"It is not I," he muttered, with the satisfied vanity of success, "who
would ever let my prey escape. No crime can be committed, of which the
author cannot be found, unless, indeed, he happens to be a madman, whose
motive it would be difficult to understand. I would pass my life in
pursuit of a criminal, before avowing myself vanquished, as Gevrol has
done so many times."
Assisted by chance, he had again succeeded, so he kept repeating to
himself, but what proofs could he furnish to the accusation, to that
confounded jury, so difficult to convince, so precise and so cowardly?
What could he imagine to force so cunning a culprit to betray himself?
What trap could he prepare? To what new and infallible stratagem could
he have recourse?
The amateur detective exhausted himself in subtle but impracticable
combinations, always stopped by that exacting jury, so obnoxious to
the agents of the Rue de Jerusalem. He was so deeply absorbed in his
thoughts that he did not hear the door open, and was utterly unconscious
of the magistrate's presence.
M. Daburon's voice aroused him from his reverie.
"You will excuse me, M. Tabaret, for having left you so long alone.
Pages:
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221