 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Hollow Needle, Further Adventures of Our Saint Lupin, by Maurice LeBlanc. Translated by Alexandre Tuxera-Dematos, Chapter 1. The Shot. Raymond listened. The noise was repeated twice over, clear 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 is 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. Raymond! Raymond! 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. Raymond, is that you? Did you hear? Yes. So you are not asleep? I suppose the talk woke me some time ago, but he's not barking now. What time is it? About four. Listen! Surely someone's walking in the drawing-room. There's no danger. Your father is down there, Suzanne. But there's danger for him. His room is next to the boudoir. Monsieur Deval 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 turned 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 in the hall would have brought him out more to the left. Unless—the same idea struck them both. They lent 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, bestowed 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. Raymond 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 anyone 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 horse grown, the gurgle of a man who was being murdered. Raymond leapt toward the door. Suzanne clung desperately to her arm. No! No, don't leave me! I'm frightened! Raymond pushed her aside, and darted down the corridor, followed by Suzanne, who staggered from wall to wall, screaming as she went. Raymond 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 heat 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 foot-marks 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 count de Gèvre moved. In a broken voice he said, Don't be afraid. I'm not wounded. Deval! Is he alive? The knife! The knife! Two men-servants now arrived with candles. Raymond flung herself down before the other body and recognized Jean de Val, 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. Raymond 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're 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. And 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 Raymond who was searching with Victor. Well, he asked, there's no laying one's hand 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 Raymond's gun, they picked up a chauffer's cap, in very soft, buff leather. Besides that, nothing. The gendarmerie of Ouviel-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, and old-fashioned collage, contained the deputy public prosecutor and the examining magistrate, accompanied by his clerk. In the other, a humble fly receded two reporters representing the journal du Roi and a great Paris paper. The old chateau came into view. Once the abbey residents of both the priors of Ambrum-Z, mutilated under the Revolution, both restored by the Comte de Gèvres, 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 uplands, supported by the high Norman cliffs, you catch a glimpse of the blue line of the channel, between the villages of Saint-Amarit and Varangeville. Here the Comte de Gèvres lived with his daughter Suzanne, a delicate, fair-haired, pretty creature, and his niece Raymond de Saint-Varagne, whom he had taken to live with him two years before, when the simultaneous death of her father and mother left Raymond an orphan. Life at the chateau 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 de Val. Immediately upon his arrival the examining magistrate took down the first observations of Sergeant Cavillon of the gendarme. The capture of the criminal, imminent though it might be, had not yet been affected, 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 count de Gèvres, together with the Flemish tapestries, by his maternal uncle, the Marquester Bobadilla, a Spanish grandee. Monsieur Fille 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 count de Gèvres 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 in as much 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 de Val, 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 in the drawing-room mantelpiece, next to a leather cap,' said the examining magistrate. "'Yes,' said the count de Gèvres, the knife was picked up here. It comes from the same trophy in the drawing-room, from which my niece, mademoiselle de Saint-Varins, snatched the gun, as for the chauffer's cab. That evidently belongs to the murderer. Monsieur Filleux examined certain further details in the room, put a few questions to the doctor, and then asked Monsieur de Gèvres to tell him what he had seen and heard. The count worded his story as follows. "'Jean de Val 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 de Val 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 someone 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 Jus 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, de Val 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 Monsieur de Val either. De Val, an enemy? He was the best creature that ever lived. Monsieur de Val 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, 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. Suzan still, quite pale and trembling, could hardly speak. Raymond, who was more energetic, more of a man better looking too, with the golden glint in her brown eyes, describe 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 Suzan de Gèvres? Yes. Or rather, no, said Suzan reflecting. I thought he was about the middle height and slender. Monsieur Filles smiled. He was accustomed to differences of opinion and sight and 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. Monsieur Filles 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 Chateau, and the two cab men who had driven the flies from Dieppe. Monsieur Filles 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. The door 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 allure. The field of inquiry is quite narrow. We have only to continue the search commenced four hours ago. We may be more fortunate. Monsieur Filles took the leather cap from the mantel, examined it, and beckoned to the sergeant du gendarme, whispered, Sergeant, send one of your men to diep at once. Tell him to go to Maigret, the hatter, in the roue de la barre, and ask Monsieur 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 Ambrumsi, the famous medieval monastery, stood out in 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 Raymond, Victor, and Albert? There was nothing but a few breaks which the servants and gendarme 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 marvellous 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 copswood containing some abandoned quarries. Monsieur Fille stooped forward. The dust of the road bore marks of anti-skid pneumatic tires. Raymond 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, Monsieur Dejevre asked the two officials and the two journalists to stay to lunch. They ate in silence, and then Monsieur Fille returned to the drawing-room where he questioned the servants. But the sound of a horse's hooves 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 Monsieur Migré. 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 collage. And on what day did this happen? On what day, why, today, 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 non-plus 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 collage fetch him at once, the sergeant of Gendarm, 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, 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 great coat. 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, M. Le Jou's 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. Fille. Two of your men on horseback, Sergeant Cavion, 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 M. Le Jou's d'instruction that your effort 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 drivers. And the deputy prosecutor handed M. Fille 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. M. Le Conte, 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 towards 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 du Roin. Have you your credentials? Here. The card was in order. There was no more to be said. M. Fille turned to the other reporter. And you, sir? I? Yes, you. What paper do you belong to? Why, M. Le Jus 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 freelance. 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, M. Le Jus 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 the least embarrassed and wore a pleasant smile, free from any shade of banter. M. Fille looked at him with an aggressive air of distrust. The two gendarmes came forward. The young man exclaimed gaily, M. Le Jus 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, M. Le Jus d'instruction will make you agree with me that, logically speaking, M. Fille looked him straight in the eyes and said sharply, No more jokes. Your name? Isidore Baudrillet. Your occupation? Sixth Form Pupil, at the lycée J'encente d'essayer. M. Fille opened a pair of startled eyes. What are you talking about? Sixth Form Pupil? At the lycée J'encente, roue de la pompe. Oh, look here! Exclaimed Mr. Fille, you're trying to take me in. This won't do, you know. A joke can go too far. I must say, M. Le Jus d'instruction, that your astonishment surprises me. What is there to prevent my being a sixth Form Pupil? At the lycée J'encente. My beard, perhaps? Set your minded ease. My beard is false. Isidore Baudrillet 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 M. Isidore Baudrillet, indoor pupil, lycée J'encente, essayé. Convinced or not, M. Fille did not look as if he liked the story. He asked gruffly, What are you doing here? Why? I'm improving my mind. There are schools for that. Yours, for instance. You forget, M. Le Jus 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's how last night, after an uneventful period of more than a week, I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of my rowanic colleague, and this morning when he heard of the Ambrose murder, he very kindly suggested that I should come with him, and that we should share the cost of a fly. Isidore Bautrillet said all this with a frank and artless simplicity, of which it was impossible not to feel the charm. Monsieur Field, 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 this 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 Lejeu's 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 Bautrillet 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's because you have not had time to reflect, Monsieur Lejeu's 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. Monsieur Dejevre has everything accounted for. Monsieur Isidore Bautrillet has not. He misses a bookcase in three sections and a life-sized statue which nobody ever noticed. And if I ask 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. Monsieur Dejevre and the two girls, impressed by Bautrillet's tranquil assurance, listened attentively. You know the murderer's name? Yes. And the place where he is concealed, perhaps? Yes. Monsieur Fille rubbed his hands. What a piece of luck this capture will do honour to my career. And can you make these startling revelations now? Yes, now. Or rather, if you don't mind in an hour or two when I shall have assisted it, your inquiry to the end. No, no, young man. Here and now, please. At that moment, Raymond de Saint-Verain, who had not taken her eyes from Isidore Bautrillet since the beginning of the scene, came up to Monsieur Fille. Monsieur Lejouze d'instruction. Yes, mademoiselle? She hesitated for two or three seconds with her eyes fixed on Bautrillet. And then, addressing Monsieur Fille, I should like 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 Bautrillet appeared non-plussed. I, mademoiselle, I? You saw me yesterday? Raymond remained thoughtful with her eyes upon Bautrillet 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. Monsieur Fille 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 favour, 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 veuille. 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 Bautrelay's face denoted a keen vexation. Will it be for long? Long enough to collect the necessary information. Monsieur Le Joues 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 Monsieur Fille. It suggested a scene in a melodrama. Nevertheless he promised, This evening, or tomorrow 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 chateau. 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 Gendarme 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 chateau, 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, Gendaval's body had been moved to another room. Two women from the neighborhood sat up with it, assisted by Suzan and Raymond. Downstairs, young Isador Bautrelai 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 Gendarme, 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 a ten minutes past eleven, a shot echoed from the other side of the house. "'Attention!' roared the sergeant. "'Two men remain here. You, Fassier, and you, Lucanu, 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 Monsieur de Gèvres, hurrying to the scene of the disaster, encouraged them with the promise of a reward. By the time 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 Monsieur de Gèvres, 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 Lucan, I may be able to tell you the reason. Together they reached the ruins of the cloisters. The sergeant called out, "'Lucanou, fossier!' The other gendarm already hunting for their comrades, whom they had left standing sentry. They ended 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 Lucan muttered the sergeant, while his men were being released. Monsieur Lucan, 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 pike-staff. The idea came to me ten minutes ago. But I am a fool not to have thought of it earlier. We should have nabbed them all. Cavion 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 at 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 Cavion. At dawn, when they entered the oratory which had been used as a cell for young Isidore Baudrillet, they realized that young Isidore Baudrillet 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 Baudrillet had administered a sleeping-draft to the village policeman. Secondly, that he could have only 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 water as a footstool. Translated by Alexander Texera de Matos. From the Grand Journal, latest news. 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 printed, therefore, with all reserve. At the commencement of the third act, that is to say at about 10 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 Madame de Latre to hear. Doctor, I have a very painful task to fulfill, and I shall be very grateful to you if you will make it as easy for me as you can. Who are you, sir? Monsieur Tisar, Commissary of Police for the First District, and my instructions are to take you to Monsieur Doudouille 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. Madame de Latre, greatly alarmed, drove to the office of the Commissary of Police. There she found the real Monsieur Tisar, and discovered to her great terror that the individual who had carried off her husband was an imposter. 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. Ici d'Or beau trouler, the story ends and guesswork begins. Dr de Latre was brought back to 78 Rue du Ré at nine o'clock this morning in a motor car which drove away immediately at full speed. Number 78 Rue du Ré is the address of Dr de Latre'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 lengths 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 10,000 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 an 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'en Brumsi, 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 Arg, at some ten-mile 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 14. 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 14, which skirts the forest of Arg, 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 and in, 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 Gournet, at Forge, Chief Inspector Ghanimar, who was sent specially from Paris, with Inspector Follon-Font 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 Umbrumsi. And though the traces of the car were lost at about a mile and a half from the chateau, at least a number of footmarks were seen between the little door in the park wall and the abbey ruins. Besides, Ghanimar 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 Ghanimar, 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 Umbrumsi. Ghanimar and Sergeant Kivillon set to work. Within a circle of five hundred yards, of a thousand yards, of fifteen thousand yards, they visited in ransacked everything that could pass for an inn, but against all expectation the dying man persisted in remaining invisible. Ghanimar became more resolved than ever. He came back to sleep at the chateau, 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 post of gendarme 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, Ghanimar openly sent the squad of gendarme to the farm and posted himself in Fallon-Fonds, 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 on the old pillars, sometimes remaining for long minutes without moving. Then he went back to the door and again passed between the two inspectors. Ghanimar caught him by the collar, while Fallon-Fonds seized him round the body. He made no resistance of any kind, and with 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 the bed, in one of the two adjoining rooms which they occupied. At nine o'clock on Monday morning, as soon as Monsieur Filleux had arrived, Ghanimar announced the capture which he had made. The prisoner was brought downstairs. It was Isidore Boutroulay. Monsieur Isidore Boutroulay exclaimed Monsieur Filleux 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! Monsieur Chief Inspector, allow me to introduce you to Monsieur Isidore Boutroulay, a six-form pupil at the lycée-chanson de Saïs. Ghanimar seemed a little non-plussed. 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 Monsieur Filleux. 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 veule l'hérosse, at the time when Mademoiselle de Saint-Veron thought she saw you on the Sainte-Rôde. I dare say we shall discover the identity of your double. In the second place, you are in very deed Isidore Boutroulay, a six-form pupil and, what is more, an excellent pupil, industries at your work and of exemplary behaviour. As your father lives in the country, you go out once a month to his correspondent, Monsieur Bernaud, who is lavish in his praises of you, so that you are free, Monsieur Isidore Boutroulay. 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 Ghanimar was preparing to go, with an affectation of contempt for that sort of practice, the magistrate cried, Not at all, Monsieur Inspector, your place is here. I assure you that Monsieur Isidore Boutroulay is worth listening to. Monsieur Isidore Boutroulay, according to my information, has made a great reputation at the Lysie-Jean-Saint-de-Seillis as an observer whom nothing escapes, and his school-fellows, I hear, look upon him as your competitor and a rival of home-lock sheers. Indeed, said Ghanimar, ironically. Just so, one of them wrote to me, If Boutroulay 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. Monsieur Isidore Boutroulay, 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'inscription, you are very cruel, you make fun of poor school boys 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, Monsieur Isidore Boutroulay. 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, 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 Monsieur De Gevres 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 easy door. 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 the wall are false. Impossible. They are false, are 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 Charpentier, came to the château d'Ombrumsi and asked permission to copy the Rubens pictures. Monsieur de Giverais gave him permission. Every day for five months, Charpentier 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 Monsieur de Giverais by his uncle, the Marc de Bobadilla. Prove it. I have no proof to give. The picture is false because it is false, and I consider that it is not even necessary to examine these four. Monsieur Filleux and Ganymar exchanged glances of unconcealed astonishment. The inspector no longer sought of withdrawing. At last the magistrate muttered, We must have Monsieur de Giverais' opinion. And Ganymar agreed, Yes, yes, we must have his opinion. And they sent to beg the Count to come to the drawing-room. The young sixth-formed pupil had won a real victory, to compel two experts, two professionals like Monsieur Filleux and Ganymar, to take account of his surmises, implied a testimony of respect of which any other would have been proud. But Boutroulis seemed not to field his little satisfactions of self-conceit, and, still smiling without the least trace of irony, he placidly waited. Monsieur de Giverais entered the room. Monsieur le Count, 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 at 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 Charpentier. Would it 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 Boutroulis, and at Monsieur Filleux, and replied without even troubling to go near the pictures. I hoped, Monsieur le Juge d'Inscription, 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 de l'Echo de Paris, and the matin, runs and prepared to buy back the pictures. The Count agreed with the nod. Once again the young man was teaching his elders. Monsieur Filleux showed himself a good sportsman. There is no doubt about it, my dear sir, he exclaimed. I am 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 Mr Gunymar 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 as far as I recollect. He said that you knew the name of the murderer. So I do. Well then, who killed Jean Darval? 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 Monsieur Filleux. The man whom Monsieur du Gévret saw in the boudoir and struggled with. The man whom the young ladies saw in the drawing-room, and whom mademoiselle de Saint-Veron 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 Darval? I do. Have he 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 Darval? Jean Darval was killed by Boutroulis interrupted himself, sought 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 Darval, 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. Another crime was committed at four o'clock in the morning. I reflected on that strange fact, said the magistrate, and M. Givray replied that Jean Darval 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 bed-glaze 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 Charpeny, the painter, the man who copied the Rubin's pictures, had been introduced and recommended to the Comte de Givray by Jean Darval himself. Well? Well, from that to the conclusion that Jean Darval and Charpeny were accomplices required by the steppe. 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 Darval's room, on one of the sheets of the blotting pad, on which he used to write, this address, M. 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 Champ Flyman from Saint Nicolas, bore the same address, A. L. N., post Office 45. The material proof existed. Jean Darval was in correspondence with the gang which arranged the robbery of the pictures. M. Figu 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 Darval, because Jean Darval was his accomplice. And after that? Monsieur le juge d'instruction. I will ask you to remember the first sentence uttered by M. Le Comte, when he recovered from fainting. The sentence forms part of Mademoiselle de Givres' evidence, and is in the official report. I am not wounded. Darval, 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 M. Le Comte describes the assault. The man leapt at me and felled me with a blow on the temple. How could M. Le Givres, who had fainted, know on waking that Darval had been stabbed with a knife? Isidore Boutroulet 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 straight away. Therefore it was Jean Darval who brought the three burglars to the drawing-room. While he was there with the one whom they called their chief, a noise was heard in the boudoir. Darval opened the door, recognizing M. Le Givres. He rushed at him, armed with a knife. M. Le Givres 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. Figu and the inspector exchanged glances. Ghanimar tossed his head in a disconcerted way. The magistrate said, M. Le Comte, I might have believed that this version is correct. M. Le Givres made no answer. Come, M. Le Comte, your silence would us to suppose I beg you to speak. Replying in a very clear voice, M. Le Givres said, the version is correct in every particular. The magistrate gave his start. Then I cannot understand why you misled the police. Why conceal an act which you were lawfully entitled to commit and defend of your life? For twenty years, said M. Le Givres, 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. He was unwilling, I agree, but you had no right to be. I am not of your opinion, M. Le Givres 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, M. 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 pocketbook a few minutes after his death. And the motive of his theft? Go to 18 Rue de la Barre à Dieppe, which is the address of a certain M. 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. Fillieu, after the count had withdrawn. Upon my word, said Boutroulis Gailly, I have said almost all that I had to say. But the runaway, the wounded man. As to that, M. Le Givres d'instruction, you know as much as I do. You have followed his tracks in the grasp 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 in. Isidore Boutroulis burst out laughing. The in? The in does not exist. It is an invention, a trick to put the police on the wrong scent, an ingenious trick too, for it seems to have succeeded. But Dr. de Latre declares. Ah, that's just it, cried Boutroulis in a tone of conviction. It is just because Dr. de Latre declares that we mustn't believe him. Why, Dr. de Latre refused to give any but the vaguest detail concerning his adventure. He refused to say anything that might compromise his patient's safety. And suddenly he calls attention to an in. He may be sure that he talked about that in because he was told to. He 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 obey people of whose formidable power he has seen proves. And that is why he has assisted your efforts by supplying the most precise clues. So precise that the in 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 Mademoiselle de Saint-Veron. He succeeded in dragging himself to it, like a beast to its lair. But where confounded 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, chartes boutroulés. 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, Monsieur Filleux, springing to his feet. There was a rather solemn pause, amid which the syllables of that 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. Ghanimah had not moved a limb. Isidore said to him, You agree with me, do you not, Monsieur 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 faces from another. You have only to open your eyes. Do you think so? Do you think so? said Monsieur Filleux. Think so? cried the young man. Look, here's one little fact. What are the initials under which those men corresponded 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 Ghanimah, nothing escapes you. Upon my word, you are a fine fellow, and old Ghanimah lays down his arms before you. Boutrouillet 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. Monsieur Filleux muttered, so he ought to be there. He is there, said Boutrouillet, 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 Mademoiselle de Saint-Voron 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 it 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 the alarm, he committed the imprudence to write that thread. Roby tied the young lady if she has killed the Governor. But his friends were able to take him away afterward. When? Your men 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 gendarm 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 to 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. At that point, his two companions sought desperately, both leaning into space, both moved by the same faith in Boutroulay, 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. Figueux in a low voice. If he dies, said Boutroulay, and if his accomplices are sure of it, then seek to the safety of Mademoiselle de Saint-Veron, M. de juge d'instruction, for the vengeance will be terrible. A few minutes later, and in spite of the entreaties of M. Figueux, who would gladly have made further use of this fascinating auxiliary, Isidore Boutroulay, 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 Lysier-Genson, together with his school fellows. Ganymar, after a minute, after a minute but utterly useless exploration of the ruins of Umbrumsi, returned to Paris by the fast night train, on reaching his apartment in the Rue Pargoulaise, he found an express letter awaiting him. Monsieur l'Inspecteur principal, finding that I had 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 Dupin has been living in Paris for twelve months under the name of Etienne de Vaudré. It is a name which he will often come across in the society notes or the sporting columns of the newspapers. He is a great traveller 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 Rue Marbeuf is close to post office number 45. Since Thursday, the 23rd of April, the day before the burglary at Ombre-Umsi. There has been no news at all of Etienne de Vaudré. With very many thanks for the kindness which you have shown me, believe me to be Monsieur l'Inspecteur principal, your sensee-lé, Isidore Boutroulé. 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 Monsieur Filleux was pursuing his examination before a few privileged persons, I had the fortunate inspiration to glance at the runway's cap, before the sham-flyman came to exchange 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, Ghanimar called at 36 Rue Marbeuf. After questioning the concierge, he made him open the door of the grand-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, Ghanimar passed the postman, who was bringing a letter for Monsieur de Vaudré. 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 you gave your representative. As soon as you have, Monsieur de Givres, four pictures in your possession, you can forward them as arranged. You may add the rest if you are able to succeed, which are 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 Hotel. Use faithfully. Same day, Ghanimar 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 24 hours, all the threads of the plot had been unravelled, thanks to the really unforeseen clues supplied by a schoolboy of 17. In 24 hours, what had seemed inexplicable became simple and clear. In 24 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 clamour 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 Ghanimar and Monsieur Filleux, 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 Boutroulet in recent events. He alone had done everything, to him alone the merit of the victory was due. The excitement was intense. Isidore Boutroulet awoke to find himself a hero, and the crowd, suddenly infatuated, insisted upon the fullest information regarding its new favourite. The reporters were there to supply it. They rushed to the assault of the lycée Jean-Saint de Seilly, waited for the day-borders to come out after school hours, and picked up all that related, however remotely, to Boutroulet. It was in this way that they learned the reputation which he enjoyed among his school fellows, who called him the rival of homelock 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 Jean-Saint, to put difficult questions and intricate problems to Boutroulet, 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 Jaurice, 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-Clou 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 Boutroulet, and manifested 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 humour and French irony. It contained a profound study of each of the exploits of Arsène Lupin. Throwing the illustrious burglar's operation into extraordinary relief, showing the very mechanism of his way to 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 Boutroulet, 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 Monsieur Filleux 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 definite proof of his connection with Lupin's gang. Confederate or not, he preserved an obstinate silence. Naymore, after examining his handwriting, it was impossible to declare that he was the author of the intercepted letter. And Mr. Harlington, carrying a small promontor, and a pocketbook stuffed with banknotes, had taken up his abode at the Grand Hotel. That was all that could be stated with certainty. On the other hand, at Dieppe, Monsieur Filleux laid down on the positions, which Boutroulet had won for him. He did not move a step forward. Around the individual whom mademoiselle de Saint Laurent had taken for Boutroulet on the eve of the crime, the same mystery reigned as here to fall. 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 Lunerée de Yerville at Yves-Tour and at Côte-Becancourt, 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 park four large pictures into it, unobserved by the ferrymen. 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 Monsieur Filleux 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 Poutroulet'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 Poutroulet, 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 Lysier-Jean-Saint, by assuming the name of Pernous, the friend of Poutroulet'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 is a time for everything. In the next holidays, wits and tide? Yes, I shall go down on Saturday, the 6th of June, by the first train. And on the evening of that Saturday, Lupin will be taken. Will he give me unto this Sunday? asked Poutroulet, 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 6th of June was made to sprawl over all the papers. On the 6th of June, Isidore Poutroulet 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 the 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. Poutroulet said so. And the 6th 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 with insight 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 grey 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-flyment. What a style! One can see that it wasn't composed by Le Pen. 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 bookstore, 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 pressed news. We hear by telephone from Dieppe that the château d'Ombre-Rumsey was broken into last night by criminals who bound and gagged Mademoiselle de Giveret and carried off Mademoiselle de Saint-Vouron. Traces of blood have been seen at the distance of 500 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 Boutroulet 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 Ombre-Rumsey, he met the examining magistrate, who confirmed the horrible news. You know nothing more? asked Boutroulet. Nothing, I have only just arrived. At that moment, the sergeant of Jean-Darm came up to Monsieur Filleux, and handed him a crumpled, torn, and discoloured piece of paper, which he had picked up not far from the place where the scarf was found. Monsieur Filleux looked at it and gave it to Boutroulet, 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. Drawing of an outline of paper with writing and drawing on it. Numbers, dots, some letters, signs, and symbols. End of chapter two. Recorded by Gazine in March 2007.