to a telegram, for this affair."

This declaration clearly surprised all present, even the judge of
instruction.

In France, each profession has its special externals, as it were,
insignia, which betray it at first view. Each profession has its
conventional type, and when public opinion has adopted a type, it
does not admit it possible that the type should be departed from.
What is a doctor? A grave man, all in black, with a white cravat.
A gentleman with a capacious stomach, adorned with heavy gold seals,
can only be a banker. Everybody knows that the artist is a merry
liver, with a peaked hat, a velvet vest, and enormous ruffles. By
virtue of this rule, the detective of the prefecture ought to have
an eye full of mystery, something suspicious about him, a negligence
of dress, and imitation jewelry. The most obtuse shopkeeper is sure
that he can scent a detective at twenty paces a big man with
mustaches, and a shining felt hat, his throat imprisoned by a collar
of hair, dressed in a black, threadbare surtout, carefully buttoned
up on account of the entire absence of linen. Such is the type.
But, according to this, M. Lecoq, as he entered the dining-room at
Valfeuillu, had by no means the air of a detective. True, M. Lecoq
can assume whatever air he pleases. His friends declare that he
has a physiognomy peculiar to himself, which he resumes when he
enters his own house, and which he retains by his own fireside, with
his slippers on; but the fact is not well proved. What is certain,
is that his mobile face lends itself to strange metamorphoses; that
he moulds his features according to his will, as the sculptor moulds
clay for modelling. He changes everything, even his look.