Lecoq did not sleep that night, although he had been on his feet for more than forty hours, and had scarcely paused either to eat or drink.  Anxiety, hope, and even fatigue itself, had imparted to his body the fictitious strength of fever, and to his intellect the unhealthy acuteness which is so often the result of intense mental effort.

He no longer had to occupy himself with imaginary deductions, as in former times when in the employ of his patron, the astronomer.  Once again did the fact prove stranger than fiction.  Here was reality—­a terrible reality personified by the corpses of three victims lying on the marble slabs at the Morgue.  Still, if the catastrophe itself was a patent fact, its motive, its surroundings, could only be conjectured.  Who could tell what circumstances had preceded and paved the way for this tragical denouement?

It is true that all doubt might be dispelled by one discovery—­the identity of the murderer.  Who was he?  Who was right, Gevrol or Lecoq?  The former’s views were shared by the officials at the prison; the latter stood alone.  Again, the former’s opinion was based upon formidable proof, the evidence of sight; while Lecoq’s hypothesis rested only on a series of subtle observations and deductions, starting from a single sentence that had fallen from the prisoner’s lips.

And yet Lecoq resolutely persisted in his theory, guided by the following reasons.  He learnt from M. d’Escorval’s clerk that when the magistrate had examined the prisoner, the latter not only refused to confess, but answered all the questions put to him in the most evasive fashion.  In several instances, moreover, he had not replied at all.  If the magistrate had not insisted, it was because this first examination was a mere formality, solely intended to justify the somewhat premature delivery of the order to imprison the accused.

Now, under these circumstances, how was one to explain the prisoner’s attempt at self-destruction?  Prison statistics show that habitual offenders do not commit suicide.  When apprehended for a criminal act, they are sometimes seized with a wild frenzy and suffer repeated nervous attacks; at others they fall into a dull stupor, just as some glutted beast succumbs to sleep with the blood of his prey still dripping from his lips.  However, such men never think of putting an end to their days.  They hold fast to life, no matter how seriously they may be compromised.  In truth, they are cowards.

On the other hand, the unfortunate fellow who, in a moment of frenzy, commits a crime, not unfrequently seeks to avoid the consequences of his act by self-destruction.

Hence, the prisoner’s frustrated attempt at suicide was a strong argument in favor of Lecoq’s theory.  This wretched man’s secret must be a terrible one since he held it dearer than life, since he had tried to destroy himself that he might take it unrevealed to the grave.