“Oh!”

The old surgeon’s eyes glared with rage; and a sardonic smile curled his lips as he continued,—­

“And who could keep those rascals from triumphing?  If Daniel dies, you will be bound to release that scamp, the wretched murderer whom you keep imprisoned,—­that man Crochard, surnamed Bagnolet; for there will be no evidence.  Or, if you send him before a court, he will be declared guilty of involuntary homicide.  And yet you know, as well as I do, he has wantonly fired at one of the noblest creatures I have ever known.  And, when he has served his term, he will receive the price of Champcey’s life, and he will spend it in orgies; and the others, the true criminals, who have hired him, will go about the world with lofty pride, rich, honored, and haughty.”

“Doctor!”

But the old original was not to be stopped.  He went on,—­

“Ah, let me alone!  Your human justice,—­do you want me to tell you what I think of it?  I am ashamed of it!  When you send every year three or four stupid murderers to the scaffold, and some dozens of miserable thieves to the penitentiary, you fold your black gowns around you, and proudly proclaim that all is well, and that society, thus protected, may sleep soundly.  Well, do you know what is the real state of things?  You only catch the stupid, the fools.  The others, the strong, escape between the meshes of your laws, and, relying on their cleverness and your want of power, they enjoy the fruit of their crimes in all the pride of their impunity, until”—­

He hesitated, and added, unlike his usual protestations of atheism,—­

“Until the day of divine judgment.”

Far from appearing hurt by such an outburst of indignation, the magistrate, after having listened with impassive face, said, as soon as the doctor stopped for want of breath,—­

“You must have discovered something new.”

“Most assuredly.  I think I hold at last the thread of the fearful plot which is killing my poor Daniel.  Ah, if he would but live!  But he cannot live.”

“Well, well, console yourself, doctor.  You said human justice has its limits, and hosts of criminals escape its vengeance; but in this case, whether Lieut.  Champcey live or die, justice shall be done, I promise you!”

He spoke in a tone of such absolute certainty, that the old surgeon was struck by it.  He exclaimed,—­

“Has the murderer confessed the crime?”

The magistrate shook his head.

“No,” he replied; “nor have I seen him again since the first examination.  But I have not been asleep.  I have been searching; and I think I have sufficient evidence now to bring out the truth.  And if you, on your side, have any positive information”—­

“Yes, I have; and I think I am justified now in communicating it to you.  I have, besides, a letter”—­

He was pulling the letter out of his pocket; but the magistrate stopped him, saying,—­