microscopical bits of lead with which prisoners write the notes they
exchange, rolled up in a morsel of bread, and called "postilions."

These formalities having been concluded, the superintendent rang for
one of the keepers. "Conduct this man to No. 3 of the secret cells," he
ordered.

There was no need to drag the prisoner away. He walked out, as he had
entered, preceding the guard, like some old habitue, who knows where he
is going.

"What a rascal!" exclaimed the clerk.

"Then you think--" began Lecoq, baffled but not convinced.

"Ah! there can be no doubt of it," declared the governor. "This man is
certainly a dangerous criminal--an old offender--I think I have seen him
before--I could almost swear to it."

Thus it was evident these people, with their long, varied experience,
shared Gevrol's opinion; Lecoq stood alone. He did not discuss the
matter--what good would it have done? Besides, the Widow Chupin was just
being brought in.

The journey must have calmed her nerves, for she had become as gentle
as a lamb. It was in a wheedling voice, and with tearful eyes, that she
called upon these "good gentlemen" to witness the shameful injustice
with which she was treated--she, an honest woman. Was she not the
mainstay of her family (since her son Polyte was in custody, charged
with pocket-picking), hence what would become of her daughter-in-law,