“This is fine,” he sang out, “this is capital. To bring criminals to justice is of no account at all. But to free the innocent, by Jove! that is the last touch of art. Tirauclair, you are an immense wonder; and I bow before you.” And at the same time, he raised his hat ironically. “Don’t crush me,” replied the old fellow. “As you know, in spite of my grey hairs, I am young in the profession. Because chance served me three or four times, I became foolishly proud. I have learned too late that I am not all that I had thought myself; I am but an apprentice, and success has turned my head; while you, M. Gevrol, you are the master of all of us. Instead of laughing, pray help me, aid me with your advice and your experience. Alone, I can do nothing, while with your assistance----!” Gevrol is vain in the highest degree. Tabaret’s submission tickled his pretensions as a detective immensely; for in reality he thought the old man very clever. He was softened. “I suppose,” he said patronisingly, “you refer to the La Jonchere affair?” “Alas! yes, my dear M. Gevrol, I wished to work without you, and I have got myself into a pretty mess.” Cunning old Tabaret kept his countenance as penitent as that of a sacristan caught eating meat on a Friday; but he was inwardly laughing and rejoicing all the while. “Conceited fool!” he thought, “I will flatter you so much that you will end by doing everything I want.” M. Gevrol rubbed his nose, put out his lower lip, and said, “Ah,--hem!” He pretended to hesitate; but it was only because he enjoyed prolonging the old amateur’s discomfiture. “Come,” said he at last, “cheer up, old Tirauclair. I’m a good fellow at heart, and I’ll give you a lift. That’s kind, isn’t it? But, to-day, I’m too busy, I’ve an appointment to keep. Come to me to-morrow morning, and we’ll talk it over. But before we part I’ll give you a light to find your way with. Do you know who that witness is that I’ve brought?” “No; but tell me, my good M. Gevrol.” “Well, that fellow on the bench there, who is waiting for M. Daburon, is the husband of the victim of the La Jonchere tragedy!” “Is it possible?” exclaimed old Tabaret, perfectly astounded. Then, after reflecting a moment, he added, “You are joking with me.” “No, upon my word. Go and ask him his name; he will tell you that it is Pierre Lerouge.” “She wasn’t a widow then?” “It appears not,” replied Gevrol sarcastically, “since there is her happy spouse.” “Whew!” muttered the old fellow. “And does he know anything?” In a few sentences, the chief of detectives related to his amateur colleague the story that Lerouge was about to tell the investigating magistrate. “What do you say to that?” he asked when he came to the end. “What do I say to that?” stammered old Tabaret, whose countenance indicated intense astonishment; “what do I say to that? I don’t say anything. But I think,--no, I don’t think anything either!” “A slight surprise, eh?” said Gevrol, beaming.