h 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, "