n for me is not to prove
where he was, but that he was not at La Jonchere. Perhaps, after all,
Gevrol is on the right track. I hope so, from the bottom of my
heart. Yes; God grant that he may be successful. My vanity and my mad
presumption will deserve the slight punishment of his triumph over me.
What would I not give to establish this man's innocence? Half of my
fortune would be but a small sacrifice. If I should not succeed! If,
after having caused the evil, I should find myself powerless to undo
it!"

Old Tabaret went to bed, shuddering at this last thought. He fell
asleep, and had a terrible nightmare. Lost in that vulgar crowd, which,
on the days when society revenges itself, presses about the Place de la
Rouquette and watches the last convulsions of one condemned to death,
he attended Albert's execution. He saw the unhappy man, his hands bound
behind his back, his collar turned down, ascend, supported by a priest,
the steep flight of steps leading on to the scaffold. He saw him
standing upon the fatal platform, turning his proud gaze upon the
terrified assembly beneath him. Soon the eyes of the condemned man met
his own; and, bursting his cords, he pointed him, Tabaret, out to the
crowd, crying, in a loud voice: "That man is my assassin." Then a great
clamour arose to curse the detective. He wished to escape; but his feet
seemed fixed to the ground. He tried at least to close his eyes; he
could not. A power unknown and irresistible compelled him to look.
Then Albert again cried out: "I am innocent; the guilty one is----" He
pronounced a name; the crowd repeated this name, and he alone did not
catch what it was. At last the head of the condemned man fell.

M. Tabaret uttered a loud cry, and awoke in a cold perspiration. It took
him some time to convince himself that nothing was real of what he had
just heard and seen, and that he was actually in his own house, in
his own bed. It was only a dream! But dreams sometimes are, they say,
warnings from heaven. His imagination was so struck with what had just
happened that he made unheard of efforts to recall the name pronounced
by Albert. Not succeeding, he got up and lighted his candle. The
darkness made him afraid, the night was full of phantoms. It was no
longer with him a question of sleep. Beset with these anxieties, he
accused himself most severely, and harshly reproached himself for the
occupation he had until then so delighted in. Poor humanity!

He was eviden