delight in avenging himself
for the magistrate's obstinacy.

"Three or four days," he muttered, "that is the same as three or four
years to the unfortunate prisoner. He takes things quite at his ease,
this charming magistrate. But I must find out the real truth of the case
between now and then."

Yes, M. Daburon only required three or four days to wring a confession
from Albert, or at least to make him abandon his system of defence.

The difficulty of the prosecution was not being able to produce any
witness who had seen the prisoner during the evening of Shrove Tuesday.

One deposition alone to that effect would have such great weight, that
M. Daburon, as soon as Tabaret had left him, turned all his attention
in that direction. He could still hope for a great deal. It was only
Saturday, the day of the murder was remarkable enough to fix people's
memories, and up till then there had not been time to start a proper
investigation.

He arranged for five of the most experienced detectives in the secret
service to be sent to Bougival, supplied with photographs of the
prisoner. They were to scour the entire country between Rueil and
La Jonchere, to inquire everywhere, and make the most minute
investigations. The photographs would greatly aid their efforts. They
had orders to show them everywhere and to everybody and even to leave a
dozen about the neighbourhood, as they were furnished with a sufficient
number to do so. It was impossible, that, on an evening when so many
people were about, no one had noticed the original of the portrait
either at the railway station at Rueil or upon one of the roads which
lead to La Jonchere, the high road, and the path by the river.

These arrangements made, the investigating magistrate proceeded to the
Palais de Justice, and sent for Albert. He had already in the morning
received a report, informing him hour by hour of the acts, gestures, and
utterances of the prisoner, who had been carefully watched. Nothing in
him, the report said, betrayed the criminal. He seemed very sad, but not
despairing. He had not cried out, nor threatened, nor cursed justice,
nor even spoken of a fatal error. After eating lightly, he had gone to
the window of his cell, and had there remained standing for more than an
hour. Then he laid down, and had quietly gone to sleep.

"What an iron constitution!" thought M. Daburon, when the prisoner
entered his office.

Albert was no longer the despairing man who, th