he detective was right. He got up confused, and after meditating
a moment, said:

"This perplexes me a little; however--"

He stopped, motionless, in a revery, with one of his hands on his
forehead.

"All might yet be explained," he muttered, mentally searching for a
solution of the mystery, "and in that case the time indicated by
the clock would be true."

M. Lecoq did not think of questioning his companion. He knew that
he would not answer, for pride's sake.

"This matter of the hatchet puzzles me, too," said he. "I thought
that these assassins had worked leisurely; but that can't be so.
I see they were surprised and interrupted."

Plantat was all ears.

"True," pursued M. Lecoq, slowly, "we ought to divide these
indications into two classes. There are the traces left on purpose
to mislead us--the jumbled-up bed, for instance; then there are
the real traces, undesigned, as are these hatchet cuts. But here
I hesitate. Is the trace of the hatchet true or false, good or
bad? I thought myself sure of the character of these assassins:
but now--" He paused; the wrinkles on his face, the contraction
of his mouth, betrayed his mental effort.

"But now?" asked M. Plantat.

M. Lecoq, at this question, seemed like a man just roused from sleep.

"I beg your pardon," said he. "I forgot myself. I've a bad habit
of reflecting aloud. That's why I almost always insist on working
alone. My uncertainty, hesitation, the vacillation of my suspicions,
lose me the credit of being an astute detective--of being an agent
for whom there's no such thing as a mystery."

Worthy M. Plantat gave the detective an indulgent smile.

"I don't usually open my mouth," pursued M. Lecoq, "until my mind
is satisfied; then I speak in a peremptory tone, and say--this is
thus, or this is so. But to-day I am acting without too much
restraint, in the company of a man who knows that a problem such
as this seems to me to be, is not solved at the first attempt. So
I permit my gropings to be seen without shame. You cannot always
reach the truth at a bound, but by a series of diverse calculations,
by deductions and inductions. Well, just now my logic is at fault."

"How so?"

"Oh, it's very simple. I thought I understood the rascals, and
knew them by heart; and yet I have only recognized imaginary
adversaries. Are they fools, or are they mighty sly? That's what
I ask myself. The tricks played with the bed and clock had, I
supposed, given me the mea