“Take the prisoner into the next room.  Strip him, and examine all his clothes carefully:  see to it that there is nothing hid in the lining.”

The gendarmes advanced to seize the prisoner, when he suddenly jumped up, and said in a tone of ill-constrained rage,—­

“No need for that!  I have three one thousand-franc-notes sewn into the lining of my trousers.”

This time the pride of success got completely the better of the imperturbable coldness of the magistrate.  He uttered a low cry of satisfaction, and could not refrain from casting a look of triumph at Daniel and the doctor, which said clearly,—­

“Well?  What did I tell you?”

It was for a second only; the next instant his features resumed their icy immobility; and, turning to the accused, he said in a tone of command,—­

“Hand me the notes!”

Crochard did not stir; but his livid countenance betrayed the fierce suffering he endured.  Certainly, at this moment, he did not play a part.  To take from him his three thousand francs, the price of the meanest and most execrable crime; the three thousand francs for the sake of which he had risked the scaffold,—­this was like tearing his entrails from him.

Like an enraged brute who sees that the enemy is all-powerful, he gathered all his strength, and, with a furious look, glanced around the room to see if he could escape anywhere, asking himself, perhaps, upon which of the men he ought to throw himself for the purpose.

“The notes!” repeated the inexorable lawyer.  “Must I order force to be used?”

Convinced of the uselessness of resistance, and of the folly of any attempt at escape, the wretch hung his head.

“But I cannot undo the seams of my trousers with my nails,” he said.  “Let them give me a knife or a pair of scissors.”

They were careful not to do so.  But, at a sign given by the magistrate, one of the gendarmes approached, and, drawing a penknife from his pocket, ripped the seam at the place which the prisoner pointed out.  A genuine convulsion of rage seized the assassin, when a little paper parcel appeared, folded up, and compressed to the smallest possible size.  By a very curious phenomenon, which is, however, quite frequently observed in criminals, he was far more concerned about his money than about his life, which was in such imminent danger.

“That is my money!” he raged.  “No one has a right to take it from me.  It is infamous to ill use a man who has been unfortunate, and to rob him.”

The magistrate, no doubt quite accustomed to such scenes, did not even listen to Crochard, but carefully opened the packet.  It contained three notes of a thousand francs each, wrapped up in a sheet of letter-paper, which was all greasy, and worn out in the folds.  The bank-notes had nothing peculiar; but on the sheet of paper, traces could be made out of lines of writing; and at least two words were distinctly legible,—­University and Street.