"He will speak now," said he, so full of confidence that his eyes shone, and he forgot the portrait of the dear defunct, "for I have three means of unloosening his tongue, one of which is sure to succeed. But before he comes I should like to know one thing. Do you know whether Tremorel saw Jenny after Sauvresy's death?" "Jenny?" asked M. Plantat, a little surprised. "Yes." "Certainly he did." "Several times?" "Pretty often. After the scene at the Belle Image the poor girl plunged into terrible dissipation. Whether she was smitten with remorse, or understood that it was her conduct which had killed Sauvresy, or suspected the crime, I don't know. She began, however, to drink furiously, falling lower and lower every week--" "And the count really consented to see her again?" "He was forced to do so; she tormented him, and he was afraid of her. When she had spent all her money she sent to him for more, and he gave it. Once he refused; and that very evening she went to him the worse for wine, and he had the greatest difficulty in the world to send her away again. In short, she knew what his relations with Madame Sauvresy had been, and she threatened him; it was a regular black-mailing operation. He told me all about the trouble she gave him, and added that he would not be able to get rid of her without shutting her up, which he could not bring himself to do." "How long ago was their last interview?" "Why," answered the doctor, "not three weeks ago, when I had a consultation at Melun, I saw the count and this demoiselle at a hotel window; when he saw me he suddenly drew back." "Then," said the detective, "there is no longer any doubt--" He stopped. Guespin came in between two gendarmes. The unhappy gardener had aged twenty years in twenty-four hours. His eyes were haggard, his dry lips were bordered with foam. "Let us see," said the judge. "Have you changed your mind about speaking?" The prisoner did not answer. "Have you decided to tell us about yourself?" Guespin's rage made him tremble from head to foot, and his eyes became fiery. "Speak!" said he hoarsely. "Why should I?" He added with the gesture of a desperate man who abandons himself, renounces all struggling and all hope: "What have I done to you, my God, that you torture me this way? What do you want me to say? That I did this crime--is that what you want? Well, then--yes--it was I. Now you are satisfied. Now cut my head off, and do it quick--for I don't want to suffer any longer." A mournful silence welcomed Guespin's declaration. What, he confessed it! M. Domini had at least the good taste not to exult; he kept still, and yet this avowal surprised him beyond all expression. M. Lecoq alone, although surprised, was not absolutely put out of countenance. He approached Guespin and tapping him on the shoulder, said in a paternal tone: