A bucket of ice-water falling on M. Plantat’s head could not have surprised him more, or more disagreeably, than this speech.

“What!” stammered he, with an air of frank amazement, “do you, a man of experience, who—­”

Delighted with the success of his ruse, Lecoq could not keep his countenance, and Plantat, who perceived that he had been caught in the snare, laughed heartily.  Not a word, however, was exchanged between these two men, both subtle in the science of life, and equally cunning in its mysteries.  They quite understood each other.

“My worthy old buck,” said the detective to himself, “you’ve got something in your sack; only it’s so big, so monstrous, that you won’t exhibit it, not for a cannon-ball.  You wish your hand forced, do you?  Ve-ry well!”

“He’s sly,” thought M. Plantat.  “He knows that I’ve got an idea; he’s trying to get at it—­and I believe he will.”

M. Lecoq had restored his lozenge-box to his pocket, as he always did when he went seriously to work.  His amour-propre was enlisted; he played a part—­and he was a rare comedian.

“Now,” cried he, “let’s to horse.  According to the mayor’s account, the instrument with which all these things were broken has been found.”

“In the room in the second story,” answered M. Plantat, “overlooking the garden, we found a hatchet on the floor, near a piece of furniture which had been assailed, but not broken open; I forbade anyone to touch it.”

“And you did well.  Is it a heavy hatchet?”

“It weighs about two pounds.”

“Good.  Let’s see it.”

They ascended to the room in question, and M. Lecoq, forgetting his part of a haberdasher, and regardless of his clothes, went down flat on his stomach, alternately scrutinizing the hatchet—­which was a heavy, terrible weapon—­and the slippery and well-waxed oaken floor.

“I suppose,” observed M. Plantat, “that the assassins brought this hatchet up here and assailed this cupboard, for the sole purpose of putting us off our scent, and to complicate the mystery.  This weapon, you see, was by no means necessary for breaking open the cupboard, which I could smash with my fist.  They gave one blow—­ only one—­and quietly put the hatchet down.”

The detective got up and brushed himself.

“I think you are mistaken,” said he.  “This hatchet wasn’t put on the floor gently; it was thrown with a violence betraying either great terror or great anger.  Look here; do you see these three marks, near each other, on the floor?  When the assassin threw the hatchet, it first fell on the edge—­hence this sharp cut; then it fell over on one side; and the flat, or hammer end left this mark here, under my finger.  Therefore, it was thrown with such violence that it turned over itself and that its edge a second time cut in the floor, where you see it now.”

“True,” answered M. Plantat.  The detective’s conjectures doubtless refuted his own theory, for he added, with a perplexed air: