On learning the misfortune that had befallen M. d'Escorval, Lecoq's face
wore such an expression of consternation that the doorkeeper could not
help laughing. "What is there so very extraordinary about that I've told
you?" he asked.
"I--oh! nothing--"
The detective did not speak the truth. The fact is, he had just been
struck by the strange coincidence of two events--the supposed murderer's
attempted suicide, and the magistrate's fall. Still, he did not allow
the vague presentiment that flitted through his mind to assume any
definite form. For after all, what possible connection could there be
between the two occurrences? Then again, he never allowed himself to be
governed by prejudice, nor had he as yet enriched his formulary with an
axiom he afterward professed: "Distrust all circumstances that seem to
favor your secret wishes."
Of course, Lecoq did not rejoice at M. d'Escorval's accident; could he
have prevented it, he would have gladly done so. Still, he could not
help saying to himself that this stroke of misfortune would free him
from all further connection with a man whose superciliousness and
disdain had been painfully disagreeable to his feelings.
This thought caused a sensation of relief--almost one of
light-heartedness. "In that case," said the young detective to the
doorkeeper, "I shall have nothing to do here this morning."
"You must be joking," was the reply. "Does the world stop moving because
one man is disabled? The news only arrived an hour ago; but all the
urgent business that M.
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