Chapter X. The Treasures of the Kings of France

ILLUSTRATIONS

Valméras loved Raymonde’s melancholy charm

She put the gun to her shoulder, calmly took aim and fired

Two huge letters, each perhaps a foot long, appeared cut in relief in

the granite of the floor

“We’re going now. What do you think of my cockle-shell, Beautrelet?”

THE HOLLOW NEEDLE

CHAPTER ONE

THE SHOT

Raymonde listened. The noise was repeated twice over, clearly enough to

be distinguished from the medley of vague sounds that formed the great

silence of the night and yet too faintly to enable her to tell whether

it was near or far, within the walls of the big country-house, or

outside, among the murky recesses of the park.

She rose softly. Her window was half open: she flung it back wide. The

moonlight lay over a peaceful landscape of lawns and thickets, against

which the straggling ruins of the old abbey stood out in tragic

outlines, truncated columns, mutilated arches, fragments of porches and

shreds of flying buttresses. A light breeze hovered over the face of

things, gliding noiselessly through the bare motionless branches of the

trees, but shaking the tiny budding leaves of the shrubs.

And, suddenly, she heard the same sound again. It was on the left and

on the floor below her, in the living rooms, therefore, that occupied

the left wing of the house. Brave and plucky though she was, the girl

felt afraid. She slipped on her dressing gown and took the matches.

“Raymonde—Raymonde!”

A voice as low as a breath was calling to her from the next room, the

door of which had not been closed. She was feeling her way there, when

Suzanne, her cousin, came out of the room and fell into her arms:

“Raymonde—is that you? Did you hear—?”

“Yes. So you’re not asleep?”

“I suppose the dog woke me—some time ago. But he’s not barking now.

What time is it?”

“About four.”

“Listen! Surely, some one’s walking in the drawing room!”

“There’s no danger, your father is down there, Suzanne.”

“But there is danger for him. His room is next to the boudoir.”

“M. Daval is there too—”

“At the other end of the house. He could never hear.”

They hesitated, not knowing what course to decide upon. Should they

call out? Cry for help? They dared not; they were frightened of the

sound of their own voices. But Suzanne, who had gone to the window,

suppressed a scream:

“Look!—A man!—Near the fountain!”

A man was walking away at a rapid pace. He carried under his arm a

fairly large load, the nature of which they were unable to distinguish:

it knocked against his leg and impeded his progress. They saw him pass

near the old chapel and turn toward a little door in the wall. The door

must have been open, for the man disappeared suddenly from view and

they failed to hear the usual grating of the hinges.

“He came from the drawing room,” whispered Suzanne.

“No, the stairs and the hall would have brought him out more to the

left—Unless—”

The same idea struck them both. They leant out. Below them, a ladder

stood against the front of the house, resting on the first floor. A

glimmer lit up the stone balcony. And another man, who was also

carrying something, bestrode the baluster, slid down the ladder and ran

away by the same road as the first.

Suzanne, scared to the verge of swooning, fell on her knees,

stammering:

“Let us call out—let us call for help—”

“Who would come? Your father—and if there are more of them left—and

they throw themselves upon him—?”

“Then—then—we might call the servants—Your bell rings on their floor.”

“Yes—yes—perhaps, that’s better. If only they come in time!”

Raymonde felt for the electric push near her bed and pressed it with

her finger. They heard the bell ring upstairs and had an impression

that its shrill sound must also reach any one below.

They waited. The silence became terrifying and the very breeze no

longer shook the leaves of the shrubs.

“I’m frightened—frightened,” said Suzanne.

And, suddenly, from the profound darkness below them, came the sound of

a struggle, a crash of furniture overturned, words, exclamations and

then, horrible and ominous, a hoarse groan, the gurgle of a man who is

being murdered—

Raymonde leapt toward the door. Suzanne clung desperately to her arm:

“No—no—don’t leave me—I’m frightened—”

Raymonde pushed her aside and darted down the corridor, followed by

Suzanne, who staggered from wall to wall, screaming as she went.

Raymonde reached the staircase, flew down the stairs, flung herself

upon the door of the big drawing room and stopped short, rooted to the

threshold, while Suzanne sank in a heap by her side. Facing them, at

three steps’ distance, stood a man, with a lantern in his hand. He

turned it upon the two girls, blinding them with the light, stared long

at their pale faces, and then, without hurrying, with the calmest

movements in the world, took his cap, picked up a scrap of paper and

two bits of straw, removed some footmarks from the carpet, went to the

balcony, turned to the girls, made them a deep bow and disappeared.

Suzanne was the first to run to the little boudoir which separated the

big drawing-room from her father’s bedroom. But, at the entrance, a

hideous sight appalled her. By the slanting rays of the moon, she saw

two apparently lifeless bodies lying close to each other on the floor.

She leaned over one of them:

“Father!—Father!—Is it you? What has happened to you?” she cried,

distractedly.

After a moment, the Comte de Gesvres moved. In a broken voice, he said:

“Don’t be afraid—I am not wounded—Daval?—Is he alive?—The knife?—The

knife?—”

Two men-servants now arrived with candles. Raymonde flung herself down

before the other body and recognized Jean Daval, the count’s private

secretary. A little stream of blood trickled from his neck. His face

already wore the pallor of death.

Then she rose, returned to the drawing room, took a gun that hung in a

trophy of arms on the wall and went out on the balcony. Not more than

fifty or sixty seconds had elapsed since the man had set his foot on

the top rung of the ladder. He could not, therefore, be very far away,

the more so as he had taken the precaution to remove the ladder, in

order to prevent the inmates of the house from using it. And soon she

saw him skirting the remains of the old cloister. She put the gun to

her shoulder, calmly took aim and fired. The man fell.

“That’s done it! That’s done it!” said one of the servants. “We’ve got

this one. I’ll run down.”

“No, Victor, he’s getting up.... You had better go down by the

staircase and make straight for the little door in the wall. That’s the

only way he can escape.”

Victor hurried off, but, before he reached the park, the man fell down

again. Raymonde called the other servant:

“Albert, do you see him down there? Near the main cloister?—”

“Yes, he’s crawling in the grass. He’s done for—”

“Watch him from here.”

“There’s no way of escape for him. On the right of the ruins is the

open lawn—”

“And, Victor, do you guard the door, on the left,” she said, taking up

her gun.

“But, surely, you are not going down, miss?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, with a resolute accent and abrupt movements; “let

me be—I have a cartridge left—If he stirs—”

She went out. A moment later, Albert saw her going toward the ruins. He

called to her from the window:

“He’s dragged himself behind the cloister. I can’t see him. Be careful,

miss—”

Raymonde went round the old cloisters, to cut off the man’s retreat,

and Albert soon lost sight of her. After a few minutes, as he did not

see her return, he became uneasy and, keeping his eye on the ruins,

instead of going down by the stairs he made an effort to reach the

ladder. When he had succeeded, he scrambled down and ran straight to

the cloisters near which he had seen the man last. Thirty paces

farther, he found Raymonde, who was searching with Victor.

“Well?” he asked.

“There’s no laying one’s hands on him,” replied Victor.

“The little door?”

“I’ve been there; here’s the key.”

“Still—he must—”

“Oh, we’ve got him safe enough, the scoundrel—He’ll be ours in ten

minutes.”

The farmer and his son, awakened by the shot, now came from the farm

buildings, which were at some distance on the right, but within the

circuit of the walls. They had met no one.

“Of course not,” said Albert. “The ruffian can’t have left the

ruins—We’ll dig him out of some hole or other.”

They organized a methodical search, beating every bush, pulling aside

the heavy masses of ivy rolled round the shafts of the columns. They

made sure that the chapel was properly locked and that none of the

panes were broken. They went round the cloisters and examined every

nook and corner. The search was fruitless.

There was but one discovery: at the place where the man had fallen

under Raymonde’s gun, they picked up a chauffeur’s cap, in very soft

buff leather; besides that, nothing.

The gendarmerie of Ouville-la-Rivière were informed at six o’clock in

the morning and at once proceeded to the spot, after sending an express

to the authorities at Dieppe with a note describing the circumstances

of the crime, the imminent capture of the chief criminal and “the

discovery of his headgear and of the dagger with which the crime had

been committed.”

At ten o’clock, two hired conveyances came down the gentle slope that

led to the house. One of them, an old-fashioned calash, contained the

deputy public prosecutor and the examining magistrate, accompanied by

his clerk. In the other, a humble fly, were seated two reporters,

representing the _Journal de Rouen_ and a great Paris paper.

The old château came into view—once the abbey residence of the priors

of Ambrumésy, mutilated under the Revolution, both restored by the

Comte de Gesvres, who had now owned it for some twenty years. It

consists of a main building, surmounted by a pinnacled clock-tower, and

two wings, each of which is surrounded by a flight of steps with a

stone balustrade. Looking across the walls of the park and beyond the

upland supported by the high Norman cliffs, you catch a glimpse of the

blue line of the Channel between the villages of Sainte-Marguerite and

Varengeville.

Here the Comte de Gesvres lived with his daughter Suzanne, a delicate,

fair-haired, pretty creature, and his niece Raymonde de Saint-Véran,

whom he had taken to live with him two years before, when the

simultaneous death of her father and mother left Raymonde an orphan.

Life at the château was peaceful and regular. A few neighbors paid an

occasional visit. In the summer, the count took the two girls almost

every day to Dieppe. He was a tall man, with a handsome, serious face

and hair that was turning gray. He was very rich, managed his fortune

himself and looked after his extensive estates with the assistance of

his secretary, Jean Daval.

Immediately upon his arrival, the examining magistrate took down the

first observations of Sergeant Quevillon of the gendarmes. The capture

of the criminal, imminent though it might be, had not yet been

effected, but every outlet of the park was held. Escape was impossible.

The little company next crossed the chapter-hall and the refectory,

both of which are on the ground floor, and went up to the first story.

They at once remarked the perfect order that prevailed in the drawing

room. Not a piece of furniture, not an ornament but appeared to occupy

its usual place; nor was there any gap among the ornaments or

furniture. On the right and left walls hung magnificent Flemish

tapestries with figures. On the panels of the wall facing the windows

were four fine canvases, in contemporary frames, representing

mythological scenes. These were the famous pictures by Rubens which had

been left to the Comte de Gesvres, together with the Flemish

tapestries, by his maternal uncle, the Marqués de Bobadilla, a Spanish

grandee.

M. Filleul remarked:

“If the motive of the crime was theft, this drawing room, at any rate,

was not the object of it.”

“You can’t tell!” said the deputy, who spoke little, but who, when he

did, invariably opposed the magistrate’s views.

“Why, my dear sir, the first thought of a burglar would be to carry off

those pictures and tapestries, which are universally renowned.”

“Perhaps there was no time.”

“We shall see.”

At that moment, the Comte de Gesvres entered, accompanied by the

doctor. The count, who did not seem to feel the effects of the attack

to which he had been subjected, welcomed the two officials. Then he

opened the door of the boudoir.

This room, which no one had been allowed to enter since the discovery

of the crime, differed from the drawing room inasmuch as it presented a

scene of the greatest disorder. Two chairs were overturned, one of the

tables smashed to pieces and several objects—a traveling-clock, a

portfolio, a box of stationery—lay on the floor. And there was blood on

some of the scattered pieces of note-paper.

The doctor turned back the sheet that covered the corpse. Jean Daval,

dressed in his usual velvet suit, with a pair of nailed boots on his

feet, lay stretched on his back, with one arm folded beneath him. His

collar and tie had been removed and his shirt opened, revealing a large

wound in the chest.

“Death must have been instantaneous,” declared the doctor. “One blow of

the knife was enough.”

“It was, no doubt, the knife which I saw on the drawing-room

mantelpiece, next to a leather cap?” said the examining magistrate.

“Yes,” said the Comte de Gesvres, “the knife was picked up here. It

comes from the same trophy in the drawing room from which my niece,

Mlle. de Saint-Véran, snatched the gun. As for the chauffeur’s cap,

that evidently belongs to the murderer.”

M. Filleul examined certain further details in the room, put a few

questions to the doctor and then asked M. de Gesvres to tell him what

he had seen and heard. The count worded his story as follows:

“Jean Daval woke me up. I had been sleeping badly, for that matter,

with gleams of consciousness in which I seemed to hear noises, when,

suddenly opening my eyes, I saw Daval standing at the foot of my bed,

with his candle in his hand and fully dressed—as he is now, for he

often worked late into the night. He seemed greatly excited and said,

in a low voice: ‘There’s some one in the drawing room.’ I heard a noise

myself. I got up and softly pushed the door leading to this boudoir. At

the same moment, the door over there, which opens into the big drawing

room, was thrown back and a man appeared who leaped at me and stunned

me with a blow on the temple. I am telling you this without any

details, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, for the simple reason that I

remember only the principal facts, and that these facts followed upon

one another with extraordinary swiftness.”

“And after that?—”

“After that, I don’t know—I fainted. When I came to, Daval lay

stretched by my side, mortally wounded.”

“At first sight, do you suspect no one?”

“No one.”

“You have no enemy?”

“I know of none.”

“Nor M. Daval either?”

“Daval! An enemy? He was the best creature that ever lived. M. Daval

was my secretary for twenty years and, I may say, my confidant; and I

have never seen him surrounded with anything but love and friendship.”

“Still, there has been a burglary and there has been a murder: there

must be a motive for all that.”

“The motive? Why, it was robbery pure and simple.”

“Robbery? Have you been robbed of something, then?”

“No, nothing.”

“In that case—?”

“In that case, if they have stolen nothing and if nothing is missing,

they at least took something away.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. But my daughter and my niece will tell you, with

absolute certainty, that they saw two men in succession cross the park

and that those two men were carrying fairly heavy loads.”

“The young ladies—”

“The young ladies may have been dreaming, you think? I should be

tempted to believe it, for I have been exhausting myself in inquiries

and suppositions ever since this morning. However, it is easy enough to

question them.”

The two cousins were sent for to the big drawing room. Suzanne, still

quite pale and trembling, could hardly speak. Raymonde, who was more

energetic, more of a man, better looking, too, with the golden glint in

her brown eyes, described the events of the night and the part which

she had played in them.

“So I may take it, mademoiselle, that your evidence is positive?”

“Absolutely. The men who went across the park were carrying things away

with them.”

“And the third man?”

“He went from here empty-handed.”

“Could you describe him to us?”

“He kept on dazzling us with the light of his lantern. All that I could

say is that he is tall and heavily built.”

“Is that how he appeared to you, mademoiselle?” asked the magistrate,

turning to Suzanne de Gesvres.

“Yes—or, rather, no,” said Suzanne, reflecting. “I thought he was about

the middle height and slender.”

M. Filleul smiled; he was accustomed to differences of opinion and

sight in witnesses to one and the same fact:

“So we have to do, on the one hand, with a man, the one in the drawing

room, who is, at the same time, tall and short, stout and thin, and, on

the other, with two men, those in the park, who are accused of removing

from that drawing room objects—which are still here!”

M. Filleul was a magistrate of the ironic school, as he himself would

say. He was also a very ambitious magistrate and one who did not object

to an audience nor to an occasion to display his tactful resource in

public, as was shown by the increasing number of persons who now

crowded into the room. The journalists had been joined by the farmer

and his son, the gardener and his wife, the indoor servants of the

château and the two cabmen who had driven the flies from Dieppe.

M. Filleul continued:

“There is also the question of agreeing upon the way in which the third

person disappeared. Was this the gun you fired, mademoiselle, and from

this window?”

“Yes. The man reached the tombstone which is almost buried under the

brambles, to the left of the cloisters.”

“But he got up again?”

“Only half. Victor ran down at once to guard the little door and I

followed him, leaving the second footman, Albert, to keep watch here.”

Albert now gave his evidence and the magistrate concluded:

“So, according to you, the wounded man was not able to escape on the

left, because your fellow-servant was watching the door, nor on the

right, because you would have seen him cross the lawn. Logically,

therefore, he is, at the present moment, in the comparatively

restricted space that lies before our eyes.”

“I am sure of it.”

“And you, mademoiselle?”

“Yes.”

“And I, too,” said Victor.

The deputy prosecutor exclaimed, with a leer:

“The field of inquiry is quite narrow. We have only to continue the

search commenced four hours ago.”

“We may be more fortunate.”

M. Filleul took the leather cap from the mantel, examined it and,

beckoning to the sergeant of gendarmes, whispered:

“Sergeant, send one of your men to Dieppe at once. Tell him to go to

Maigret, the hatter, in the Rue de la Barre, and ask M. Maigret to tell

him, if possible, to whom this cap was sold.”

The “field of inquiry,” in the deputy’s phrase, was limited to the

space contained between the house, the lawn on the right and the angle

formed by the left wall and the wall opposite the house, that is to

say, a quadrilateral of about a hundred yards each way, in which the

ruins of Ambrumésy, the famous mediæval monastery, stood out at

intervals.

They at once noticed the traces left by the fugitive in the trampled

grass. In two places, marks of blackened blood, now almost dried up,

were observed. After the turn at the end of the cloisters, there was

nothing more to be seen, as the nature of the ground, here covered with

pine-needles, did not lend itself to the imprint of a body. But, in

that case, how had the wounded man succeeded in escaping the eyes of

Raymonde, Victor and Albert? There was nothing but a few brakes, which

the servants and the gendarmes had beaten over and over again, and a

number of tombstones, under which they had explored. The examining

magistrate made the gardener, who had the key, open the chapel, a real

gem of carving, a shrine in stone which had been respected by time and

the revolutionaries, and which, with the delicate sculpture work of its

porch and its miniature population of statuettes, was always looked

upon as a marvelous specimen of the Norman-Gothic style. The chapel,

which was very simple in the interior, with no other ornament than its

marble altar, offered no hiding-place. Besides, the fugitive would have

had to obtain admission. And by what means?

The inspection brought them to the little door in the wall that served

as an entrance for the visitors to the ruins. It opened on a sunk road

running between the park wall and a copsewood containing some abandoned

quarries. M. Filleul stooped forward: the dust of the road bore marks

of anti-skid pneumatic tires. Raymonde and Victor remembered that,

after the shot, they had seemed to hear the throb of a motor-car.

The magistrate suggested:

“The man must have joined his confederates.”

“Impossible!” cried Victor. “I was here while mademoiselle and Albert

still had him in view.”

“Nonsense, he must be somewhere! Outside or inside: we have no choice!”

“He is here,” the servants insisted, obstinately.

The magistrate shrugged his shoulders and went back to the house in a

more or less sullen mood. There was no doubt that it was an unpromising

case. A theft in which nothing had been stolen; an invisible prisoner:

what could be less satisfactory?

It was late. M. de Gesvres asked the officials and the two journalists

to stay to lunch. They ate in silence and then M. Filleul returned to

the drawing room, where he questioned the servants. But the sound of a

horse’s hoofs came from the courtyard and, a moment after, the gendarme

who had been sent to Dieppe entered.

“Well, did you see the hatter?” exclaimed the magistrate, eager at last

to obtain some positive information.

“I saw M. Maigret. The cap was sold to a cab-driver.”

“A cab-driver!”

“Yes, a driver who stopped his fly before the shop and asked to be

supplied with a yellow-leather chauffeur’s cap for one of his

customers. This was the only one left. He paid for it, without

troubling about the size, and drove off. He was in a great hurry.”

“What sort of fly was it?”

“A calash.”

“And on what day did this happen?”

“On what day? Why, to-day, at eight o’clock this morning.”

“This morning? What are you talking about?”

“The cap was bought this morning.”

“But that’s impossible, because it was found last night in the park. If

it was found there, it must have been there; and, consequently, it must

have been bought before.”

“The hatter told me it was bought this morning.”

There was a moment of general bewilderment. The nonplussed magistrate

strove to understand. Suddenly, he started, as though struck with a

gleam of light:

“Fetch the cabman who brought us here this morning! The man who drove

the calash! Fetch him at once!”

The sergeant of gendarmes and his subordinate ran off to the stables.

In a few minutes, the sergeant returned alone.

“Where’s the cabman?”

“He asked for food in the kitchen, ate his lunch and then—”

“And then—?”

“He went off.”

“With his fly?”

“No. Pretending that he wanted to go and see a relation at Ouville, he

borrowed the groom’s bicycle. Here are his hat and greatcoat.”

“But did he leave bare-headed?”

“No, he took a cap from his pocket and put it on.”

“A cap?”

“Yes, a yellow leather cap, it seems.”

“A yellow leather cap? Why, no, we’ve got it here!”

“That’s true, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, but his is just like it.”

The deputy sniggered:

“Very funny! Most amusing! There are two caps—One, the real one, which

constituted our only piece of evidence, has gone off on the head of the

sham flyman! The other, the false one, is in your hands. Oh, the fellow

has had us nicely!”

“Catch him! Fetch him back!” cried M. Filleul. “Two of your men on

horseback, Sergeant Quevillon, and at full speed!”

“He is far away by this time,” said the deputy.

“He can be as far as he pleases, but still we must lay hold of him.”

“I hope so; but I think, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that your

efforts should be concentrated here above all. Would you mind reading

this scrap of paper, which I have just found in the pocket of the

coat?”

“Which coat?”

“The driver’s.”

And the deputy prosecutor handed M. Filleul a piece of paper, folded in

four, containing these few words written in pencil, in a more or less

common hand:

“Woe betide the young lady, if she has killed the governor!”

The incident caused a certain stir.

“A word to the wise!” muttered the deputy. “We are now forewarned.”

“Monsieur le Comte,” said the examining magistrate, “I beg you not to

be alarmed. Nor you either, mademoiselle. This threat is of no

importance, as the police are on the spot. We shall take every

precaution and I will answer for your safety. As for you, gentlemen. I

rely on your discretion. You have been present at this inquiry, thanks

to my excessive kindness toward the Press, and it would be making me an

ill return—”

He interrupted himself, as though an idea had struck him, looked at the

two young men, one after the other, and, going up to the first, asked:

“What paper do you represent, sir?”

“The _Journal de Rouen_.”

“Have you your credentials?”

“Here.”

The card was in order. There was no more to be said. M. Filleul turned

to the other reporter:

“And you, sir?”

“I?”

“Yes, you: what paper do you belong to?”

“Why, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, I write for a number of

papers—all over the place—”

“Your credentials?”

“I haven’t any.”

“Oh! How is that?”

“For a newspaper to give you a card, you have to be on its regular

staff.”

“Well?”

“Well, I am only an occasional contributor, a free-lance. I send

articles to this newspaper and that. They are published or declined

according to circumstances.”

“In that case, what is your name? Where are your papers?”

“My name would tell you nothing. As for papers, I have none.”

“You have no paper of any kind to prove your profession!”

“I have no profession.”

“But look here, sir,” cried the magistrate, with a certain asperity,

“you can’t expect to preserve your incognito after introducing yourself

here by a trick and surprising the secrets of the police!”

“I beg to remark, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that you asked me

nothing when I came in, and that therefore I had nothing to say.

Besides, it never struck me that your inquiry was secret, when

everybody was admitted—including even one of the criminals!”

He spoke softly, in a tone of infinite politeness. He was quite a young

man, very tall, very slender and dressed without the least attempt at

fashion, in a jacket and trousers both too small for him. He had a pink

face like a girl’s, a broad forehead topped with close-cropped hair,

and a scrubby and ill-trimmed fair beard. His bright eyes gleamed with

intelligence. He seemed not in the least embarrassed and wore a

pleasant smile, free from any shade of banter.

M. Filleul looked at him with an aggressive air of distrust. The two

gendarmes came forward. The young man exclaimed, gaily:

“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, you clearly suspect me of being an

accomplice. But, if that were so, would I not have slipped away at the

right moment, following the example of my fellow-criminal?”

“You might have hoped—”

“Any hope would have been absurd. A moment’s reflection, Monsieur le

Juge d’Instruction, will make you agree with me that, logically

speaking—”

M. Filleul looked him straight in the eyes and said, sharply:

“No more jokes! Your name?”

“Isidore Beautrelet.”

“Your occupation?”

“Sixth-form pupil at the Lycée Janson-de-Sailly.”

M. Filleul opened a pair of startled eyes.

“What are you talking about? Sixth-form pupil—”

“At the Lycée Janson, Rue de la Pompe, number—”

“Oh, look here,” exclaimed M. Filleul, “you’re trying to take me in!

This won’t do, you know; a joke can go too far!”

“I must say, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that your astonishment

surprises me. What is there to prevent my being a sixth-form pupil at

the Lycée Janson? My beard, perhaps? Set your mind at ease: my beard is

false!”

Isidore Beautrelet pulled off the few curls that adorned his chin, and

his beardless face appeared still younger and pinker, a genuine

schoolboy’s face. And, with a laugh like a child’s, revealing his white

teeth:

“Are you convinced now?” he asked. “Do you want more proofs? Here, you

can read the address on these letters from my father: ‘_To Monsieur

Isidore Beautrelet, Indoor Pupil, Lycée Janson-de-Sailly_.’”

Convinced or not, M. Filleul did not look as if he liked the story. He

asked, gruffly:

“What are you doing here?”

“Why—I’m—I’m improving my mind.”

“There are schools for that: yours, for instance.”

“You forget, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that this is the

twenty-third of April and that we are in the middle of the Easter

holidays.”

“Well?”

“Well, I have every right to spend my holidays as I please.”

“Your father—”

“My father lives at the other end of the country, in Savoy, and he

himself advised me to take a little trip on the North Coast.”

“With a false beard?”

“Oh, no! That’s my own idea. At school, we talk a great deal about

mysterious adventures; we read detective stories, in which people

disguise themselves; we imagine any amount of terrible and intricate

cases. So I thought I would amuse myself; and I put on this false

beard. Besides, I enjoyed the advantage of being taken seriously and I

pretended to be a Paris reporter. That is how, last night, after an

uneventful period of more than a week, I had the pleasure of making the

acquaintance of my Rouen colleague; and, this morning, when he heard of

the Ambrumésy murder, he very kindly suggested that I should come with

him and that we should share the cost of a fly.”

Isidore Beautrelet said all this with a frank and artless simplicity of

which it was impossible not to feel the charm. M. Filleul himself,

though maintaining a distrustful reserve, took a certain pleasure in

listening to him. He asked him, in a less peevish tone:

“And are you satisfied with your expedition?”

“Delighted! All the more as I had never been present at a case of the

sort and I find that this one is not lacking in interest.”

“Nor in that mysterious intricacy which you prize so highly—”

“And which is so stimulating, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction! I know

nothing more exciting than to see all the facts coming up out of the

shadow, clustering together, so to speak, and gradually forming the

probable truth.”

“The probable truth! You go pretty fast, young man! Do you suggest that

you have your little solution of the riddle ready?”

“Oh, no!” replied Beautrelet, with a laugh.

“Only—it seems to me that there are certain points on which it is not

impossible to form an opinion; and others, even, are so precise as to

warrant—a conclusion.”

“Oh, but this is becoming very curious and I shall get to know

something at last! For I confess, to my great confusion, that I know

nothing.”

“That is because you have not had time to reflect, Monsieur le Juge

d’Instruction. The great thing is to reflect. Facts very seldom fail to

carry their own explanation!”

“And, according to you, the facts which we have just ascertained carry

their own explanation?”

“Don’t you think so yourself? In any case, I have ascertained none

besides those which are set down in the official report.”

“Good! So that, if I were to ask you which were the objects stolen from

this room—”

“I should answer that I know.”

“Bravo! My gentleman knows more about it than the owner himself. M. de

Gesvres has everything accounted for: M. Isidore Beautrelet has not. He

misses a bookcase in three sections and a life-size statue which nobody

ever noticed. And, if I asked you the name of the murderer?”

“I should again answer that I know it.”

All present gave a start. The deputy and the journalist drew nearer. M.

de Gesvres and the two girls, impressed by Beautrelet’s tranquil

assurance, listened attentively.

“You know the murderer’s name?”

“Yes.”

“And the place where he is concealed, perhaps?”

“Yes.”

M. Filleul rubbed his hands.

“What a piece of luck! This capture will do honor to my career. And can

you make me these startling revelations now?”

“Yes, now—or rather, if you do not mind, in an hour or two, when I

shall have assisted at your inquiry to the end.”

“No, no, young man, here and now, please.” At that moment Raymonde de

Saint-Véran, who had not taken her eyes from Isidore Beautrelet since

the beginning of this scene, came up to M. Filleul:

“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction—”

“Yes, mademoiselle?”

She hesitated for two or three seconds, with her eyes fixed on

Beautrelet, and then, addressing M. Filleul:

“I should like you to ask monsieur the reason why he was walking

yesterday in the sunk road which leads up to the little door.”

It was an unexpected and dramatic stroke. Isidore Beautrelet appeared

nonplussed:

“I, mademoiselle? I? You saw me yesterday?”

Raymonde remained thoughtful, with her eyes upon Beautrelet, as though

she were trying to settle her own conviction, and then said, in a

steady voice:

“At four o’clock in the afternoon, as I was crossing the wood, I met in

the sunk road a young man of monsieur’s height, dressed like him and

wearing a beard cut in the same way—and I received a very clear

impression that he was trying to hide.”

“And it was I?”

“I could not say that as an absolute certainty, for my recollection is

a little vague. Still—still, I think so—if not, it would be an unusual

resemblance—”

M. Filleul was perplexed. Already taken in by one of the confederates,

was he now going to let himself be tricked by this self-styled

schoolboy? Certainly, the young man’s manner spoke in his favor; but

one can never tell!

“What have you to say, sir?”

“That mademoiselle is mistaken, as I can easily show you with one word.

Yesterday, at the time stated, I was at Veules.”

“You will have to prove it, you will have to. In any case, the position

is not what it was. Sergeant, one of your men will keep monsieur

company.”

Isidore Beautrelet’s face denoted a keen vexation.

“Will it be for long?”

“Long enough to collect the necessary information.”

“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, I beseech you to collect it with all

possible speed and discretion.”

“Why?”

“My father is an old man. We are very much attached to each other—and I

would not have him suffer on my account.”

The more or less pathetic note in his voice made a bad impression on M.

Filleul. It suggested a scene in a melodrama. Nevertheless, he

promised:

“This evening—or to-morrow at latest, I shall know what to think.”

The afternoon was wearing on. The examining magistrate returned to the

ruins of the cloisters, after giving orders that no unauthorized

persons were to be admitted, and patiently, methodically, dividing the

ground into lots which were successively explored, himself directed the

search. But at the end of the day he was no farther than at the start;

and he declared, before an army of reporters who, during that time, had

invaded the château:

“Gentlemen, everything leads us to suppose that the wounded man is

here, within our reach; everything, that is, except the reality, the

fact. Therefore, in our humble opinion, he must have escaped and we

shall find him outside.”

By way of precaution, however, he arranged, with the sergeant of

gendarmes, for a complete watch to be kept over the park and, after

making a fresh examination of the two drawing rooms, visiting the whole

of the château and surrounding himself with all the necessary

information, he took the road back to Dieppe, accompanied by the deputy

prosecutor.

Night fell. As the boudoir was to remain locked, Jean Daval’s body had

been moved to another room. Two women from the neighborhood sat up with

it, assisted by Suzanne and Raymonde. Downstairs, young Isidore

Beautrelet slept on the bench in the old oratory, under the watchful

eye of the village policeman, who had been attached to his person.

Outside, the gendarmes, the farmer and a dozen peasants had taken up

their position among the ruins and along the walls.

All was still until eleven o’clock; but, at ten minutes past eleven, a

shot echoed from the other side of the house.

“Attention!” roared the sergeant. “Two men remain here: you,

Fossier—and you, Lecanu—The others at the double!”

They all rushed forward and ran round the house on the left. A figure

was seen to make away in the dark. Then, suddenly, a second shot drew

them farther on, almost to the borders of the farm. And, all at once,

as they arrived, in a band, at the hedge which lines the orchard, a

flame burst out, to the right of the farmhouse, and other flames also

rose in a thick column. It was a barn burning, stuffed to the ridge

with straw.

“The scoundrels!” shouted the sergeant. “They’ve set fire to it. Have

at them, lads! They can’t be far away!”

But the wind was turning the flames toward the main building; and it

became necessary, before all things, to ward off the danger. They all

exerted themselves with the greater ardor inasmuch as M. de Gesvres,

hurrying to the scene of the disaster, encouraged them with the promise

of a reward. By the time that they had mastered the flames, it was two

o’clock in the morning. All pursuit would have been vain.

“We’ll look into it by daylight,” said the sergeant. “They are sure to

have left traces: we shall find them.”

“And I shall not be sorry,” added M. de Gesvres, “to learn the reason

of this attack. To set fire to trusses of straw strikes me as a very

useless proceeding.”

“Come with me, Monsieur le Comte: I may be able to tell you the

reason.”

Together they reached the ruins of the cloisters. The sergeant called

out:

“Lecanu!—Fossier!”

The other gendarmes were already hunting for their comrades whom they

had left standing sentry. They ended by finding them at a few paces

from the little door. The two men were lying full length on the ground,

bound and gagged, with bandages over their eyes.

“Monsieur le Comte,” muttered the sergeant, while his men were being

released; “Monsieur le Comte, we have been tricked like children.”

“How so?”

“The shots—the attack on the barn—the fire—all so much humbug to get us

down there—a diversion. During that time they were tying up our two men

and the business was done.”

“What business?”

“Carrying off the wounded man, of course!”

“You don’t mean to say you think—?”

“Think? Why, it’s as plain as a pikestaff! The idea came to me ten

minutes ago—but I’m a fool not to have thought of it earlier. We should

have nabbed them all.” Quevillon stamped his foot on the ground, with a

sudden attack of rage. “But where, confound it, where did they go

through? Which way did they carry him off? For, dash it all, we beat

the ground all day; and a man can’t hide in a tuft of grass, especially

when he’s wounded! It’s witchcraft, that’s what it is!—”

Nor was this the last surprise awaiting Sergeant Quevillon. At dawn,

when they entered the oratory which had been used as a cell for young

Isidore Beautrelet, they realized that young Isidore Beautrelet had

vanished.

On a chair slept the village policeman, bent in two. By his side stood

a water-bottle and two tumblers. At the bottom of one of those tumblers

a few grains of white powder.

On examination, it was proved, first, that young Isidore Beautrelet had

administered a sleeping draught to the village policeman; secondly,

that he could only have escaped by a window situated at a height of

seven or eight feet in the wall; and lastly—a charming detail,

this—that he could only have reached this window by using the back of

his warder as a footstool.

CHAPTER TWO

ISIDORE BEAUTRELET, SIXTH-FORM SCHOOLBOY

From the _Grand Journal_.

LATEST NEWS

DOCTOR DELATTRE KIDNAPPED

A MAD PIECE OF CRIMINAL DARING

At the moment of going to press, we have received an item of news which

we dare not guarantee as authentic, because of its very improbable

character. We print it, therefore, with all reserve.

Yesterday evening, Dr. Delattre, the well-known surgeon, was present,

with his wife and daughter, at the performance of _Hernani_ at the

Comédie Française. At the commencement of the third act, that is to

say, at about ten o’clock, the door of his box opened and a gentleman,

accompanied by two others, leaned over to the doctor and said to him,

in a low voice, but loud enough for Mme. Delattre to hear:

“Doctor, I have a very painful task to fulfil and I shall be very

grateful to you if you will make it as easy for me as you can.”

“Who are you, sir?”

“M. Thézard, commissary of police of the first district; and my

instructions are to take you to M. Dudouis, at the prefecture.”

“But—”

“Not a word, doctor, I entreat you, not a movement—There is some

regrettable mistake; and that is why we must act in silence and not

attract anybody’s attention. You will be back, I have no doubt, before

the end of the performance.”

The doctor rose and went with the commissary. At the end of the

performance, he had not returned. Mme. Delattre, greatly alarmed, drove

to the office of the commissary of police. There she found the real M.

Thézard and discovered, to her great terror, that the individual who

had carried off her husband was an impostor.

Inquiries made so far have revealed the fact that the doctor stepped

into a motor car and that the car drove off in the direction of the

Concorde.

Readers will find further details of this incredible adventure in our

second edition.

Incredible though it might be, the adventure was perfectly true.

Besides, the issue was not long delayed and the _Grand Journal_, while

confirming the story in its midday edition, described in a few lines

the dramatic ending with which it concluded:

THE STORY ENDS

AND

GUESS-WORK BEGINS

Dr. Delattre was brought back to 78, Rue Duret, at nine o’clock this

morning, in a motor car which drove away immediately at full speed.

No. 78, Rue Duret, is the address of Dr. Delattre’s clinical surgery,

at which he arrives every morning at the same hour. When we sent in our

card, the doctor, though closeted with the chief of the detective

service, was good enough to consent to receive us.

“All that I can tell you,” he said, in reply to our questions, “is that

I was treated with the greatest consideration. My three companions were

the most charming people I have ever met, exquisitely well-mannered and

bright and witty talkers: a quality not to be despised, in view of the

length of the journey.”

“How long did it take?”

“About four hours and as long returning.”

“And what was the object of the journey?”

“I was taken to see a patient whose condition rendered an immediate

operation necessary.”

“And was the operation successful?”

“Yes, but the consequences may be dangerous. I would answer for the

patient here. Down there—under his present conditions—”

“Bad conditions?”

“Execrable!—A room in an inn—and the practically absolute impossibility

of being attended to.”

“Then what can save him?”

“A miracle—and his constitution, which is an exceptionally strong one.”

“And can you say nothing more about this strange patient?”

“No. In the first place, I have taken an oath; and, secondly, I have

received a present of ten thousand francs for my free surgery. If I do

not keep silence, this sum will be taken from me.”

“You are joking! Do you believe that?”

“Indeed I do. The men all struck me as being very much in earnest.”

This is the statement made to us by Dr. Delattre. And we know, on the

other hand, that the head of the detective service, in spite of all his

insisting, has not yet succeeded in extracting any more precise

particulars from him as to the operation which he performed, the

patient whom he attended or the district traversed by the car. It is

difficult, therefore, to arrive at the truth.

This truth, which the writer of the interview confessed himself unable

to discover, was guessed by the more or less clear-sighted minds that

perceived a connection with the facts which had occurred the day before

at the Château d’Ambrumésy, and which were reported, down to the

smallest detail, in all the newspapers of that day. There was evidently

a coincidence to be reckoned with in the disappearance of a wounded

burglar and the kidnapping of a famous surgeon.

The judicial inquiry, moreover, proved the correctness of the

hypothesis. By following the track of the sham flyman, who had fled on

a bicycle, they were able to show that he had reached the forest of

Arques, at some ten miles’ distance, and that from there, after

throwing his bicycle into a ditch, he had gone to the village of

Saint-Nicolas, whence he had dispatched the following telegram:

A. L. N., _Post-office_ 45, Paris.

Situation desperate. Operation urgently necessary. Send celebrity

by national road fourteen.

The evidence was undeniable. Once apprised the accomplices in Paris

hastened to make their arrangements. At ten o’clock in the evening they

sent their celebrity by National Road No. 14, which skirts the forest

of Arques and ends at Dieppe. During this time, under cover of the fire

which they themselves had caused, the gang of burglars carried off

their leader and moved him to an inn, where the operation took place on

the arrival of the surgeon, at two o’clock in the morning.

About that there was no doubt. At Pontoise, at Gournay, at Forges,

Chief-inspector Ganimard, who was sent specially from Paris, with

Inspector Folenfant, as his assistant, ascertained that a motor car had

passed in the course of the previous night. The same on the road from

Dieppe to Ambrumésy. And, though the traces of the car were lost at

about a mile and a half from the château, at least a number of

footmarks were seen between the little door in the park wall and the

abbey ruins. Besides, Ganimard remarked that the lock of the little

door had been forced.

So all was explained. It remained to decide which inn the doctor had

spoken of: an easy piece of work for a Ganimard, a professional ferret,

a patient old stager of the police. The number of inns is limited and

this one, given the condition of the wounded man, could only be one

quite close to Ambrumésy. Ganimard and Sergeant Quevillon set to work.

Within a circle of five hundred yards, of a thousand yards, of fifteen

hundred yards, they visited and ransacked everything that could pass

for an inn. But, against all expectation, the dying man persisted in

remaining invisible.

Ganimard became more resolved than ever. He came back to sleep at the

château, on the Saturday night, with the intention of making his

personal inquiry on the Sunday. On Sunday morning, he learned that,

during the night, a posse of gendarmes had seen a figure gliding along

the sunk road, outside the wall. Was it an accomplice who had come back

to investigate? Were they to suppose that the leader of the gang had

not left the cloisters or the neighborhood of the cloisters?

That night, Ganimard openly sent the squad of gendarmes to the farm and

posted himself and Folenfant outside the walls, near the little door.

A little before midnight, a person passed out of the wood, slipped

between them, went through the door and entered the park. For three

hours, they saw him wander from side to side across the ruins,

stooping, climbing up the old pillars, sometimes remaining for long

minutes without moving. Then he went back to the door and again passed

between the two inspectors.

Ganimard caught him by the collar, while Folenfant seized him round the

body. He made no resistance of any kind and, with the greatest

docility, allowed them to bind his wrists and take him to the house.

But, when they attempted to question him, he replied simply that he

owed them no account of his doings and that he would wait for the

arrival of the examining magistrate. Thereupon, they fastened him

firmly to the foot of a bed, in one of the two adjoining rooms which

they occupied.

At nine o’clock on Monday morning, as soon as M. Filleul had arrived,

Ganimard announced the capture which he had made. The prisoner was

brought downstairs. It was Isidore Beautrelet.

“M. Isidore Beautrelet!” exclaimed M. Filleul with an air of rapture,

holding out both his hands to the newcomer. “What a delightful

surprise! Our excellent amateur detective here! And at our disposal

too! Why, it’s a windfall!—M. Chief-inspector, allow me to introduce to

you M. Isidore Beautrelet, a sixth-form pupil at the Lycée

Janson-de-Sailly.”

Ganimard seemed a little nonplussed. Isidore made him a very low bow,

as though he were greeting a colleague whom he knew how to esteem at

his true value, and, turning to M. Filleul:

“It appears, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that you have received a

satisfactory account of me?”

“Perfectly satisfactory! To begin with, you were really at

Veules-les-Roses at the time when Mlle. de Saint-Véran thought she saw

you in the sunk road. I dare say we shall discover the identity of your

double. In the second place, you are in very deed Isidore Beautrelet, a

sixth-form pupil and, what is more, an excellent pupil, industrious at

your work and of exemplary behavior. As your father lives in the

country, you go out once a month to his correspondent, M. Bernod, who

is lavish in his praises of you.”

“So that—”

“So that you are free, M. Isidore Beautrelet.”

“Absolutely free?”

“Absolutely. Oh, I must make just one little condition, all the same.

You can understand that I can’t release a gentleman who administers

sleeping-draughts, who escapes by the window and who is afterward

caught in the act of trespassing upon private property. I can’t release

him without a compensation of some kind.”

“I await your pleasure.”

“Well, we will resume our interrupted conversation and you shall tell

me how far you have advanced with your investigations. In two days of

liberty, you must have carried them pretty far?” And, as Ganimard was

preparing to go, with an affectation of contempt for that sort of

practice, the magistrate cried, “Not at all, M. Inspector, your place

is here—I assure you that M. Isidore Beautrelet is worth listening to.

M. Isidore Beautrelet, according to my information, has made a great

reputation at the Lycée Janson-de-Sailly as an observer whom nothing

escapes; and his schoolfellows, I hear, look upon him as your

competitor and a rival of Holmlock Shears!”

“Indeed!” said Ganimard, ironically.

“Just so. One of them wrote to me, ‘If Beautrelet declares that he

knows, you must believe him; and, whatever he says, you may be sure

that it is the exact expression of the truth.’ M. Isidore Beautrelet,

now or never is the time to vindicate the confidence of your friends. I

beseech you, give us the exact expression of the truth.”

Isidore listened with a smile and replied:

“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, you are very cruel. You make fun of

poor schoolboys who amuse themselves as best they can. You are quite

right, however, and I will give you no further reason to laugh at me.”

“The fact is that you know nothing, M. Isidore Beautrelet.”

“Yes, I confess in all humility that I know nothing. For I do not call

it ‘knowing anything’ that I happen to have hit upon two or three more

precise points which, I am sure, cannot have escaped you.”

“For instance?”

“For instance, the object of the theft.”

“Ah, of course, you know the object of the theft?”

“As you do, I have no doubt. In fact, it was the first thing I studied,

because the task struck me as easier.”

“Easier, really?”

“Why, of course. At the most, it’s a question of reasoning.”

“Nothing more than that?”

“Nothing more.”

“And what is your reasoning?”

“It is just this, stripped of all extraneous comment: on the one hand,

_there has been a theft_, because the two young ladies are agreed and

because they really saw two men running away and carrying things with

them.”

“There has been a theft.”

“On the other hand, _nothing has disappeared_, because M. de Gesvres

says so and he is in a better position than anybody to know.”

“Nothing has disappeared.”

“From those two premises I arrive at this inevitable result: granted

that there has been a theft and that nothing has disappeared, it is

because the object carried off has been replaced by an exactly similar

object. Let me hasten to add that possibly my argument may not be

confirmed by the facts. But I maintain that it is the first argument

that ought to occur to us and that we are not entitled to waive it

until we have made a serious examination.”

“That’s true—that’s true,” muttered the magistrate, who was obviously

interested.

“Now,” continued Isidore, “what was there in this room that could

arouse the covetousness of the burglars? Two things. The tapestry

first. It can’t have been that. Old tapestry cannot be imitated: the

fraud would have been palpable at once. There remain the four Rubens

pictures.”

“What’s that you say?”

“I say that the four Rubenses on that wall are false.”

“Impossible!”

“They are false _a priori_, inevitably and without a doubt.”

“I tell you, it’s impossible.”

“It is very nearly a year ago, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, since a

young man, who gave his name as Charpenais, came to the Château

d’Ambrumésy and asked permission to copy the Rubens pictures. M. de

Gesvres gave him permission. Every day for five months Charpenais

worked in this room from morning till dusk. The copies which he made,

canvases and frames, have taken the place of the four original pictures

bequeathed to M. de Gesvres by his uncle, the Marqués de Bobadilla.”

“Prove it!”

“I have no proof to give. A picture is false because it is false; and I

consider that it is not even necessary to examine these four.”

M. Filleul and Ganimard exchanged glances of unconcealed astonishment.

The inspector no longer thought of withdrawing. At last, the magistrate

muttered:

“We must have M. de Gesvres’s opinion.”

And Ganimard agreed:

“Yes, we must have his opinion.”

And they sent to beg the count to come to the drawing room.

The young sixth-form pupil had won a real victory. To compel two

experts, two professionals like M. Filleul and Ganimard to take account

of his surmises implied a testimony of respect of which any other would

have been proud. But Beautrelet seemed not to feel those little

satisfactions of self-conceit and, still smiling without the least

trace of irony, he placidly waited.

M. de Gesvres entered the room.

“Monsieur le Comte,” said the magistrate, “the result of our inquiry

has brought us face to face with an utterly unexpected contingency,

which we submit to you with all reserve. It is possible—I say that it

is possible—that the burglars, when breaking into the house, had it as

their object to steal your four pictures by Rubens—or, at least, to

replace them by four copies—copies which are said to have been made

last year by a painter called Charpenais. Would you be so good as to

examine the pictures and to tell us if you recognize them as genuine?”

The count appeared to suppress a movement of annoyance, looked at

Isidore Beautrelet and at M. Filleul and replied, without even

troubling to go near the pictures:

“I hoped, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that the truth might have

remained unknown. As this is not so, I have no hesitation in declaring

that the four pictures are false.”

“You knew it, then?”

“From the beginning.”

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“The owner of a work is never in a hurry to declare that that work is

not—or, rather, is no longer genuine.”

“Still, it was the only means of recovering them.”

“I consider that there was another and a better.”

“Which was that?”

“Not to make the secret known, not to frighten my burglars and to offer

to buy back the pictures, which they must find more or less difficult

to dispose of.”

“How would you communicate with them?”

As the count did not reply, Isidore answered for him:

“By means of an advertisement in the papers. The paragraph inserted in

the agony column of the _Journal_, the _Écho de Paris_ and the _Matin_

runs, ‘Am prepared to buy back the pictures.’”

The count agreed with a nod. Once again, the young man was teaching his

elders. M. Filleul showed himself a good sportsman.

“There’s no doubt about it, my dear sir,” he exclaimed. “I’m beginning

to think your school-fellows were not quite wrong. By Jove, what an

eye! What intuition! If this goes on, there will be nothing left for M.

Ganimard and me to do.”

“Oh, none of this part was so very complicated!”

“You mean to say that the rest was more so I remember, in fact, that,

when we first met you seemed to know all about it. Let me see, a far as

I recollect, you said that you knew the name of the murderer.”

“So I do.”

“Well, then, who killed Jean Daval? Is the man alive? Where is he

hiding?”

“There is a misunderstanding between us, Monsieur le Juge

d’Instruction, or, rather, you have misunderstood the facts from the

beginning The murderer and the runaway are two distinct persons.”

“What’s that?” exclaimed M. Filleul. “The man whom M. de Gesvres saw in

the boudoir and struggled with, the man whom the young ladies saw in

the drawing-room and whom Mlle. de Saint-Véran shot at, the man who

fell in the park and whom we are looking for: do you suggest that he is

not the man who killed Jean Daval?”

“I do.”

“Have you discovered the traces of a third accomplice who disappeared

before the arrival of the young ladies?”

“I have not.”

“In that case, I don’t understand.—Well, who is the murderer of Jean

Daval?”

“Jean Daval was killed by—”

Beautrelet interrupted himself, thought for a moment and continued:

“But I must first show you the road which I followed to arrive at the

certainty and the very reasons of the murder—without which my

accusation would seem monstrous to you.—And it is not—no, it is not

monstrous at all.—There is one detail which has passed unobserved and

which, nevertheless, is of the greatest importance; and that is that

Jean Daval, at the moment when he was stabbed, had all his clothes on,

including his walking boots, was dressed, in short, as a man is dressed

in the middle of the day, with a waistcoat, collar, tie and braces. Now

the crime was committed at four o’clock in the morning.”

“I reflected on that strange fact,” said the magistrate, “and M. de

Gesvres replied that Jean Daval spent a part of his nights in working.”

“The servants say, on the contrary, that he went to bed regularly at a

very early hour. But, admitting that he was up, why did he disarrange

his bedclothes, to make believe that he had gone to bed? And, if he was

in bed, why, when he heard a noise, did he take the trouble to dress

himself from head to foot, instead of slipping on anything that came to

hand? I went to his room on the first day, while you were at lunch: his

slippers were at the foot of the bed. What prevented him from putting

them on rather than his heavy nailed boots?”

“So far, I do not see—”

“So far, in fact, you cannot see anything, except anomalies. They

appeared much more suspicious to me, however, when I learned that

Charpenais the painter, the man who copied the Rubens pictures, had

been introduced and recommended to the Comte de Gesvres by Jean Daval

himself.”

“Well?”

“Well, from that to the conclusion that Jean Daval and Charpenais were

accomplices required but a step. I took that step at the time of our

conversation.”

“A little quickly, I think.”

“As a matter of fact, a material proof was wanted. Now I had discovered

in Daval’s room, on one of the sheets of the blotting-pad on which he

used to write, this address: ‘Monsieur _A.L.N., Post-office_ 45,

_Paris_.’ You will find it there still, traced the reverse way on the

blotting-paper. The next day, it was discovered that the telegram sent

by the sham flyman from Saint-Nicolas bore the same address: ‘_A.L.N.,

Post-office_ 45.’ The material proof existed: Jean Daval was in

correspondence with the gang which arranged the robbery of the

pictures.”

M. Filleul raised no objection.

“Agreed. The complicity is established. And what conclusion do you

draw?”

“This, first of all, that it was not the runaway who killed Jean Daval,

because Jean Daval was his accomplice.”

“And after that?”

“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, I will ask you to remember the first

sentence uttered by Monsieur le Comte when he recovered from fainting.

The sentence forms part of Mlle. de Gesvres’ evidence and is in the

official report: ‘I am not wounded.—Daval?—Is he alive?—The knife?’ And

I will ask you to compare it with that part of his story, also in the

report, in which Monsieur le Comte describes the assault: ‘The man

leaped at me and felled me with a blow on the temple!’ How could M. de

Gesvres, who had fainted, know, on waking, that Daval had been stabbed

with a knife?”

Isidore Beautrelet did not wait for an answer to his question. It

seemed as though he were in a hurry to give the answer himself and to

avoid all comment. He continued straightway:

“Therefore it was Jean Daval who brought the three burglars to the

drawing room. While he was there with the one whom they call their

chief, a noise was heard in the boudoir. Daval opened the door.

Recognizing M. de Gesvres, he rushed at him, armed with the knife. M.

de Gesvres succeeded in snatching the knife from him, struck him with

it and himself fell, on receiving a blow from the man whom the two

girls were to see a few minutes after.”

Once again, M. Filleul and the inspector exchanged glances. Ganimard

tossed his head in a disconcerted way. The magistrate said:

“Monsieur le Comte, am I to believe that this version is correct?”

M. de Gesvres made no answer.

“Come, Monsieur le Comte, your silence would allow us to suppose—I beg

you to speak.”

Replying in a very clear voice, M. de Gesvres said:

“The version is correct in every particular.”

The magistrate gave a start.

“Then I cannot understand why you misled the police. Why conceal an act

which you were lawfully entitled to commit in defense of your life?”

“For twenty years,” said M. de Gesvres, “Daval worked by my side. I

trusted him. If he betrayed me, as the result of some temptation or

other, I was, at least, unwilling, for the sake of the past, that his

treachery should become known.”

“You were unwilling, I agree, but you had no right to be.”

“I am not of your opinion, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. As long as

no innocent person was accused of the crime, I was absolutely entitled

to refrain from accusing the man who was at the same time the culprit

and the victim. He is dead. I consider death a sufficient punishment.”

“But now, Monsieur le Comte, now that the truth is known, you can

speak.”

“Yes. Here are two rough drafts of letters written by him to his

accomplices. I took them from his pocket-book, a few minutes after his

death.”

“And the motive of his theft?”

“Go to 18, Rue de la Barre, at Dieppe, which is the address of a

certain Mme. Verdier. It was for this woman, whom he got to know two

years ago, and to supply her constant need of money that Daval turned

thief.”

So everything was cleared up. The tragedy rose out of the darkness and

gradually appeared in its true light.

“Let us go on,” said M. Filluel after the count had withdrawn.

“Upon my word,” said Beautrelet, gaily, “I have said almost all that I

had to say.”

“But the runaway, the wounded man?”

“As to that, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, you know as much as I do.

You have followed his tracks in the grass by the cloisters—you have—”

“Yes, yes, I know. But, since then, his friends have removed him and

what I want is a clue or two as regards that inn—”

Isidore Beautrelet burst out laughing:

“The inn! The inn does not exist! It’s an invention, a trick to put the

police on the wrong scent, an ingenious trick, too, for it seems to

have succeeded.”

“But Dr. Delattre declares—”

“Ah, that’s just it!” cried Beautrelet, in a tone of conviction. “It is

just because Dr. Delattre declares that we mustn’t believe him. Why,

Dr. Delattre refused to give any but the vaguest details concerning his

adventure! He refused to say anything that might compromise his

patient’s safety!—And suddenly he calls attention to an inn!—You may be

sure that he talked about that inn because he was told to. You may be

sure that the whole story which he dished up to us was dictated to him

under the threat of terrible reprisals. The doctor has a wife. The

doctor has a daughter. He is too fond of them to disobey people of

whose formidable power he has seen proofs. And that is why he has

assisted your efforts by supplying the most precise clues.”

“So precise that the inn is nowhere to be found.”

“So precise that you have never ceased looking for it, in the face of

all probability, and that your eyes have been turned away from the only

spot where the man can be, the mysterious spot which he has not left,

which he has been unable to leave ever since the moment when, wounded

by Mlle. de Saint-Véran, he succeeded in dragging himself to it, like a

beast to its lair.”

“But where, confound it all?—In what corner of Hades—?”

“In the ruins of the old abbey.”

“But there are no ruins left!—A few bits of wall!—A few broken

columns!”

“That’s where he’s gone to earth. Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction!”

shouted Beautrelet. “That’s where you will have to look for him! It’s

there and nowhere else that you will find Arsène Lupin!”

“Arsène Lupin!” yelled M. Filleul, springing to his feet.

There was a rather solemn pause, amid which the syllables of the famous

name seemed to prolong their sound. Was it possible that the vanquished

and yet invisible adversary, whom they had been hunting in vain for

several days, could really be Arsène Lupin? Arsène Lupin, caught in a

trap, arrested, meant immediate promotion, fortune, glory to any

examining magistrate!

Ganimard had not moved a limb. Isidore said to him:

“You agree with me, do you not, M. Inspector?”

“Of course I do!”

“You have not doubted either, for a moment have you, that he managed

this business?”

“Not for a second! The thing bears his signature. A move of Arsène

Lupin’s is as different from a move made by another man as one face is

from another. You have only to open your eyes.”

“Do you think so? Do you think so?” said M. Filleul.

“Think so!” cried the young man. “Look, here’s one little fact: what

are the initials under which those men correspond among themselves? ‘A.

L. N.,’ that is to say, the first letter of the name Arsène and the

first and last letters of the name Lupin.”

“Ah,” said Ganimard, “nothing escapes you! Upon my word, you’re a fine

fellow and old Ganimard lays down his arms before you!”

Beautrelet flushed with pleasure and pressed the hand which the

chief-inspector held out to him. The three men had drawn near the

balcony and their eyes now took in the extent of the ruins. M. Filleul

muttered:

“So he ought to be there.”

“_He is there_,” said Beautrelet, in a hollow voice. “He has been there

ever since the moment when he fell. Logically and practically, he could

not escape without being seen by Mlle. de Saint-Véran and the two

servants.”

“What proof have you?”

“His accomplices have furnished the proof. On the very morning, one of

them disguised himself as a flyman and drove you here—”

“To recover the cap, which would serve to identify him.”

“Very well, but also and more particularly to examine the spot, find

out and see for himself what had become of the ‘governor.’”

“And did he find out?”

“I presume so, as he knew the hiding-place. And I presume that he

became aware of the desperate condition of his chief, because, under

the impulse of his alarm, he committed the imprudence to write that

threat: ‘Woe betide the young lady, if she has killed the governor!’”

“But his friends were able to take him away afterward?”

“When? Your men have never left the ruins. And where could they have

moved him to? At most, a few hundred yards away, for one doesn’t let a

dying man travel—and then you would have found him. No, I tell you, he

is there. His friends would never have removed him from the safest of

hiding-places. It was there that they brought the doctor, while the

gendarmes were running to the fire like children.”

“But how is he living? How will he keep alive? To keep alive you need

food and drink.”

“I can’t say. I don’t know. But he is there, I will swear it. He is

there, because he can’t help being there. I am as sure of it as if I

saw as if I touched him. He is there.”

With his finger outstretched toward the ruins, he traced in the air a

little circle which became smaller and smaller until it was only a

point. And that point his two companions sought desperately, both

leaning into space, both moved by the same faith in Beautrelet and

quivering with the ardent conviction which he had forced upon them.

Yes, Arsène Lupin was there. In theory and in fact, he was there:

neither of them was now able to doubt it.

And there was something impressive and tragic in knowing that the

famous adventurer was lying in some dark shelter, below the ground,

helpless, feverish and exhausted.

“And if he dies?” asked M. Filleul, in a low voice.

“If he dies,” said Beautrelet, “and if his accomplices are sure of it,

then see to the safety of Mlle. de Saint-Véran. Monsieur le Juge

d’Instruction, for the vengeance will be terrible.”

A few minutes later and in spite of the entreaties of M. Filleul, who

would gladly have made further use of this fascinating auxiliary,

Isidore Beautrelet, whose holidays ended that day, went off by the

Dieppe Road. He stepped from the train in Paris at five o’clock and, at

eight o’clock, returned to the Lycée Janson together with his

schoolfellows.

Ganimard, after a minute, but utterly useless exploration of the ruins

of Ambrumésy, returned to Paris by the fast night-train. On reaching

his apartment in the Rue Pergolese, he found an express letter awaiting

him:

_Monsieur l’Inspecteur Principal:_

Finding that I had a little time to spare at the end of the day, I

have succeeded in collecting a few additional particulars which are

sure to interest you.

Arsène Lupin has been living in Paris for twelve months under the

name of Étienne de Vaudreix. It is a name which you will often come

across in the society notes or the sporting columns of the

newspapers. He is a great traveler and is absent for long periods,

during which, by his own account, he goes hunting tigers in Bengal

or blue foxes in Siberia. He is supposed to be in business of some

kind, although nobody is able to say for certain what his business

is.

His present address is 38, Rue Marbeuf; and I will call your

attention to the fact that the Rue Marbeuf is close to Post-office

Number 45. Since Thursday the twenty-third of April, the day before

the burglary at Ambrumésy, there has been no news at all of Étienne

de Vaudreix.

With very many thanks for the kindness which you have shown me,

believe me to be,

Monsieur l’Inspecteur Principal,

Yours sincerely,

ISIDORE BEAUTRELET.

P.S.—Please on no account think that it cost me any great trouble to

obtain this information. On the very morning of the crime, while M.

Filleul was pursuing his examination before a few privileged persons, I

had the fortunate inspiration to glance at the runaway’s cap, before

the sham flyman came to change it. The hatter’s name was enough, as you

may imagine, to enable me to find the clue that led to the

identification of the purchaser and his address.

The next morning, Ganimard called at 36, Rue Marbeuf. After questioning

the concierge, he made him open the door of the ground-floor flat on

the right, a very comfortable apartment, elegantly furnished, in which,

however, he discovered nothing beyond some cinders in the fireplace.

Two friends had come, four days earlier, to burn all compromising

papers.

But, just as he was leaving, Ganimard passed the postman, who was

bringing a letter for M. de Vaudreix. That afternoon, the public

prosecutor was informed of the case and ordered the letter to be given

up. It bore an American postmark and contained the following lines, in

English:

DEAR SIR:

I write to confirm the answer which I gave your representative. As

soon as you have M. de Gesvres’s four pictures in your possession,

you can forward them as arranged.

You may add the rest, if you are able to succeed, which I doubt.

An unexpected business requires my presence in Europe and I shall

reach Paris at the same time as this letter. You will find me at

the Grand Hôtel.

Yours faithfully,

EPHRAIM B. HARLINGTON.

That same day, Ganimard applied for a warrant and took Mr. E. B.

Harlington, an American citizen, to the police-station, on a charge of

receiving and conspiracy.

Thus, within the space of twenty-four hours, all the threads of the

plot had been unraveled, thanks to the really unforeseen clues supplied

by a schoolboy of seventeen. In twenty-four hours, what had seemed

inexplicable became simple and clear. In twenty-four hours, the scheme

devised by the accomplices to save their leader was baffled; the

capture of Arsène Lupin, wounded and dying, was no longer in doubt, his

gang was disorganized, the address of his establishment in Paris and

the name which he assumed were known and, for the first time, one of

his cleverest and most carefully elaborated feats was seen through

before he had been able to ensure its complete execution.

An immense clamor of astonishment, admiration and curiosity arose among

the public. Already, the Rouen journalist, in a very able article, had

described the first examination of the sixth-form pupil, laying stress

upon his personal charm, his simplicity of manner and his quiet

assurance. The indiscretions of Ganimard and M. Filleul, indiscretions

to which they yielded in spite of themselves, under an impulse that

proved stronger than their professional pride, suddenly enlightened the

public as to the part played by Isidore Beautrelet in recent events. He

alone had done everything. To him alone the merit of the victory was

due.

The excitement was intense. Isidore Beautrelet awoke to find himself a

hero; and the crowd, suddenly infatuated, insisted upon the fullest

information regarding its new favorite. The reporters were there to

supply it. They rushed to the assault of the Lycée Janson-de-Sailly,

waited for the day-boarders to come out after schoolhours and picked up

all that related, however remotely, to Beautrelet. It was in this way

that they learned the reputation which he enjoyed among his

schoolfellows, who called him the rival of Holmlock Shears. Thanks to

his powers of logical reasoning, with no further data than those which

he was able to gather from the papers, he had, time after time,

proclaimed the solution of very complicated cases long before they were

cleared up by the police.

It had become a game at the Lycée Janson to put difficult questions and

intricate problems to Beautrelet; and it was astonishing to see with

what unhesitating and analytical power and by means of what ingenious

deductions he made his way through the thickest darkness. Ten days

before the arrest of Jorisse, the grocer, he showed what could be done

with the famous umbrella. In the same way, he declared from the

beginning, in the matter of the Saint-Cloud mystery, that the concierge

was the only possible murderer.

But most curious of all was the pamphlet which was found circulating

among the boys at the school, a typewritten pamphlet signed by

Beautrelet and manifolded to the number of ten copies. It was entitled,

_Arsène Lupin and his method, showing in how far the latter is based

upon tradition and in how far original. Followed by a comparison

between English humor and French irony._

It contained a profound study of each of the exploits of Arsène Lupin,

throwing the illustrious burglar’s operations into extraordinary

relief, showing the very mechanism of his way of setting to work, his

special tactics, his letters to the press, his threats, the

announcement of his thefts, in short, the whole bag of tricks which he

employed to bamboozle his selected victim and throw him into such a

state of mind that the victim almost offered himself to the plot

contrived against him and that everything took place, as it were, with

his own consent.

And the work was so just, regarded as a piece of criticism, so

penetrating, so lively and marked by a wit so clever and, at the same

time, so cruel that the lawyers at once passed over to his side, that

the sympathy of the crowd was summarily transferred from Lupin to

Beautrelet and that, in the struggle engaged upon between the two, the

schoolboy’s victory was loudly proclaimed in advance.

Be this as it may, both M. Filleul and the Paris public prosecutor

seemed jealously to reserve the possibility of this victory for him. On

the one hand, they failed to establish Mr. Harlington’s identity or to

furnish a definite proof of his connection with Lupin’s gang.

Confederate or not, he preserved an obstinate silence. Nay, more, after

examining his handwriting, it was impossible to declare that he was the

author of the intercepted letter. A Mr. Harlington, carrying a small

portmanteau and a pocket-book stuffed with bank-notes, had taken up his

abode at the Grand Hôtel: that was all that could be stated with

certainty.

On the other hand, at Dieppe, M. Filleul lay down on the positions

which Beautrelet had won for him. He did not move a step forward.

Around the individual whom Mlle. de Saint-Véran had taken for

Beautrelet, on the eve of the crime, the same mystery reigned as

heretofore. The same obscurity also surrounded everything connected

with the removal of the four Rubens pictures. What had become of them?

And what road had been taken by the motor car in which they were

carried off during the night?

Evidence of its passing was obtained at Luneray at Yerville, at Yvetot

and at Caudebec-en-Caux, where it must have crossed the Seine at

daybreak in the steam-ferry. But, when the matter came to be inquired

into more thoroughly, it was stated that the motor car was an uncovered

one and that it would have been impossible to pack four large pictures

into it unobserved by the ferryman.

It was very probably the same car; but then the question cropped up

again: what had become of the four Rubenses?

These were so many problems which M. Filleul unanswered. Every day, his

subordinates searched the quadrilateral of the ruins. Almost every day,

he came to direct the explorations. But between that and discovering

the refuge in which Lupin lay dying—if it were true that Beautrelet’s

opinion was correct—there was a gulf fixed which the worthy magistrate

did not seem likely to cross.

And so it was natural that they should turn once more to Isidore

Beautrelet, as he alone had succeeded in dispelling shadows which, in

his absence, gathered thicker and more impenetrable than ever. Why did

he not go on with the case? Seeing how far he had carried it, he

required but an effort to succeed.

The question was put to him by a member of the staff of the _Grand

Journal_, who had obtained admission to the Lycée Janson by assuming

the name of Bernod, the friend of Beautrelet’s father. And Isidore very

sensibly replied:

“My dear sir, there are other things besides Lupin in this world, other

things besides stories about burglars and detectives. There is, for

instance, the thing which is known as taking one’s degree. Now I am

going up for my examination in July. This is May. And I don’t want to

be plucked. What would my worthy parent say?”

“But what would he say if you delivered Arsène Lupin into the hands of

the police?”

“Tut! There’s a time for everything. In the next holidays—”

“Whitsuntide?”

“Yes—I shall go down on Saturday the sixth of June by the first train.”

“And, on the evening of that Saturday, Lupin will be taken.”

“Will you give me until the Sunday?” asked Beautrelet, laughing.

“Why delay?” replied the journalist, quite seriously.

This inexplicable confidence, born of yesterday and already so strong,

was felt with regard to the young man by one and all, even though, in

reality, events had justified it only up to a certain point. No matter,

people believed in him! Nothing seemed difficult to him. They expected

from him what they were entitled to expect at most from some phenomenon

of penetration and intuition, of experience and skill. That day of the

sixth of June was made to sprawl over all the papers. On the sixth of

June, Isidore Beautrelet would take the fast train to Dieppe: and Lupin

would be arrested on the same evening.

“Unless he escapes between this and then,” objected the last remaining

partisans of the adventurer.

“Impossible! Every outlet is watched.”

“Unless he has succumbed to his wounds, then,” said the partisans, who

would have preferred their hero’s death to his capture.

And the retort was immediate:

“Nonsense! If Lupin were dead, his confederates would know it by now,

and Lupin would be revenged. Beautrelet said so!”

And the sixth of June came. Half a dozen journalists were looking out

for Isidore at the Gare Saint-Lazare. Two of them wanted to accompany

him on his journey. He begged them to refrain.

He started alone, therefore, in a compartment to himself. He was tired,

thanks to a series of nights devoted to study, and soon fell asleep. He

slept heavily. In his dreams, he had an impression that the train

stopped at different stations and that people got in and out. When he

awoke, within sight of Rouen, he was still alone. But, on the back of

the opposite seat, was a large sheet of paper, fastened with a pin to

the gray cloth. It bore these words:

“Every man should mind his own business. Do you mind yours. If not, you

must take the consequences.”

“Capital!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with delight. “Things are

going badly in the adversary’s camp. That threat is as stupid and

vulgar as the sham flyman’s. What a style! One can see that it wasn’t

composed by Lupin.”

The train threaded the tunnel that precedes the old Norman city. On

reaching the station, Isidore took a few turns on the platform to

stretch his legs. He was about to re-enter his compartment, when a cry

escaped him. As he passed the bookstall, he had read, in an

absent-minded way, the following lines on the front page of a special

edition of the _Journal de Rouen;_ and their alarming sense suddenly

burst upon him:

STOP-PRESS NEWS

We hear by telephone from Dieppe that the Château d’Ambrumésy was

broken into last night by criminals, who bound and gagged Mlle. de

Gesvres and carried off Mlle. de Saint-Véran. Traces of blood have been

seen at a distance of five hundred yards from the house and a scarf has

been found close by, which is also stained with blood. There is every

reason to fear that the poor young girl has been murdered.

Isidore Beautrelet completed his journey to Dieppe without moving a

limb. Bent in two, with his elbows on his knees and his hands plastered

against his face, he sat thinking.

At Dieppe, he took a fly. At the door of Ambrumésy, he met the

examining magistrate, who confirmed the horrible news.

“You know nothing more?” asked Beautrelet.

“Nothing. I have only just arrived.”

At that moment, the sergeant of gendarmes came up to M. Filleul and

handed him a crumpled, torn and discolored piece of paper, which he had

picked up not far from the place where the scarf was found. M. Filleul

looked at it and gave it to Beautrelet, saying:

“I don’t suppose this will help us much in our investigations.”

Isidore turned the paper over and over. It was covered with figures,

dots and signs and presented the exact appearance reproduced below:

[Illustration]

CHAPTER THREE

THE CORPSE

At six o’clock in the evening, having finished all he had to do, M.

Filluel, accompanied by M. Brédoux, his clerk, stood waiting for the

carriage which was to take him back to Dieppe. He seemed restless,

nervous. Twice over, he asked:

“You haven’t seen anything of young Beautrelet, I suppose?”

“No, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, I can’t say I have.”

“Where on earth can he be? I haven’t set eyes on him all day!”

Suddenly, he had an idea, handed his portfolio to Brédoux, ran round

the château and made for the ruins. Isidore Beautrelet was lying near

the cloisters, flat on his face, with one arm folded under his head, on

the ground carpeted with pine-needles. He seemed drowsing.

“Hullo, young man, what are you doing here? Are you asleep?”

“I’m not asleep. I’ve been thinking.”

“Ever since this morning?”

“Ever since this morning.”

“It’s not a question of thinking! One must see into things first, study

facts, look for clues, establish connecting links. The time for

thinking comes after, when one pieces all that together and discovers

the truth.”

“Yes, I know.—That’s the usual way, the right one, I dare say.—Mine is

different.—I think first, I try, above all, to get the general hang of

the case, if I may so express myself. Then I imagine a reasonable and

logical hypothesis, which fits in with the general idea. And then, and

not before, I examine the facts to see if they agree with my

hypothesis.”

“That’s a funny method and a terribly complicated one!”

“It’s a sure method, M. Filleul, which is more than can be said of

yours.”

“Come, come! Facts are facts.”

“With your ordinary sort of adversary, yes. But, given an enemy endowed

with a certain amount of cunning, the facts are those which he happens

to have selected. Take the famous clues upon which you base your

inquiry: why, he was at liberty to arrange them as he liked. And you

see where that can lead you, into what mistakes and absurdities, when

you are dealing with a man like Arsène Lupin. Holmlock Shears himself

fell into the trap.”

“Arsène Lupin is dead.”

“No matter. His gang remains and the pupils of such a master are

masters themselves.”

M. Filleul took Isidore by the arm and, leading him away:

“Words, young man, words. Here is something of more importance. Listen

to me. Ganimard is otherwise engaged at this moment and will not be

here for a few days. On the other hand, the Comte de Gesvres has

telegraphed to Holmlock Shears, who has promised his assistance next

week. Now don’t you think, young man, that it would be a feather in our

cap if we were able to say to those two celebrities, on the day of

their arrival, ‘Awfully sorry, gentlemen, but we couldn’t wait. The

business is done’?”

It was impossible for M. Filleul to confess helplessness with greater

candor. Beautrelet suppressed a smile and, pretending not to see

through the worthy magistrate, replied:

“I confess. Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that, if I was not present

at your inquiry just now, it was because I hoped that you would consent

to tell me the results. May I ask what you have learned?”

“Well, last night, at eleven o’clock, the three gendarmes whom Sergeant

Quevillon had left on guard at the château received a note from the

sergeant telling them to hasten with all speed to Ouville, where they

are stationed. They at once rode off, and when they arrived at

Ouville—”

“They discovered that they had been tricked, that the order was a

forgery and that there was nothing for them to do but return to

Ambrumésy.”

“This they did, accompanied by Sergeant Quevillon. But they were away

for an hour and a half and, during this time, the crime was committed.”

“In what circumstances?”

“Very simple circumstances, indeed. A ladder was removed from the farm

buildings and placed against the second story of the château. A pane of

glass was cut out and a window opened. Two men, carrying a dark

lantern, entered Mlle. de Gesvres’s room and gagged her before she

could cry out. Then, after binding her with cords, they softly opened

the door of the room in which Mlle. de Saint-Véran was sleeping. Mlle.

de Gesvres heard a stifled moan, followed by the sound of a person

struggling. A moment later, she saw two men carrying her cousin, who

was also bound and gagged. They passed in front of her and went out

through the window. Then Mlle. de Gesvres, terrified and exhausted,

fainted.”

“But what about the dogs? I thought M. de Gesvres had bought two almost

wild sheep-dogs, which were let loose at night?”

“They were found dead, poisoned.”

“By whom? Nobody could get near them.”

“It’s a mystery. The fact remains that the two men crossed the ruins

without let or hindrance and went out by the little door which we have

heard so much about. They passed through the copsewood, following the

line of the disused quarries. It was not until they were nearly half a

mile from the château, at the foot of the tree known as the Great Oak,

that they stopped—and executed their purpose.”

“If they came with the intention of killing Mlle. de Saint-Véran, why

didn’t they murder her in her room?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the incident that settled their determination

only occurred after they had left the house. Perhaps the girl succeeded

in releasing herself from her bonds. In my opinion, the scarf which was

picked up was used to fasten her wrists. In any case, the blow was

struck at the foot of the Great Oak. I have collected indisputable

proofs—”

“But the body?”

“The body has not been found, but there is nothing excessively

surprising in that. As a matter of fact, the trail which I followed

brought me to the church at Varengeville and the old cemetery perched

on the top of the cliff. From there it is a sheer precipice, a fall of

over three hundred feet to the rocks and the sea below. In a day or

two, a stronger tide than usual will cast up the body on the beach.”

“Obviously. This is all very simple.”

“Yes, it is all very simple and doesn’t trouble me in the least. Lupin

is dead, his accomplices heard of it and, to revenge themselves, have

killed Mlle. de Saint-Véran. These are facts which did not even require

checking. But Lupin?”

“What about him?”