Lecoq suddenly checked himself, remembering that he had no time to waste in conjectures. “What kind of fellow was this drunkard?” he inquired. “He was tall and stout, with full ruddy cheeks, a pair of white whiskers, small eyes, a broad flat nose, and a good-natured, jovial manner.” “How old would you suppose him to be?” “Between forty and fifty.” “Did you form any idea of his profession?” “It’s my opinion, that what with his soft cap and his heavy brown overcoat, he must be either a clerk or the keeper of some little shop.” Having obtained this description, which agreed with the result of his investigations, Lecoq was about to enter the station house when a sudden thought brought him to a standstill. “I hope this man has had no communication with this Widow Chupin!” he exclaimed. The keeper laughed heartily. “How could he have had any?” he responded. “Isn’t the old woman alone in her cell? Ah, the old wretch! She has been cursing and threatening ever since she arrived. Never in my whole life have I heard such language as she has used. It has been enough to make the very stones blush; even the drunken man was so shocked that he went to the grating in the door, and told her to be quiet.” Lecoq’s glance and gesture were so expressive of impatience and wrath that the keeper paused in his recital much perturbed. “What is the matter?” he stammered. “Why are you angry?” “Because,” replied Lecoq, furiously, “because--” Not wishing to disclose the real cause of his anger, he entered the station house, saying that he wanted to see the prisoner. Left alone, the keeper began to swear in his turn. “These police agents are all alike,” he grumbled. “They question you, you tell them all they desire to know; and afterward, if you venture to ask them anything, they reply: ‘nothing,’ or ‘because.’ They have too much authority; it makes them proud.” Looking through the little latticed window in the door, by which the men on guard watch the prisoners, Lecoq eagerly examined the appearance of the assumed murderer. He was obliged to ask himself if this was really the same man he had seen some hours previously at the Poivriere, standing on the threshold of the inner door, and holding the whole squad of police agents in check by the intense fury of his attitude. Now, on the contrary, he seemed, as it were, the personification of weakness and despondency. He was seated on a bench opposite the grating in the door, his elbows resting on his knees, his chin upon his hand, his under lip hanging low and his eyes fixed upon vacancy. “No,” murmured Lecoq, “no, this man is not what he seems to be.” So saying he entered the cell, the culprit raised his head, gave the detective an indifferent glance, but did not utter a word. “Well, how goes it?” asked Lecoq. “I am innocent!” responded the prisoner, in a hoarse, discordant voice. “I hope so, I am sure--but that is for the magistrate to decide. I came to see if you wanted anything.”