one of the keepers.  “Conduct this man to No. 3 of the secret cells,” he ordered.

There was no need to drag the prisoner away.  He walked out, as he had entered, preceding the guard, like some old habitue, who knows where he is going.

“What a rascal!” exclaimed the clerk.

“Then you think—­” began Lecoq, baffled but not convinced.

“Ah! there can be no doubt of it,” declared the governor.  “This man is certainly a dangerous criminal—­an old offender—­I think I have seen him before—­I could almost swear to it.”

Thus it was evident these people, with their long, varied experience, shared Gevrol’s opinion; Lecoq stood alone.  He did not discuss the matter—­what good would it have done?  Besides, the Widow Chupin was just being brought in.