“Ah, he’s a man of wonderful power!” observed Lecoq.

The detective was sincere in his praise.  Although the prisoner had disappointed his plans, and had even insulted him, he could not help admiring his shrewdness and courage.  He—­Lecoq—­had prepared himself for a strenuous struggle with this man, and he hoped to conquer in the end.  Nevertheless in his secret soul he felt for his adversary, admiring that sympathy which a “foeman worthy of one’s steel” always inspires.

“What coolness, what courage!” continued the young detective.  “Ah! there’s no denying it, his system of defense—­of absolute denial—­is a masterpiece.  It is perfect.  How well he played that difficult part of buffoon!  At times I could scarcely restrain my admiration.  What is a famous comedian beside that fellow?  The greatest actors need the adjunct of stage scenery to support the illusion, whereas this man, entirely unaided, almost convinced me even against my reason.”

“Do you know what your very appropriate criticism proves?” inquired the magistrate.

“I am listening, sir.”

“Ah, well!  I have arrived at this conclusion—­either this man is really May, the stroller, earning his living by paying compliments, as he says—­or else he belongs to the highest rank of society, and not to the middle classes.  It is only in the lowest or in the highest ranks that you encounter such grim energy as he has displayed, such scorn of life, as well as such remarkable presence of mind and resolution.  A vulgar tradesman attracted to the Poivriere by some shameful passion would have confessed it long ago.”

“But, sir, this man is surely not the buffoon, May,” replied the young detective.

“No, certainly not,” responded M. Segmuller; “we must, therefore, decide upon some plan of action.”  He smiled kindly, and added, in a friendly voice:  “It was unnecessary to tell you that, Monsieur Lecoq.  Quite unnecessary, since to you belongs the honor of having detected this fraud.  As for myself, I confess, that if I had not been warned in advance, I should have been the dupe of this clever artist’s talent.”

The young detective bowed; a blush of modesty tinged his cheeks, but a gleam of pleased vanity sparkled in his eyes.  What a difference between this friendly, benevolent magistrate and M. d’Escorval, so taciturn and haughty.  This man, at least, understood, appreciated, and encouraged him; and it was with a common theory and an equal ardor that they were about to devote themselves to a search for the truth.  Scarcely had Lecoq allowed these thoughts to flit across his mind than he reflected that his satisfaction was, after all, a trifle premature, and that success was still extremely doubtful.  With this chilling conclusion, presence of mind returned.  Turning toward the magistrate, he exclaimed:  “You will recollect, sir, that the Widow Chupin mentioned a son of hers, a certain Polyte—­”

“Yes.”