"I don't see what you're going to do," opposed the judge mildly.
"You don't? Then I'll tell you that—" Coquenil checked himself at a sudden thought. "After all, what I do is not important, but I'll tell you what Gibelin will do, and that is important, he will let this American go to trial and be found guilty for want of evidence that would save him."
"Not if I can help it," replied Hauteville, ruffled at this reflection on his judicial guidance of the investigation.
"No offense," said M. Paul, "but this is a case where even as able a judge as yourself must have special assistance and—Gibelin couldn't find the truth in a thousand years. Do you think he's fit to handle this case?"
"Officially I have no opinion," answered Hauteville guardedly, "but I don't mind telling you personally that I—I'm sorry to lose you."
"Thanks," said M. Paul. "I think I'll have a word with the chief."
In the outer office Coquenil learned that M. Simon was just then in conference with one of the other judges and for some minutes he walked slowly up and down the long corridor, smiling bitterly, until presently one of the doors opened and the chief came out followed by a black bearded judge, who was bidding him obsequious farewell.
As M. Simon moved away briskly, his eye fell on the waiting detective, and his genial face clouded.
"Ah, Coquenil," he said, and with a kindly movement he took M. Paul's arm in his. "I want a word with you—over here," and he led the way to a wide window space. "I'm sorry about this business."
"Sorry?" exclaimed M. Paul. "So is Hauteville sorry, but—if you're sorry, why did you let the thing happen?"