Beautrelet ferreted and snuffed from village to village, from the river to the sea, with his nose in the wind, his ears pricked, trying to compel the inanimate things to surrender their deep meaning. Ought this hill-slope to be questioned? Or that forest? Or the houses of this hamlet? Or was it among the insignificant phrases spoken by that peasant yonder that he might hope to gather the one little illuminating word? One morning, he was lunching at an inn, within sight of Honfleur, the old city of the estuary. Opposite him was sitting one of those heavy, red-haired Norman horse-dealers who do the fairs of the district, whip in hand and clad in a long smock-frock. After a moment, it seemed to Beautrelet that the man was looking at him with a certain amount of attention, as though he knew him or, at least, was trying to recognize him. “Pooh,” he thought, “there’s some mistake: I’ve never seen that merchant before, nor he me.” As a matter of fact, the man appeared to take no further interest in him. He lit his pipe, called for coffee and brandy, smoked and drank. When Beautrelet had finished his meal, he paid and rose to go. A group of men entered just as he was about to leave and he had to stand for a few seconds near the table at which the horse-dealer sat. He then heard the man say in a low voice: “Good-afternoon, M. Beautrelet.” Without hesitation, Isidore sat down beside the man and said: “Yes, that is my name—but who are you? How did you know me?” “That’s not difficult—and yet I’ve only seen your portrait in the papers. But you are so badly—what do you call it in French—so badly made-up.” He had a pronounced foreign accent and Beautrelet seemed to perceive, as he looked at him, that he too wore a facial disguise that entirely altered his features. “Who are you?” he repeated. “Who are you?” The stranger smiled: “Don’t you recognize me?” “No, I never saw you before.” “Nor I you. But think. The papers print my portrait also—and pretty often. Well, have you got it?” “No.” “Holmlock Shears.” It was an amusing and, at the same time, a significant meeting. The boy at once saw the full bearing of it. After an exchange of compliments, he said to Shears: “I suppose that you are here—because of ‘him’?” “Yes.” “So—so—you think we have a chance—in this direction.” “I’m sure of it.” Beautrelet’s delight at finding that Shears’s opinion agreed with his own was not unmingled with other feelings. If the Englishman attained his object, it meant that, at the very best, the two would share the victory; and who could tell that Shears would not attain it first? “Have you any proofs? Any clues?” “Don’t be afraid,” grinned the Englishman, who understood his uneasiness. “I am not treading on your heels. With you, it’s the document, the pamphlet: things that do not inspire me with any great confidence.” “And with you?” “With me, it’s something different.” “Should I be indiscreet, if—?”