"So," said the judge of instruction, "the prefect has sent you to me,
in case certain investigations become necessary."

"Yes, Monsieur, quite at your service."

M. Lecoq had on this day assumed a handsome wig of lank hair, of
that vague color called Paris blonde, parted on the side by a line
pretentiously fanciful; whiskers of the same color puffed out with
bad pomade, encircled a pallid face. His big eyes seemed congealed
within their red border, an open smile rested on his thick lips,
which, in parting, discovered a range of long yellow teeth. His
face, otherwise, expressed nothing in particular. It was a nearly
equal mixture of timidity, self-sufficiency, and contentment. It
was quite impossible to concede the least intelligence to the
possessor of such a phiz. One involuntarily looked for a goitre.
The retail haberdashers, who, having cheated for thirty years in
their threads and needles, retire with large incomes, should have
such heads as this. His apparel was as dull as his person. His
coat resembled all coats, his trousers all trousers. A hair chain,
the same color as his whiskers, was attached to a large silver watch,
which bulged out his left waistcoat pocket. While speaking, he
fumbled with a confection-box made of transparent horn, full of
little square lozenges, and adorned by a portrait of a very homely,
well-dressed woman--"the defunct," no doubt. As the conversation
proceeded, according as he was satisfied or disturbed, M. Lecoq
munched a lozenge, or directed glances toward the portrait which
were quite a poem in themselves.

Having examined the man a long time, the judge of instruction
shrugged his shoulders. "Well," said M. Domini, finally, "now