"Now," murmured the magistrate, "who can be the criminal?"
An idea crossed his mind, at first it seemed to him absurd. He rejected
it, then thought of it again. He examined it in all its various aspects.
He had almost adopted it, when M. de Commarin entered. M. Daburon's
messenger had arrived just as the count was alighting from his carriage,
on returning with Claire from Madame Gerdy's.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Old Tabaret talked, but he acted also.
Abandoned by the investigating magistrate to his own resources, he set
to work without losing a minute and without taking a moment's rest.
The story of the cabriolet, drawn by a swift horse, was exact in every
particular.
Lavish with his money, the old fellow had gathered together a dozen
detectives on leave or rogues out of work; and at the head of these
worthy assistants, seconded by his friend Lecoq, he had gone to
Bougival.
He had actually searched the country, house by house, with the obstinacy
and the patience of a maniac hunting for a needle in a hay-stack.
His efforts were not absolutely wasted.
After three days' investigation, he felt comparatively certain that the
assassin had not left the train at Rueil, as all the people of Bougival,
La Jonchere, and Marly do, but had gone on as far as Chatou.
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