“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: 

“Come, comrade, what you are telling us is absurd.  Do you think the judge has any secret grudge against you?  No, eh?  Do you suppose I am interested to have you guillotined?  Not at all.  A crime has been committed, and we are trying to find the assassin.  If you are innocent, help us to find the man who isn’t:  What were you doing from Wednesday evening till Thursday morning?”

But Guespin persisted in his ferocious and stupid obstinacy.

“I’ve said what I have to say,” said he.

M. Lecoq changed his tone to one of severity, stepping back to watch the effect he was about to produce upon Guespin.

“You haven’t any right to hold your tongue.  And even if you do, you fool, the police know everything.  Your master sent you on an errand, didn’t he, on Wednesday night; what did he give you?  A one-thousand-franc note?”

The prisoner looked at M. Lecoq in speechless amazement.

“No,” he stammered.  “It was a five-hundred-franc note.”

The detective, like all great artists in a critical scene, was really moved.  His surprising genius for investigation had just inspired him with a bold stroke, which, if it succeeded, would assure him the victory.

“Now,” said he, “tell me the woman’s name.”

“I don’t know.”