"That's game," he thought, "and gamy game at that! . . . They follow one another by scent! . . . Look quite respectable, of course, but with the eye of the hunted deer which knows that the enemy is all around and that every tuft, every blade of grass may conceal an ambush." That afternoon and on the Saturday morning, he pursued his inquiries and made certain that Altenheim's seven accomplices all lived on the premises. Four of them openly followed the trade of second-hand clothes-dealers. Two of the others sold newspapers; and the third described himself as a broker and was nicknamed accordingly. They went in and out, one after the other, without appearing to know one another. But, in the evening, Lupin discovered that they met in a sort of coach-house situated right at the back of the last of the yards, a place in which the Broker kept his wares piled up: old iron, broken kitchen-ranges, rusty stove-pipes . . . and also, no doubt, the best part of the stolen goods. "Come," he said, "the work is shaping nicely. I asked my cousin of Germany for a month and I believe a fortnight will be enough for my purpose. And what I like about it is that I shall start operations with the scoundrels who made me take a header in the Seine. My poor old Gourel, I shall revenge you at last. And high time too!" At twelve o'clock on Saturday, he went to the Restaurant Buffalo, a little low-ceilinged room to which brick-layers and cab-drivers resorted for their mid-day meal. Some one came and sat down beside him: "It's done, governor." "Ah, is it you, Doudeville? That's right! I'm dying to know. Have you the particulars? The birth-certificate? Quick, tell me." "Well, it's like this: Altenheim's father and mother died abroad." "Never mind about them." "They left three children." "Three?" "Yes. The eldest would have been thirty years old by now. His name was Raoul de Malreich." "That's our man, Altenheim. Next?" "The youngest of the children was a girl, Isilda. The register has an entry, in fresh ink, 'Deceased.'" "Isilda. . . . Isilda," repeated Lupin. "That's just what I thought: Isilda was Altenheim's sister. . . . I saw a look in her face which I seemed to recognize. . . . So that was the link between them. . . . But the other, the third child, or rather the second?" "A son. He would be twenty-six by now." "His name?" "Louis de Malreich." Lupin gave a little start: "That's it! Louis de Malreich. . . . The initials L. M. . . . The awful and terrifying signature! . . . The murderer's name is Louis de Malreich. . . . He was the brother of Altenheim and the brother of Isilda and he killed both of them for fear of what they might reveal." Lupin sat long, silent and gloomy, under the obsession, no doubt, of the mysterious being. Doudeville objected: "What had he to fear from his sister Isilda? She was mad, they told me."