"I am going to tell you what you did on the night of February 14th," said he. "At three o'clock in the afternoon, you took the train for Rouen, at Barentin, with what object the inquiry has not revealed. You had the intention of returning by the Paris train, which stops at Rouen at 9.03; and while on the platform, amid the crowd, you caught sight of Monsieur Grandmorin in his coupé. Observe that I am willing to admit there was no laying in wait for the victim, that the idea of the crime only occurred to you when you saw him. You entered the coupé, thanks to the crush, and waited until you were in the Malaunay tunnel. But you miscalculated the time, for the train was issuing from the tunnel when you dealt the blow. And you threw out the corpse, and you left the train at Barentin, after having got rid of the travelling-rug as well. That is what you did." He watched for the slightest ripple on the rosy face of Cabuche, and was irritated when the latter, who had been very attentive at first, ended by bursting into a hearty laugh. "What's that you're relating?" he exclaimed. "If I'd struck the blow I'd say so." Then he quietly added: "I did not do it, but I ought to have done it. Yes, I'm sorry I didn't." And that was all M. Denizet could get out of him. In vain did he repeat his questions, returning ten times to the same points by different tactics. No; always no! it was not he. He shrugged his shoulders, saying the idea was stupid. On arresting him they had searched the hovel, without discovering either weapon, banknotes, or watch. But they had laid hands on a pair of trousers, soiled with a few drops of blood--an overwhelming proof. Again he began to laugh. That was another pretty yarn! A rabbit, caught in a noose, had bled down his leg! And it was the magistrate who, in his unswerving conviction of the guilt of the prisoner, was losing ground by the display of too much professional astuteness, by complicating matters, by deposing simple truth. This man of small brains, incapable of holding his own in an effort of cunning, of invincible strength when he said no, always no, almost drove him crazy; for he was positive of the culpability of the man, and each fresh denial made him the more indignant at what he looked upon as obstinate perseverance in savagery and lies. He would force him into contradicting himself. "So you deny it?" he said. "Of course I do, because it was not me," said Cabuche. "Had it been, ah! I should be only too proud, I should say it was me." M. Denizet abruptly rose, and opened the door of the small adjoining room. When he had summoned Jacques, he inquired: "Do you recognise this man?" "I know him," answered the driver, surprised. "I've seen him formerly at the Misards." "No, no," said the magistrate. "Do you recognise him as the man in the coupé, the murderer?"