"This matter of the hatchet puzzles me, too," said he. "I thought
that these assassins had worked leisurely; but that can't be so.
I see they were surprised and interrupted."

Plantat was all ears.

"True," pursued M. Lecoq, slowly, "we ought to divide these
indications into two classes. There are the traces left on purpose
to mislead us--the jumbled-up bed, for instance; then there are
the real traces, undesigned, as are these hatchet cuts. But here
I hesitate. Is the trace of the hatchet true or false, good or
bad? I thought myself sure of the character of these assassins:
but now--" He paused; the wrinkles on his face, the contraction
of his mouth, betrayed his mental effort.

"But now?" asked M. Plantat.

M. Lecoq, at this question, seemed like a man just roused from sleep.

"I beg your pardon," said he. "I forgot myself. I've a bad habit
of reflecting aloud. That's why I almost always insist on working
alone. My uncertainty, hesitation, the vacillation of my suspicions,
lose me the credit of being an astute detective--of being an agent
for whom there's no such thing as a mystery."

Worthy M. Plantat gave the detective an indulgent smile.

"I don't usually open my mouth," pursued M. Lecoq, "until my mind
is satisfied; then I speak in a peremptory tone, and say--this is
thus, or this is so. But to-day I am acting without too much