“When I think,” he continued, “that my worthy Gevrol is running after the man with the earrings! Run, my boy, run! Travel is a good thing for youth. Won’t he be vexed? He will wish me dead. But I don’t care. If any one wishes to do me an injury, M. Daburon will protect me. Ah! there is one to whom I am going to do a good turn. I can see him now, opening his eyes like saucers, when I say to him, ‘I have the rascal!’ He can boast of owing me something. This investigation will bring him honour, or justice is not justice. He will, at least, be made an officer of the Legion of Honour. So much the better! I like him. If he is asleep, I am going to give him an agreeable awaking. Won’t he just overpower me with questions! He will want to know everything at once.” Old Tabaret, who was now crossing the Pont des Saints-Peres, stopped suddenly. “But the details!” said he. “By Jove! I have none. I only know the bare facts.” He resumed his walk, and continued, “They are right at the office, I am too enthusiastic; I jump at conclusions, as Gevrol says. When I was with Noel, I should have cross-examined him, got hold of a quantity of useful details; but I did not even think of doing so. I drank in his words. I would have had him tell the story in a sentence. All the same, it is but natural; when one is pursuing a stag, one does not stop to shoot a blackbird. But I see very well now, I did not draw him out enough. On the other hand, by questioning him more, I might have awakened suspicions in Noel’s mind, and led him to discover that I am working for the Rue de Jerusalem. To be sure, I do not blush for my connection with the police, I am even vain of it; but at the same time, I prefer that no one should know of it. People are so stupid, that they detest the police, who protect them; I must be calm and on my best behaviour, for here I am at the end of my journey.” M. Daburon had just gone to bed, but had given orders to his servant; so that M. Tabaret had but to give his name, to be at once conducted to the magistrate’s sleeping apartment. At sight of his amateur detective, M. Daburon raised himself in his bed, saying, “There is something extraordinary! What have you discovered? have you got a clue?” “Better than that,” answered the old fellow, smiling with pleasure. “Speak quickly!” “I know the culprit!” Old Tabaret ought to have been satisfied; he certainly produced an effect. The magistrate bounded in his bed. “Already!” said he. “Is it possible?” “I have the honour to repeat to you, sir,” resumed the old fellow, “that I know the author of the crime of La Jonchere.” “And I,” said M. Daburon, “I proclaim you the greatest of all detectives, past or future. I shall certainly never hereafter undertake an investigation without your assistance.” “You are too kind, sir. I have had little or nothing to do in the matter. The discovery is due to chance alone.”