But the bottle was not empty. In the inside something moved, something light, which rustled like paper. He turned the bottle upside down and shook it; nothing came out. Then he let down into the bottle a piece of string ending in a big knot and by means of it, after the exercise of a good deal of patience, drew out a small sheet of paper, rolled up into a cylinder and tied with red thread. Having unrolled it, he saw that it was rather less than a half of an ordinary sheet of paper and that the lower part of it had been cut, or rather torn, irregularly. Some words were written on it in ink, of which many were missing, but which were sufficient for him to form several sentences: “The accusation is true. This is my formal confession. I alone am responsible for the crime that has been committed and neither Jodot nor the Loubeaux are to be blamed for it. Bregeac.” At the first glance Ralph had recognized Bregeac’s handwriting, but written in an ink faded by time, which permitted him, along with the state of the paper, to reckon the document to be fifteen or twenty years old. What was this crime, and against whom had it been committed? He reflected for some time before he arrived at this conclusion. Then he said to himself: “All the obscurity of this affair comes from the fact that it is not one affair but two; two enterprises are mingled in it, two dramas of which the first dominates the second. First the drama of the express in which the characters are the two Loubeaux, William Jodot, and Aurelie. The second is a drama which took place years ago and of which to-day the two actors, Jodot and Bregeac, are at loggerheads. “The situation which grows more and more complicated for any one who does not know the key-word, is becoming clearer and clearer to me. The hour of battle draws near, and the stake is Aurelie, or rather the secret which flutters in the depths of her beautiful green eyes. Whoever shall be for a few minutes, by force, by trickery, or by love, master of her thoughts, will be master of that secret, for which so many victims have already died. “And to this whirlwind of hate and vengeance and greed, Marescal with his passion, his ambition, and his rancor, brings that terrible instrument of war, Justice. “Opposing him, myself.” He made his preparations with the most minute care and with all the more vigor because each of his adversaries was redoubling his precautions. Bregeac, without any definite proof against the nurse who gave information to Marescal or against the maid whom Ralph had bribed, discharged them both. The shutters of the windows in the front of his house were shut. On the other hand, the agents of Marescal began to show themselves in the street. Jodot only no longer showed himself. Disarmed doubtless by the loss of the document in which Bregeac had written his confession, he must have buried himself in some safe retreat.