“Quite alone: the woman in one cell, and the man in the other. This has been a remarkably quiet night, for Shrove Sunday! Quite surprising indeed! It is true your hunt was interrupted.” “You had a drunken man here, however.” “No--yes--that’s true--this morning just at daybreak. A poor devil, who is under a great obligation to Gevrol.” The involuntary irony of this remark did not escape Lecoq. “Yes, under a great obligation, indeed!” he said with a derisive laugh. “You may laugh as much as you like,” retorted the keeper, “but such is really the case; if it hadn’t been for Gevrol the man would certainly have been run over.” “And what has become of him?” The keeper shrugged his shoulders. “You ask me too much,” he responded. He was a worthy fellow who had been spending the night at a friend’s house, and on coming out into the open air, the wine flew into his head. He told us all about it when he got sober, half an hour afterward. I never saw a man so vexed as he was. He wept, and stammered: “The father of a family, and at my age too! Oh! it is shameful! What shall I say to my wife? What will the children think?” “Did he talk much about his wife?” “He talked about nothing else. He mentioned her name--Eudosia Leocadie, or some name of that sort. He declared that he should be ruined if we kept him here. He begged us to send for the commissary, to go to his house, and when we set him free, I thought he would go mad with joy; he kissed our hands, and thanked us again and again!” “And did you place him in the same cage as the murderer?” inquired Lecoq. “Of course.” “Then they talked with each other.” “Talked? Why, the drunkard was so ‘gone’ I tell you, that he couldn’t have said ‘bread’ distinctly. When he was placed in a cell, bang! He fell down like a log of wood. As soon as he recovered, we let him out. I’m sure, they didn’t talk to each other.” The young police agent had grown very thoughtful. “I was evidently right,” he murmured. “What did you say?” inquired the keeper. “Nothing,” replied Lecoq, who was not inclined to communicate his reflections to the custodian of the guard-house. These reflections of his were by no means pleasant ones. “I was right,” he thought; “this pretended drunkard was none other than the accomplice. He is evidently an adroit, audacious, cool-headed fellow. While we were tracking his footprints he was watching us. When we had got to some distance, he was bold enough to enter the hovel. Then he came here and compelled them to arrest him; and thanks to an assumption of childish simplicity, he succeeded in finding an opportunity to speak with the murderer. He played his part perfectly. Still, I know that he did play a part, and that is something. I know that one must believe exactly the opposite of what he said. He talked of his family, his wife and children--hence, he has neither children, wife, nor family.”