LITMIR.BIZ

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presence which surprised M. Plantat and his friend. Their stupor was caused by the detective’s appearance; who, with his wrist of steel—as rigid as handcuffs —held the doctor’s ex-assistant, and pushed him forward. The voice was certainly Lecoq’s; there was his costume, his big-knotted cravat, his yellow-haired watch-chain—still it was no longer Lecoq. He was blond, with highly cultivated whiskers, when he jumped out the window; he returned, brown, with a smooth face. The man who had jumped out was a middle-aged person, with an expressive face which was in turn idiotic and intelligent; the man who returned by the door was a fine young fellow of thirty-five, with a beaming eye and a sensitive lip; a splendid head of curly black hair, brought out vividly the pallor of his complexion, and the firm outline of his head and face. A wound appeared on his neck, just below the chin.

      “Monsieur Lecoq!” cried M. Plantat, recovering his voice.

      “Himself,” answered the detective, “and this time the true Lecoq.” Turning to Robelot, he slapped him on the shoulder and added:

      “Go on, you.”

      Robelot fell upon a sofa, but the detective continued to hold him fast.

      “Yes,” he continued, “this rascal has robbed me of my blond locks. Thanks to him and in spite of myself, you see me as I am, with the head the Creator gave me, and which is really my own.” He gave a careless gesture, half angry, half good-humored. “I am the true Lecoq; and to tell the truth, only three persons besides yourselves really know him—two trusted friends, and one who is infinitely less so—she of whom I spoke a while ago.”

      The eyes of the other two met as if to question each other, and M. Lecoq continued:

      “What can a fellow do? All is not rose color in my trade. We run such dangers, in protecting society, as should entitle us to the esteem, if not the affection of our fellow-men: Why, I am condemned to death, at this moment, by seven of the most dangerous criminals in France. I have caught them, you see, and they have sworn—they are men of their word, too—that I should only die by their hands. Where are these wretches? Four at Cayenne, one at Brest; I’ve had news of them. But the other two? I’ve lost their track. Who knows whether one of them hasn’t followed me here, and whether to-morrow, at the turning of some obscure road, I shall not get six inches of cold steel in my stomach?”

      He smiled sadly.

      “And no reward,” pursued he, “for the perils which we brave. If I should fall to-morrow, they would take up my body, carry it to my house, and that would be the end.” The detective’s tone had become bitter, the irritation of his voice betrayed his rancor. “My precautions happily are taken. While I am performing my duties, I suspect everything, and when I am on my guard I fear no one. But there are days when one is tired of being on his guard, and would like to be able to turn a street corner without looking for a dagger. On such days I again become myself; I take off my false beard, throw down my mask, and my real self emerges from the hundred disguises which I assume in turn. I have been a detective fifteen years, and no one at the prefecture knows either my true face or the color of my hair.”

      Master Robelot, ill at ease on his lounge, attempted to move.

      “Ah, look out!” cried M. Lecoq, suddenly changing his tone. “Now get up here, and tell us what you were about in the garden?”

      “But you are wounded!” exclaimed Plantat, observing stains of blood on M. Lecoq’s shirt.

      “Oh, that’s nothing—only a scratch that this fellow gave me with a big cutlass he had.”

      M. Plantat insisted on examining the wound, and was not satisfied until the doctor declared it to be a very slight one.

      “Come, Master Robelot,” said the old man, “what were you doing here?”

      The bone-setter did not reply.

      “Take care,” insisted M. Plantat, “your silence will confirm us in the idea that you came with the worst designs.”

      But it was in vain that M. Plantat wasted his persuasive eloquence. Robelot shut himself up in a ferocious and dogged silence. M. Gendron, hoping, not without reason, that he might have some influence over his former assistant, spoke:

      “Answer us; what did you come for?”

      Robelot made an effort; it was painful, with his broken jaw, to speak.

      “I came to rob; I confess it.”

      “To rob—what?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “But you didn’t scale a wall and risk the jail without a definite object?”

      “Well, then, I wanted—”

      He stopped.

      “What? Go on.”

      “To get some rare flowers in the conservatory.”

      “With your cutlass, hey?” said M. Lecoq. Robelot gave him a terrible look; the detective continued:

      “You needn’t look at me that way—you don’t scare me. And don’t talk like a fool, either. If you think we are duller than you, you are mistaken—I warn you of it.”

      “I wanted the flower-pots,” stammered the man.

      “Oh, come now,” cried M. Lecoq, shrugging his shoulders, “don’t repeat such nonsense. You, a man that buys large estates for cash, steal flower-pots! Tell that to somebody else. You’ve been turned over to-night, my boy, like an old glove. You’ve let out in spite of yourself a secret that tormented you furiously, and you came here to get it back again. You thought that perhaps Monsieur Plantat had not told it to anybody, and you wanted to prevent him from speaking again forever.”

      Robelot made a sign of protesting.

      “Shut up now,” said M. Lecoq. “And your cutlass?”

      While this conversation was going on, M. Plantat reflected.

      “Perhaps,” he murmured, “I’ve spoken too soon.”

      “Why so?” asked M. Lecoq. “I wanted a palpable proof for Monsieur Domini; we’ll give him this rascal, and if he isn’t satisfied, he’s difficult to please.”

      “But what shall we do with him?”

      “Shut him up somewhere in the house; if necessary, I’ll tie him up.”

      “Here’s a dark closet.”

      “Is it secure?”

      “There are thick walls on three sides of it, and the fourth is closed with a double door; no openings, no windows, nothing.”

      “Just the place.”

      M. Plantat opened the closet, a black-looking hole, damp, narrow, and full of old books and papers.

      “There,” said M. Lecoq to his prisoner, “in here you’ll be like a little king,” and he pushed him into the closet. Robelot did not resist, but he asked for some water and a light. They gave him a bottle of water and a glass.

      “As for a light,” said M. Lecoq, “you may dispense with it. You’ll be playing us some dirty trick.”

      M. Plantat, having shut the closet-door, took the detective’s hand.

      “Monsieur,” said he, earnestly, “you have probably just saved my life at the peril of your own; I will not thank you. The day will come, I trust, when I may—”

      The detective interrupted him with a gesture.

      “You know how I constantly expose myself,” said he, “once more or less does not matter much. Besides, it does not always serve a man to save his life.” He was pensive a moment, then added: “You will thank me after awhile, when I have gained other titles to your gratitude.”

      M. Gendron also cordially shook the detective’s hand, saying:

      “Permit me to express my

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