From the corner where he was quietly seated, Lecoq did not cease watching the prisoner. “She thinks that it’s all over,” he muttered to himself; “she fancies that her deposition is accepted without question.” If such were, indeed, the widow’s opinion, she was soon to be undeceived; for, after addressing a few low-spoken words to the smiling Goguet, M. Segmuller took a seat near the fireplace, convinced that the moment had now come to abandon defensive tactics, and open fire on the enemy’s position. “So, Widow Chupin,” he began, “you tell us that you didn’t remain for a single moment with the people who came into your shop that evening!” “Not a moment.” “They came in and ordered what they wanted; you waited on them, and then left them to themselves?” “Yes, my good sir.” “It seems to me impossible that you didn’t overhear some words of their conversation. What were they talking about?” “I am not in the habit of playing spy over my customers.” “Didn’t you hear anything?” “Nothing at all.” The magistrate shrugged his shoulders with an air of commiseration. “In other words,” he remarked, “you refuse to inform justice--” “Oh, my good sir!” “Allow me to finish. All these improbable stories about leaving the shop and mending your son’s clothes in your bedroom are so many inventions. You have concocted them so as to be able to say to me: ‘I didn’t see anything; I didn’t hear anything.’ If such is your system of defense, I warn you that it will be impossible for you to maintain it, and I may add that it would not be admitted by any tribunal.” “It is not a system of defense; it is the truth.” M. Segmuller seemed to reflect for a moment; then, suddenly, he exclaimed: “Then you have nothing to tell me about this miserable assassin?” “But he is not an assassin, my good sir.” “What do you mean by such an assertion?” “I mean that he only killed the others in protecting himself. They picked a quarrel with him; he was alone against three, and saw very plainly that he could expect no mercy from brigands who--” The color rose to the Widow Chupin’s cheeks, and she suddenly checked herself, greatly embarrassed, and evidently regretting that she had not bridled her tongue. It is true she might reasonably hope, that the magistrate had imperfectly heard her words, and had failed to seize their full purport, for two or three red-hot coals having fallen from the grate on the hearth, he had taken up the tongs, and seemed to be engrossed in the task of artistically arranging the fire. “Who can tell me--who can prove to me that, on the contrary, it was not this man who first attacked the others?” he murmured, thoughtfully. “I can,” stoutly declared the widow, already forgetful of her prudent hesitation, “I can swear it.” M. Segmuller looked up, intense astonishment written upon his face. “How can you know that?” he said slowly. “How can you swear it? You were in your bedroom when the quarrel began.”