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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 Bredoux, ran round the chateau 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 chateau 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 Ambrumesy.”
    “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 chateau. 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-Veran was sleeping. Mlle. de Gesvres heard a stifled moan, followed by the sound of a person