“M. Formery and the inspector have just been up to examine the housekeeper’s room. It’s right at the top of the house—on the second floor. You take the servants’ staircase. Then it’s right at the end of the passage on the left. Would you like me to take you up to it, sir?” said the policeman eagerly. His heart was in his work. “Thank you, I know where it is—I’ve just come from it,” said Guerchard gently. A grin of admiration widened the already wide mouth of the policeman, and showed a row of very white, able-looking teeth. “Ah, M. Guerchard!” he said, “you’re cleverer than all the examining magistrates in Paris put together!” “You ought not to say that, my good fellow. I can’t prevent you thinking it, of course; but you ought not to say it,” said Guerchard with husky gentleness; and the faintest smile played round the corners of his mouth. He walked slowly to the window, and the policeman walked with him. “Have you noticed this, sir?” said the policeman, taking hold of the top of the ladder with a powerful hand. “It’s probable that the burglars came in and went away by this ladder.” “Thank you,” said Guerchard. “They have even left this card-table on the window-sill,” said the policeman; and he patted the card-table with his other powerful hand. “Thank you, thank you,” said Guerchard. “They don’t think it’s Lupin’s work at all,” said the policeman. “They think that Lupin’s letter announcing the burglary and these signatures on the walls are only a ruse.” “Is that so?” said Guerchard. “Is there any way I can help you, sir?” said policeman. “Yes,” said Guerchard. “Take up your post outside that door and admit no one but M. Formery, the inspector, Bonavent, or Dieusy, without consulting me.” And he pointed to the drawing-room door. “Shan’t I admit the Duke of Charmerace? He’s taking a great interest in this affair,” said the policeman. “The Duke of Charmerace? Oh, yes—admit the Duke of Charmerace,” said Guerchard. The policeman went to his post of responsibility, a proud man. Hardly had the door closed behind him when Guerchard was all activity—activity and eyes. He examined the ladder, the gaps on the wall from which the pictures had been taken, the signatures of Arsène Lupin. The very next thing he did was to pick up the book which the Duke had set on the top of the footprint again, to preserve it; and he measured, pacing it, the distance between the footprint and the window. The result of this measuring did not appear to cause him any satisfaction, for he frowned, measured the distance again, and then stared out of the window with a perplexed air, thinking hard. It was curious that, when he concentrated himself on a process of reasoning, his eyes seemed to lose something of their sharp brightness and grew a little dim.