The magistrate could not help
comparing him to a pointer on the scent, his turned-up nose even moved
about as if to discover some subtle odour left by the assassin. All
the while he talked loudly and with much gesticulation, apostrophising
himself, scolding himself, uttering little cries of triumph or
self-encouragement. He did not allow Lecoq to have a moment's rest. He
wanted this or that or the other thing. He demanded paper and a pencil.
Then he wanted a spade; and finally he cried out for plaster of Paris,
some water and a bottle of oil.
When more than an hour had elapsed, the investigating magistrate began
to grow impatient, and asked what had become of the amateur detective.
"He is on the road," replied the corporal, "lying flat in the mud, and
mixing some plaster in a plate. He says he has nearly finished, and that
he is coming back presently."
He did in fact return almost instantly, joyous, triumphant, looking at
least twenty years younger. Lecoq followed him, carrying with the utmost
precaution a large basket.
"I have solved the riddle!" said Tabaret to the magistrate. "It is all
clear now, and as plain as noon-day.
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