M. Lecoq had not thought fit to speak as yet. Like a doctor at a sick bedside, he wanted to be sure of his diagnosis. He had returned to the mantel, and again pushed forward the hands of the clock. It sounded, successively, half-past eleven, then twelve, then half-past twelve, then one.
As he moved the hands, he kept muttering:
"Apprentices—chance brigands! You are malicious, parbleu, but you don't think of everything. You give a push to the hands, but don't remember to put the striking in harmony with them. Then comes along a detective, an old rat who knows things, and the dodge is discovered."
M. Domini and Plantat held their tongues. M. Lecoq walked up to them.
"Monsieur the Judge," said he, "is perhaps now convinced that the deed was done at half-past ten."
"Unless," interrupted M. Plantat, "the machinery of the clock has been out of order."
"That often happens," added M. Courtois. "The clock in my drawing-room is in such a state that I never know the time of day."
M. Lecoq reflected.
"It is possible," said he, "that Monsieur Plantat is right. The probability is in favor of my theory; but probability, in such an affair, is not sufficient; we must have certainty. There happily remains a mode of testing the matter—the bed; I'll wager it is rumpled up." Then addressing the mayor, "I shall need a servant to lend me a hand."
"I'll help you," said Plantat, "that will be a quicker way."