ng any remark, but when asked to sign the document, he obstinately
refused to do so, fearing, he said, "some hidden treachery."

A moment afterward the soldiers who had escorted him to the magistrate's
room conducted him back to the Depot.

XIII

When the prisoner had gone, M. Segmuller sank back in his armchair,
literally exhausted. He was in that state of nervous prostration which
so often follows protracted but fruitless efforts. He had scarcely
strength enough to bathe his burning forehead and gleaming eyes with
cool, refreshing water.

This frightful examination had lasted no less than seven consecutive
hours.

The smiling clerk, who had kept his place at his desk busily writing the
whole while, now rose to his feet, glad of an opportunity to stretch his
limbs and snap his fingers, cramped by holding the pen. Still, he was
not in the least degree bored. He invariably took a semi-theatrical
interest in the dramas that were daily enacted in his presence; his
excitement being all the greater owing to the uncertainty that shrouded
the finish of the final act--a finish that only too often belied the
ordinary rules and deductions of writers for the stage.

"What a knave!" he exclaimed after vainly waiting for the magistrate or
the detective to express an opinion, "what a rascal!"

M. Segmuller ordinarily put considerable confidence in his clerk's long
experience. He sometimes even went so far as to consult him, doubtless
somewhat in the same style that Moliere consulted his servant. But, on
this occasion he did not accept his opinion.

"No," said he in a thoughtful tone, "that man is not a knave. When I
spoke to him kindly he was really touched; he wept, he hesitated. I
could have sworn that he was about to tell me everything."

"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
buff