“I don’t understand anything about it.”

M. Lecoq went on: 

“Were the windows open this morning as they are now?”

“Yes.”

“Ah!  The wretches heard some noise or other in the garden, and they went and looked out.  What did they see?  I can’t tell.  But I do know that what they saw terrified them, that they threw down the hatchet furiously, and made off.  Look at the position of these cuts—­they are slanting of course—­and you will see that the hatchet was thrown by a man who was standing, not by the cupboard, but close by the open window.”

Plantat in his turn knelt down, and looked long and carefully.  The detective was right.  He got up confused, and after meditating a moment, said: 

“This perplexes me a little; however—­”

He stopped, motionless, in a revery, with one of his hands on his forehead.

“All might yet be explained,” he muttered, mentally searching for a solution of the mystery, “and in that case the time indicated by the clock would be true.”

M. Lecoq did not think of questioning his companion.  He knew that he would not answer, for pride’s sake.

“This matter of the hatchet puzzles me, too,” said he.  “I thought that these assassins had worked leisurely; but that can’t be so.  I see they were surprised and interrupted.”

Plantat was all ears.

“True,” pursued M. Lecoq, slowly, “we ought to divide these indications into two classes.  There are the traces left on purpose to mislead us—­the jumbled-up bed, for instance; then there are the real traces, undesigned, as are these hatchet cuts.  But here I hesitate.  Is the trace of the hatchet true or false, good or bad?  I thought myself sure of the character of these assassins:  but now—­” He paused; the wrinkles on his face, the contraction of his mouth, betrayed his mental effort.

“But now?” asked M. Plantat.

M. Lecoq, at this question, seemed like a man just roused from sleep.

“I beg your pardon,” said he.  “I forgot myself.  I’ve a bad habit of reflecting aloud.  That’s why I almost always insist on working alone.  My uncertainty, hesitation, the vacillation of my suspicions, lose me the credit of being an astute detective—­of being an agent for whom there’s no such thing as a mystery.”

Worthy M. Plantat gave the detective an indulgent smile.

“I don’t usually open my mouth,” pursued M. Lecoq, “until my mind is satisfied; then I speak in a peremptory tone, and say—­this is thus, or this is so.  But to-day I am acting without too much restraint, in the company of a man who knows that a problem such as this seems to me to be, is not solved at the first attempt.  So I permit my gropings to be seen without shame.  You cannot always reach the truth at a bound, but by a series of diverse calculations, by deductions and inductions.  Well, just now my logic is at fault.”