the truth, not merely strengthen Lecoq’s theories, but also let fall some remark calculated to facilitate the task of future investigation.  Both M. Segmuller and Lecoq were of opinion that the version of the crime which they were about to hear had been concocted at the station-house of the Place d’Italie while the murderer and the spurious drunkard were left together, and that it had been transmitted by the accomplice to the widow during the brief conversation they were allowed to have through the wicket of the latter’s cell.

Invited by the magistrate to recount the circumstances of the tragedy, Mother Chupin did not hesitate for a moment.  “Oh, it was a very simple affair, my good sir,” she began.  “I was sitting by my fireside on Sunday evening, when suddenly the door opened, and three men and two women came in.”

M. Segmuller and the young detective exchanged glances.  The accomplice had evidently seen Lecoq and his comrade examining the footprints, and accordingly the presence of the two women was not to be denied.

“What time was this?” asked the magistrate.

“About eleven o’clock.”

“Go on.”

“As soon as they sat down they ordered a bowl of wine, a la Frangaise.  Without boasting, I may say that I haven’t an equal in preparing that drink.  Of course, I waited on them, and afterward, having a blouse to mend for my boy, I went upstairs to my room, which is just over the shop.”

“Leaving the people alone?”

“Yes, my judge.”

“That showed a great deal of confidence on your part.”

The widow sadly shook her head.  “People as poor as I am don’t fear the thieves,” she sighed.

“Go on—­go on.”

“Well, I had been upstairs about half an hour, when I heard some one below call out:  ‘Eh! old woman!’ So I went down, and found a tall, big-bearded man, who had just come in.  He asked for a glass of brandy, which I brought to a table where he had sat down by himself.”

“And then did you go upstairs again?” interrupted the magistrate.

The exclamation was ironical, of course, but no one could have told from the Widow Chupin’s placid countenance whether she was aware that such was the case.

“Precisely, my good sir,” she replied in the most composed manner.  “Only this time I had scarcely taken up my needle when I heard a terrible uproar in the shop.  I hurried downstairs to put a stop to it—­but heaven knows my interference would have been of little use.  The three men who had come in first of all had fallen upon the newcomer, and they were beating him, my good sir, they were killing him.  I screamed.  Just then the man who had come in alone drew a revolver from his pocket; he fired and killed one of his assailants, who fell to the ground.  I was so frightened that I crouched on the staircase and threw my apron over my head that I might not see the blood run.  An instant later Monsieur Gevrol arrived with his men; they forced open the door, and behold—­”