It was precisely this unfavorable moment that M. Tabaret chose for reappearing before the magistrate. He had just been informed of the termination of the inquiry; and he arrived, impatient to know what had passed, swelling with curiosity, and full of the sweet hope of hearing of the fulfilment of his predictions. “What answers did he make?” he asked even before he had closed the door. “He is evidently guilty,” replied the magistrate, with a harshness very different to his usual manner. Old Tabaret, who expected to receive praises by the basketful, was astounded at this tone! It was therefore, with great hesitancy that he offered his further services. “I have come,” he said modestly, “to know if any investigations are necessary to demolish the _alibi_ pleaded by the prisoner.” “He pleaded no _alibi_,” replied the magistrate, dryly. “How,” cried the detective, “no _alibi_? Pshaw! I ask pardon: he has of course then confessed everything.” “No,” said the magistrate impatiently, “he has confessed nothing. He acknowledges that the proofs are decisive: he cannot give an account of how he spent his time; but he protests his innocence.” In the centre of the room, M. Tabaret stood with his mouth wide open, and his eyes staring wildly, and altogether in the most grotesque attitude his astonishment could effect. He was literally thunderstruck. In spite of his anger, M. Daburon could not help smiling; and even Constant gave a grin, which on his lips was equivalent to a paroxysm of laughter. “Not an _alibi_, nothing?” murmured the old fellow. “No explanations? The idea! It is inconceivable! Not an _alibi_? We must then be mistaken: he cannot be the criminal. That is certain!” The investigating magistrate felt that the old amateur must have been waiting the result of the examination at the wine shop round the corner, or else that he had gone mad. “Unfortunately,” said he, “we are not mistaken. It is but too clearly shown that M. de Commarin is the murderer. However, if you like, you can ask Constant for his report of the examination, and read it over while I put these papers in order.” “Very well,” said the old fellow with feverish anxiety. He sat down in Constant’s chair, and, leaning his elbows on the table, thrusting his hands in his hair, he in less than no time read the report through. When he had finished, he arose with pale and distorted features. “Sir,” said he to the magistrate in a strange voice, “I have been the involuntary cause of a terrible mistake. This man is innocent.” “Come, come,” said M. Daburon, without stopping his preparations for departure, “you are going out of your mind, my dear M. Tabaret. How, after all that you have read there, can--”