e
second bureau of the Prefecture de Police found positive traces of the
existence of a strolling artist, named Tringlot, who was probably the
man referred to in May's story. This Tringlot had been dead several
years. Then again, inquiries made in Germany revealed the fact that a
certain M. Simpson was very well known in that country, where he had
achieved great celebrity as a circus manager.
In presence of this information and the negative result of the scrutiny
to which May had been subjected, the governor of the Depot abandoned
his views and openly confessed that he had been mistaken. "The prisoner,
May," he wrote to the magistrate, "is really and truly what he pretends
to be. There can be no further doubt on the subject." This message, it
may be added, was sent at Gevrol's instigation.
So thus it was that M. Segmuller and Lecoq alone remained of their
opinion. This opinion was at least worthy of consideration, as they
alone knew all the details of the investigation which had been conducted
with such strict secrecy; and yet this fact was of little import. It
is not merely unpleasant, but often extremely dangerous to struggle on
against all the world, and unfortunately for truth and logic one man's
opinion, correct though it may be, is nothing in the balance of daily
life against the faulty views of a thousand adversaries.
The "May affair" had soon become notorious among the members of the
police force; and whenever Lecoq appeared at the Prefecture he had to
brave his colleagues' sarcastic pleasantry. Nor did M. Segmuller escape
scot free; for more than one fellow magistrate, meeting him on the
stairs or in the corridor, inquired, with a smile, what he was doing
with his Casper Hauser, his man in the Iron Mask, in a word, with his
mysterious mountebank. When thus assailed, both M. Segmuller and Lecoq
could scarcely restrain those movements of angry impatience which come
naturally to a person who feels certain he is in the right and yet can
not prove it.
"Ah, me!" sometimes exclaimed the magistrate, "why did D'Escorval break
his leg? Had it not been for that cursed mishap, he would have been
obliged to endure all these perplexities, and I--I should be enjoying
myself like other people."
"And I thought myself so shrewd!" murmured the young detective by his
side.
Little by little anxiety did its work. Magistrate and detective both
lost their appetites and looked haggard; and yet the idea of yielding
never o
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