riety."

As the supposed murderer heard these words, an expression of mingled
distress and anxiety was apparent in his face. "Ah! I meant no offense,
sir," he sighed. "You questioned me, and I replied. You will see that
I have spoken the truth, if you will allow me to recount the history of
the whole affair."

"When the prisoner speaks, the prosecution is enlightened," so runs an
old proverb frequently quoted at the Palais de Justice. It does, indeed,
seem almost impossible for a culprit to say more than a few words in an
investigating magistrate's presence, without betraying his intentions or
his thoughts; without, in short, revealing more or less of the secret he
is endeavoring to conceal. All criminals, even the most simple-minded,
understand this, and those who are shrewd prove remarkably reticent.
Confining themselves to the few facts upon which they have founded their
defense, they are careful not to travel any further unless absolutely
compelled to do so, and even then they only speak with the utmost
caution. When questioned, they reply, of course, but always briefly; and
they are very sparing of details.

In the present instance, however, the prisoner was prodigal of words. He
did not seem to think that there was any danger of his being the medium
of accomplishing his own decapitation. He did not hesitate like those
who are afraid of misplacing a word of the romance they are substituting
for the truth. Under other circumstances, this fact would have been a
strong argument in his favor.

"You may tell your own story, then," said M. Segmuller in answer to the
prisoner's indirect request.

The presumed murderer did not try to hide the satisfaction he
experienced at thus being allowed to plead his own cause, in his own
way. His eyes sparkled and his nostrils dilated as if with pleasure. He
sat himself dawn, threw his head back, passed his tongue over his lips
as if to moisten them, and said: "Am I to understand that you wish to
hear my history?"

"Yes."

"Then you must know that one day about forty-five years ago, Father
Tringlot, the manager of a traveling acrobatic company, was going
from Guingamp to Saint Brieuc, in Brittany. He had with him two large
vehicles containing his wife, the necessary theatrical paraphernalia,
and the members of the company. Well, soon after passing Chatelaudren,
he perceived something white lying by the roadside, near the edge of a
ditch. 'I must go and see what that is,' he s