His cab had scarcely stopped at the gate of the Palais de Justice before he was in the courtyard and rushing towards the porch.  To see him jumping more nimbly than a fifth-rate lawyer’s clerk up the steep flight of stairs leading to the magistrate’s office, one would never have believed that he was many years on the shady side of fifty.  Even he himself had forgotten it.  He did not remember how he had passed the night; he had never before felt so fresh, so agile, in such spirits; he seemed to have springs of steel in his limbs.

He burst like a cannon-shot into the magistrate’s office, knocking up against the methodical clerk in the rudest of ways, without even asking his pardon.

“Caught!” he cried, while yet on the threshold, “caught, nipped, squeezed, strung, trapped, locked!  We have got the man.”

Old Tabaret, more Tirauclair than ever, gesticulated with such comical vehemence and such remarkable contortions that even the tall clerk smiled, for which, however, he took himself severely to task on going to bed that night.

But M. Daburon, still under the influence of Noel’s deposition, was shocked at this apparently unseasonable joy; although he felt the safer for it.  He looked severely at old Tabaret, saying,—­“Hush, sir; be decent, compose yourself.”

At any other time, the old fellow would have felt ashamed at having deserved such a reprimand.  Now, it made no impression on him.

“I can’t be quiet,” he replied.  “Never has anything like this been known before.  All that I mentioned has been found.  Broken foil, lavender kid gloves slightly frayed, cigar-holder; nothing is wanting.  You shall have them, sir, and many other things besides.  I have a little system of my own, which appears by no means a bad one.  Just see the triumph of my method of induction, which Gevrol ridiculed so much.  I’d give a hundred francs if he were only here now.  But no; my Gevrol wants to nab the man with the earrings; he is just capable of doing that.  He is a fine fellow, this Gevrol, a famous fellow!  How much do you give him a year for his skill?”

“Come, my dear M. Tabaret,” said the magistrate, as soon as he could get in a word, “be serious, if you can, and let us proceed in order.”

“Pooh!” replied the old fellow, “what good will that do?  It is a clear case now.  When they bring the fellow before you, merely show him the particles of kid taken from behind the nails of the victim, side by side with his torn gloves, and you will overwhelm him.  I wager that he will confess all, hic et nunc,—­yes, I wager my head against his; although that’s pretty risky; for he may get off yet!  Those milk-sops on the jury are just capable of according him extenuating circumstances.  Ah! all those delays are fatal to justice!  Why if all the world were of my mind, the punishment of rascals wouldn’t take such a time.  They should be hanged as soon as caught.  That’s my opinion.”