While waiting for the reply, he spent two consecutive nights in the Chambre des Demoiselles. He spent them overcome with fear, his nerves shaken with a terror which was increased by the sounds of the night. At every moment, he thought he saw shadows approach in his direction. People knew of his presence in the cave—they were coming—they were murdering him! His eyes, however, staring madly before them, sustained by all the power of his will, clung to the piece of wall. On the first night, nothing stirred; but, on the second, by the light of the stars and a slender crescent-moon, he saw the door open and figures emerge from the darkness: he counted two, three, four, five of them. It seemed to him that those five men were carrying fairly large loads. He followed them for a little way. They cut straight across the fields to the Havre road; and he heard the sound of a motor car driving away. He retraced his steps, skirting a big farm. But, at the turn of the road that ran beside it, he had only just time to scramble up a slope and hide behind some trees. More men passed—four, five men—all carrying packages. And, two minutes later, another motor snorted. This time, he had not the strength to return to his post; and he went back to bed. When he woke and had finished dressing, the hotel waiter brought him a letter. He opened it. It contained Ganimard’s card. “At last!” cried Beautrelet, who, after so hard a campaign, was really feeling the need of a comrade-in-arms. He ran downstairs with outstretched hands. Ganimard took them, looked at him for a moment and said: “You’re a fine fellow, my lad!” “Pooh!” he said. “Luck has served me.” “There’s no such thing as luck with ‘him,’” declared the inspector, who always spoke of Lupin in a solemn tone and without mentioning his name. He sat down: “So we’ve got him!” “Just as we’ve had him twenty times over,” said Beautrelet, laughing. “Yes, but to-day—” “To-day, of course, the case is different. We know his retreat, his stronghold, which means, when all is said, that Lupin is Lupin. He can escape. The Étretat Needle cannot.” “Why do you suppose that he will escape?” asked Ganimard, anxiously. “Why do you suppose that he requires to escape?” replied Beautrelet. “There is nothing to prove that he is in the Needle at present. Last night, eleven of his men left it. He may be one of the eleven.” Ganimard reflected: “You are right. The great thing is the Hollow Needle. For the rest, let us hope that chance will favor us. And now, let us talk.” He resumed his serious voice, his self-important air and said: “My dear Beautrelet, I have orders to recommend you to observe the most absolute discretion in regard to this matter.” “Orders from whom?” asked Beautrelet, jestingly. “The prefect of police?” “Higher than that.” “The prime minister?” “Higher.” “Whew!” Ganimard lowered his voice: