“That is because you have not had time to reflect, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. The great thing is to reflect. Facts very seldom fail to carry their own explanation!” “And, according to you, the facts which we have just ascertained carry their own explanation?” “Don’t you think so yourself? In any case, I have ascertained none besides those which are set down in the official report.” “Good! So that, if I were to ask you which were the objects stolen from this room—” “I should answer that I know.” “Bravo! My gentleman knows more about it than the owner himself. M. de Gesvres has everything accounted for: M. Isidore Beautrelet has not. He misses a bookcase in three sections and a life-size statue which nobody ever noticed. And, if I asked you the name of the murderer?” “I should again answer that I know it.” All present gave a start. The deputy and the journalist drew nearer. M. de Gesvres and the two girls, impressed by Beautrelet’s tranquil assurance, listened attentively. “You know the murderer’s name?” “Yes.” “And the place where he is concealed, perhaps?” “Yes.” M. Filleul rubbed his hands. “What a piece of luck! This capture will do honor to my career. And can you make me these startling revelations now?” “Yes, now—or rather, if you do not mind, in an hour or two, when I shall have assisted at your inquiry to the end.” “No, no, young man, here and now, please.” At that moment Raymonde de Saint-Véran, who had not taken her eyes from Isidore Beautrelet since the beginning of this scene, came up to M. Filleul: “Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction—” “Yes, mademoiselle?” She hesitated for two or three seconds, with her eyes fixed on Beautrelet, and then, addressing M. Filleul: “I should like you to ask monsieur the reason why he was walking yesterday in the sunk road which leads up to the little door.” It was an unexpected and dramatic stroke. Isidore Beautrelet appeared nonplussed: “I, mademoiselle? I? You saw me yesterday?” Raymonde remained thoughtful, with her eyes upon Beautrelet, as though she were trying to settle her own conviction, and then said, in a steady voice: “At four o’clock in the afternoon, as I was crossing the wood, I met in the sunk road a young man of monsieur’s height, dressed like him and wearing a beard cut in the same way—and I received a very clear impression that he was trying to hide.” “And it was I?” “I could not say that as an absolute certainty, for my recollection is a little vague. Still—still, I think so—if not, it would be an unusual resemblance—” M. Filleul was perplexed. Already taken in by one of the confederates, was he now going to let himself be tricked by this self-styled schoolboy? Certainly, the young man’s manner spoke in his favor; but one can never tell! “What have you to say, sir?” “That mademoiselle is mistaken, as I can easily show you with one word. Yesterday, at the time stated, I was at Veules.”