“I feel compelled to advise M. Segmuller to take every precaution with the view of assuring his own safety before proceeding with the examination of the prisoner, May.  Since his unsuccessful attempt at suicide, this prisoner has been in such a state of excitement that we have been obliged to keep him in a strait-waistcoat.  He did not close his eyes all last night, and the guards who watched him expected every moment that he would become delirious.  However, he did not utter a word.  When food was offered him this morning, he resolutely rejected it, and I should not be surprised if it were his intention to starve himself to death.  I have rarely seen a more determined criminal.  I think him capable of any desperate act.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the clerk, whose smile had disappeared, “If I were in your place, sir, I would only let him in here with an escort of soldiers.”

“What! you—­Goguet, you, an old clerk—­make such a proposition!  Can it be that you’re frightened?”

“Frightened!  No, certainly not; but—­”

“Nonsense!” interrupted Lecoq, in a tone that betrayed superlative confidence in his own muscles; “Am I not here?”

If M. Segmuller had seated himself at his desk, that article of furniture would naturally have served as a rampart between the prisoner and himself.  For purposes of convenience he usually did place himself behind it; but after Goguet’s display of fear, he would have blushed to have taken the slightest measure of self-protection.  Accordingly, he went and sat down by the fireplace—­as he had done a few moments previously while questioning the Widow Chupin—­and then ordered his door-keeper to admit the prisoner alone.  He emphasized this word “alone.”

A moment later the door was flung open with a violent jerk, and the prisoner entered, or rather precipitated himself into the room.  Goguet turned pale behind his table, and Lecoq advanced a step forward, ready to spring upon the prisoner and pinion him should it be requisite.  But when the latter reached the centre of the room, he paused and looked around him.  “Where is the magistrate?” he inquired, in a hoarse voice.

“I am the magistrate,” replied M. Segmuller.

“No, the other one.”

“What other one?”

“The one who came to question me last evening.”

“He has met with an accident.  Yesterday, after leaving you, he fell down and broke his leg.”

“Oh!”

“And I am to take his place.”

The prisoner was apparently deaf to the explanation.  Excitement had seemingly given way to stupor.  His features, hitherto contracted with anger, now relaxed.  He grew pale and tottered, as if about to fall.

“Compose yourself,” said the magistrate in a benevolent tone; “if you are too weak to remain standing, take a seat.”

Already, with a powerful effort, the man had recovered his self-possession.  A momentary gleam flashed from his eyes.  “Many thanks for your kindness,” he replied, “but this is nothing.  I felt a slight sensation of dizziness, but it is over now.”