M. Lecoq did not share in his friend's indignation; he was not sorry at the prospect of a bitter struggle in court, and he imagined a great scientific duel, like that between Orfila and Raspail, the provincial and Parisian chemists.
"If Tremorel has the face to deny his part in Sauvresy's murder," said he, "we shall have a superb trial of it."
This word "trial" put an end to M. Plantat's long hesitation.
"We mustn't have any trial," cried he.
The old man's violence, from one who was usually so calm and self-possessed, seemed to amaze M. Lecoq.
"Ah ha," thought he, "I'm going to know all." He added aloud:
"What, no trial?"
M. Plantat had turned whiter than a sheet; he was trembling, and his voice was hoarse, as if broken by sobs.
"I would give my fortune," resumed he "to avoid a trial—every centime of it, though it doesn't amount to much. But how can we secure this wretch Tremorel from a conviction? What subterfuge shall we invent? You alone, my friend, can advise me in the frightful extremity to which you see me reduced, and aid me to accomplish what I wish. If there is any way in the world, you will find it and save me—"
"But, my—"