“So, Monsieur Tabaret, you are ready to affirm that M. d’Escorval is in quite as good health as Father Absinthe or myself; and that he has confined himself to his room for a couple of months to give a semblance of truth to a falsehood?” “I would be willing to swear it.” “But what could possibly have been his object?” Tabaret lifted his hands to heaven, as if imploring forgiveness for the young man’s stupidity. “And it was in you,” he exclaimed, “in you that I saw a successor, a disciple to whom I might transmit my method of induction; and now, you ask me such a question as that! Reflect a moment. Must I give you an example to assist you? Very well. Let it be so. Suppose yourself a magistrate. A crime is committed; you are charged with the duty of investigating it, and you visit the prisoner to question him. Very well. This prisoner has, hitherto, succeeded in concealing his identity--this was the case in the present instance, was it not? Very well. Now, what would you do if, at the very first glance, you recognized under the prisoner’s disguise your best friend, or your worst enemy? What would you do, I ask?” “I should say to myself that a magistrate who is obliged to hesitate between his duty and his inclinations, is placed in a very trying position, and I should endeavor to avoid the responsibility.” “I understand that; but would you reveal this prisoner’s identity--remember, he might be your friend or your enemy?” The question was so delicate that Lecoq remained silent for a moment, reflecting before he replied. The pause was interrupted by Father Absinthe. “I should reveal nothing whatever!” he exclaimed. “I should remain absolutely neutral. I should say to myself others are trying to discover this man’s identity. Let them do so if they can; but let my conscience be clear.” This was the cry of honesty; not the counsel of a casuist. “I also should be silent,” Lecoq at last replied; “and it seems to me that, in holding my tongue, I should not fail in my duty as a magistrate.” On hearing these words, Tabaret rubbed his hands together, as he always did when he was about to present some overwhelming argument. “Such being the case,” said he, “do me the favor to tell me what pretext you would invent in order to withdraw from the case without exciting suspicion?” “I don’t know; I can’t say now. But if I were placed in such a position I should find some excuse--invent something--” “And if you could find nothing better,” interrupted Tabaret, “you would adopt M. d’Escorval’s expedient; you would pretend you had broken a limb. Only, as you are a clever fellow, you would sacrifice your arm; it would be less inconvenient than your leg; and you wouldn’t be condemned to seclusion for several months.” “So, Monsieur Tabaret, you are convinced that M. d’Escorval knows who May really is.”