With his limited powers of observation, he naturally did not observe the tone of triumph in his young companion’s voice.  “Upon my word,” he remarked, when they were alone, “your idea of keeping me here was a good one, and I thank you for it.  While the others spend the night paddling about in the slush, I shall get a good sleep.”

Here he stood, in a room that was splashed with blood, that was shuddering, so to speak, with crime, and yet face to face with the still warm bodies of three murdered men he could talk of sleep!

But, after all, what did it matter to him?  He had seen so many similar scenes in his time.  And does not habit infallibly lead to professional indifference, making the soldier cool and composed in the midst of conflict, and rendering the surgeon impassible when the patient shrieks and writhes beneath his operating knife.

“I have been upstairs, looking about,” pursued Father Absinthe; “I saw a bed up there, and we can mount guard here, by turns.”

With an imperious gesture, Lecoq interrupted him.  “You must give up that idea, Father Absinthe,” he said, “we are not here to sleep, but to collect information—­to make the most careful researches, and to note all the probabilities.  In a few hours the commissary of police, the legal physician, and the public prosecutor will be here.  I wish to have a report ready for them.”

This proposition seemed anything but pleasing to the old police agent.  “Eh! what is the use of that?” he exclaimed.  “I know the General.  When he goes in search of the commissary, as he has gone this evening, there is nothing more to be done.  Do you think you can see anything that he didn’t see?”

“I think that Gevrol, like every one else, is liable to be mistaken.  I think that he believes too implicitly in what seems to him evidence.  I could swear that this affair is not what it seems to be; and I am sure that if we like we can discover the mystery which is concealed beneath present appearances.”

Although Lecoq’s vehemence was intense, he did not succeed in making any impression upon his companion, who with a yawn that threatened to dislocate his jaws replied:  “Perhaps you are right; but I am going to bed.  This need not prevent you from searching around, however; and if you find anything you can wake me.”

Lecoq made no sign of impatience:  nor in reality was he impatient.  These words afforded him the opportunity for which he was longing.  “You will give me a moment first,” he remarked.  “In five minutes, by your watch, I promise to let you put your finger on the mystery that I suspect here.”

“Well, go on for five minutes.”

“After that you shall be free, Father Absinthe.  Only it is clear that if I unravel the mystery alone, I alone ought to pocket the reward that a solution will certainly bring.”

At the word “reward” the old police agent pricked up his ears.  He was dazzled by the vision of an infinite number of bottles of the greenish liquor whose name he bore.  “Convince me, then,” said he, taking a seat upon a stool, which he had lifted from the floor.