are a sufficient transformation? The eye is the thing to be changed—the eye! The art lies in being able to change the eye. That is the secret.”
This theory of disguise explained why the lynx-eyed Lecoq never appeared at the police-office without his gold spectacles.
“Then, patron,” said Fanferlot, clinging to his idea, “you have been more successful than Mme. Alexandre; you have made the little girl confess? You know why she leaves the Archangel, why she does not wait for M. de Clameran, and why she bought calico dresses?”
“She is following my advice.”
“That being the case,” said the detective dejectedly, “there is nothing left for me to do, but to acknowledge myself an ass.”
“No, Squirrel,” said M. Lecoq, kindly, “you are not an ass. You merely did wrong in undertaking a task beyond your capacity. Have you progressed one step since you started this affair? No. That shows that, although you are incomparable as a lieutenant, you do not possess the qualities of a general. I am going to present you with an aphorism; remember it, and let it be your guide in the future: A man can shine in the second rank, who would be totally eclipsed in the first.”
Never had Fanferlot seen his patron so talkative and good-natured. Finding his deceit discovered, he had expected to be overwhelmed with a storm of anger; whereas he had escaped with a little shower that had cooled his brain. Lecoq’s anger disappeared like one of those heavy clouds which threaten in the horizon for a moment, and then are suddenly swept away by a gust of wind.
But this unexpected affability made Fanferlot feel uneasy. He was afraid that something might be concealed beneath it.
“Do you know who the thief is, patron?”
“I know no more than you do, Fanferlot; and you seem to have made up your mind, whereas I am still undecided. You declare the cashier to be innocent, and the banker guilty. I don’t know whether you are right or wrong. I started after you, and have only reached the preliminaries of my search. I am certain of but one thing, and that is, that a scratch was on the safe-door. That scratch is my starting-point.”
As he spoke, M. Lecoq took from his desk and unrolled an immense sheet of drawing-paper.
On this paper was photographed the door of M. Fauvel’s safe. The impression of every detail was perfect. There were the five movable buttons with the engraved letters, and the narrow, projecting brass lock: The scratch was indicated with great exactness.
“Now,” said M. Lecoq, “here is our scratch. It runs from top to bottom, starting from the hole of the lock, diagonally, and, observe, from left to right; that is to say, it terminates on the side next to the private staircase leading to the banker’s apartments. Although very deep at the key-hole, it ends off in a scarcely perceptible mark.”
“Yes, patron, I see all that.”
“Naturally you thought that this scratch was made by the person who took the money. Let us see if you were right. I have here a little iron box, painted with green varnish like M. Fauvel’s safe; here it is. Take a key, and try to scratch it.”
“The deuce take it!” he said after several attempts, “this paint is awfully hard to move!”
“Very hard, my friend, and yet that on the safe is still harder and thicker. So you see the scratch you discovered could not have been made by the trembling hand of a thief letting the key slip.”
“Sapristi!” exclaimed Fanferlot, stupefied: “I never should have thought of that. It certainly required great force to make the deep scratch on the safe.”
“Yes, but how was that force employed? I have been racking my brain for three days, and only yesterday did I come to a conclusion. Let us examine together, and see if our conjectures present enough chances of probability to establish a starting-point.”
M. Lecoq abandoned the photograph, and, walking to the door communicating with his bedroom, took the key from the lock, and, holding it in his hand, said:
“Come here, Fanferlot, and stand by my side: there; very well. Now suppose that I want to open this door, and you don’t want me to open it; when you see me about to insert the key, what would be your first impulse?”
“To put my hands on your arm, and draw it toward me so as to prevent your introducing the key.”
“Precisely so. Now let us try it; go on.” Fanferlot obeyed; and the key held by M. Lecoq, pulled aside from the lock, slipped along the door, and traced upon it a diagonal scratch, from top to bottom, the exact reproduction of the one in the photograph.
“Oh, oh, oh!” exclaimed Fanferlot in three different tones of admiration, as he stood gazing in a revery at the door.
“Do you begin to understand now?” asked M. Lecoq.
“Understand, patron? Why, a child could understand it now. Ah, what a man you are! I see the scene as if I had been present. Two persons were present at the robbery; one wished to take the money, the other wished to prevent its being taken. That is clear, that is certain.”
Accustomed to triumphs of this sort, M. Lecoq was much amused at Fanferlot’s enthusiasm.
“There you go off, half-primed again,” he said, good-humoredly: “you regard as sure proof a circumstance which may be accidental, and at the most only probable.”
“No, patron, no! a man like you could not be mistaken: doubt no longer exists.”
“That being the case, what deductions would you draw from our discovery?”
“In the first place, it proves that I am correct in thinking the cashier innocent.”
“How so?”
“Because, at perfect liberty to open the safe whenever he wished to do so, it is not likely that he would have brought a witness when he intended to commit the theft.”
“Well reasoned, Fanferlot. But on this supposition the banker would be equally innocent: reflect a little.”
Fanferlot reflected, and all of his animation vanished.
“You are right,” he said in a despairing tone. “What can be done now?”
“Look for the third rogue, or rather the real rogue, the one who opened the safe, and stole the notes, and who is still at large, while others are suspected.”
“Impossible, patron—impossible! Don’t you know that M. Fauvel and his cashier had keys, and they only? And they always kept these keys in their pockets.”
“On the evening of the robbery the banker left his key in the secretary.”
“Yes; but the key alone was not sufficient to open the safe; the word also must be known.”
M. Lecoq shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“What was the word?” he asked.
“Gypsy.”
“Which is the name of the cashier’s grisette. Now keep your eyes open. The day you find a man sufficiently intimate with Prosper to be aware of all the circumstances
