During these remarks the prisoner’s face wore, by turns, an expression of anxiety, astonishment, irony, and mirth.  When the magistrate had finished, he burst into a hearty laugh.

“So that’s the result of twelve or fourteen hours’ research,” he at length exclaimed, turning toward Lecoq.  “Ah!  Mr. Agent, it’s good to be sharp, but not so sharp as that.  The truth is, that when I was taken to the station-house, forty-eight hours—­thirty-six of them spent in a railway carriage—­had elapsed since I had taken off my boots.  My feet were red and swollen, and they burned like fire.  What did I do?  I poured some water over them.  As for your other suspicions, if I have a soft white skin, it is only because I take care of myself.  Besides, as is usual with most men of my profession, I rarely wear anything but slippers on my feet.  This is so true that, on leaving Leipsic, I only owned a single pair of boots, and that was an old cast-off pair given me by M. Simpson.”

Lecoq struck his chest.  “Fool, imbecile, idiot, that I am!” he thought.  “He was waiting to be questioned about this circumstance.  He is so wonderfully shrewd that, when he saw me take the dust, he divined my intentions; and since then he has managed to concoct this story—­a plausible story enough—­and one that any jury would believe.”

M. Segmuller was saying the same thing to himself.  But he was not so surprised nor so overcome by the skill the prisoner had displayed in fencing with this point.  “Let us continue,” said he.  “Do you still persist in your statements, prisoner?”

“Yes.”

“Very well; then I shall be forced to tell you that what you are saying is untrue.”

The prisoner’s lips trembled visibly, and it was with difficulty that he faltered:  “May my first mouthful of bread strangle me, if I have uttered a single falsehood!”

“A single falsehood!  Wait.”

The magistrate drew from the drawer of his desk the molds of the footprints prepared by Lecoq, and showing them to the murderer, he said:  “You told me a few minutes ago that the two women were as tall as grenadiers; now, just look at the footprints made by these female giants.  They were as ‘dark as moles,’ you said; a witness will tell you that one of them was a small, delicate-featured blonde, with an exceedingly sweet voice.”  He sought the prisoner’s eyes, gazed steadily into them, and added slowly:  “And this witness is the driver whose cab was hired in the Rue de Chevaleret by the two fugitives, both short, fair-haired women.”

This sentence fell like a thunderbolt upon the prisoner; he grew pale, tottered, and leaned against the wall for support.