defended itself with the dangerous strength of despair; his body
formed a large brown spot in the middle of the lawn, and his legs,
kicking furiously, convulsively stretched and contracted. Then
there was a moment when the lookers-on could not make out which was
the detective. They rose again and struggled; suddenly a cry of pain
escaped, with a ferocious oath.

"Ah, wretch!"

And almost immediately a loud shout rent the air, and the detective's
mocking tones were heard:

"There he is! I've persuaded him to pay his respects to us--light
me up a little."

The doctor and his host hastened to the lamp; their zeal caused a
delay, and at the moment that the doctor raised the lamp, the door
was rudely pushed open.

"I beg to present to you," said M. Lecoq, "Master Robelot,
bone-setter of Orcival, herborist by prudence, and poisoner by
vocation."

The stupefaction of the others was such that neither could speak.

It was really the bone-setter, working his jaws nervously. His
adversary had thrown him down by the famous knee-stroke which is
the last resort of the worst prowlers about the Parisian barriers.
But it was not so much Robelot's 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, wit