. He does not argue with the judge; he's got an idea that
he doesn't dare to tell, and we must find it out. At the very first
he guessed me out, despite these pretty blond locks. As long as he
thought he could, by misleading me, make me follow M. Domini's tack,
he followed and aided me showing me the way. Now that he sees me
on the scent, he crosses his arms and retires. He wants to leave
me the honor of the discovery. Why? He lives here--perhaps he
is afraid of making enemies. No. He isn't a man to fear much of
anything. What then? He shrinks from his own thoughts. He has
found something so amazing, that he dares not explain himself."

A sudden reflection changed the course of M. Lecoq's confidences.

"A thousand imps!" thought he. "Suppose I'm wrong! Suppose this
old fellow is not shrewd at all! Suppose he hasn't discovered
anything, and only obeys the inspirations of chance! I've seen
stranger things. I've known so many of these folks whose eyes
seem so very mysterious, and announce such wonders; after all, I
found nothing, and was cheated. But I intend to sound this old
fellow well."

And, assuming his most idiotic manner, he said aloud:

"On reflection, Monsieur, little remains to be done. Two of the
principals are in custody, and when they make up their minds to
talk--they'll do it, sooner or later, if the judge is determined
they shall--we shall know all."

A bucket of ice-water falling on M. Plantat's head could not have
surprised him more, or more disagreeably, than this speech.

"What!" stammered he, with an air of frank amazement, "do you, a
man of experience, who--"

Delighted with the success of his ruse, Lecoq could not keep his
countenance, and Plantat, who perceived that he had been caught in
the snare, laughed heartily. Not a word, however, was exchanged
between these two men, both subtle in the science of life, and
equally cunning in its mysteries. They quite understood each other.

"My worthy old buck," said the detective to himself, "you've got
something in your sack; only it's so big, so monstrous, that you
won't exhibit it, not for a cannon-ball. You wish your hand forced,
do you? Ve-ry well!"

"He's sly," thought M. Plantat. "He knows that I've got an idea;
he's trying to get at it--and I believe he will."

M. Lecoq had restored his lozenge-box to his pocket, as he always
did when he went seriously to work. His amour-propre was enlisted;
he played a part--and he was a rare comedian.