Of course, Lecoq did not rejoice at M. d’Escorval’s accident; could he have prevented it, he would have gladly done so.  Still, he could not help saying to himself that this stroke of misfortune would free him from all further connection with a man whose superciliousness and disdain had been painfully disagreeable to his feelings.

This thought caused a sensation of relief—­almost one of light-heartedness.  “In that case,” said the young detective to the doorkeeper, “I shall have nothing to do here this morning.”

“You must be joking,” was the reply.  “Does the world stop moving because one man is disabled?  The news only arrived an hour ago; but all the urgent business that M. d’Escorval had in charge has already been divided among the other magistrates.”

“I came here about that terrible affair that occurred the other night just beyond the Barriere de Fontainebleau.”

“Eh!  Why didn’t you say so at once?  A messenger has been sent to the prefecture after you already.  M. Segmuller has charge of the case, and he’s waiting for you.”

Doubt and perplexity were plainly written on Lecoq’s forehead.  He was trying to remember the magistrate that bore this name, and wondered whether he was a likely man to espouse his views.

“Yes,” resumed the doorkeeper, who seemed to be in a talkative mood, “M.  Segmuller—­you don’t seem to know him.  He is a worthy man, not quite so grim as most of our gentlemen.  A prisoner he had examined said one day:  ’That devil there has pumped me so well that I shall certainly have my head chopped off; but, nevertheless, he’s a good fellow!”

His heart somewhat lightened by these favorable reports, Lecoq went and tapped at a door that was indicated to him, and which bore the number—­22.

“Come in!” called out a pleasant voice.

The young detective entered, and found himself face to face with a man of some forty years of age, tall and rather corpulent, who at once exclaimed:  “Ah! you are Lecoq.  Very well—­take a seat.  I am busy just now looking over the papers of the case, but I will attend to you in five minutes.”

Lecoq obeyed, at the same time glancing furtively at the magistrate with whom he was about to work.  M. Segmuller’s appearance corresponded perfectly with the description given by the doorkeeper.  His plump face wore an air of frankness and benevolence, and his blue eyes had a most pleasant expression.  Nevertheless, Lecoq distrusted these appearances, and in so doing he was right.

Born near Strasbourg, M. Segmuller possessed that candid physiognomy common to most of the natives of blonde Alsace—­a deceitful mask, which, behind seeming simplicity, not unfrequently conceals a Gascon cunning, rendered all the more dangerous since it is allied with extreme caution.  He had a wonderfully alert, penetrating mind; but his system—­every magistrate has his own—­was mainly good-humor.  Unlike most of his colleagues, who were as stiff and cutting in manner as the sword which the statue of Justice usually holds in her hand, he made simplicity and kindness of demeanor his leading trait, though, of course, without ever losing sight of his magisterial duties.