“You will have to prove it, you will have to. In any case, the position is not what it was. Sergeant, one of your men will keep monsieur company.” Isidore Beautrelet’s face denoted a keen vexation. “Will it be for long?” “Long enough to collect the necessary information.” “Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, I beseech you to collect it with all possible speed and discretion.” “Why?” “My father is an old man. We are very much attached to each other—and I would not have him suffer on my account.” The more or less pathetic note in his voice made a bad impression on M. Filleul. It suggested a scene in a melodrama. Nevertheless, he promised: “This evening—or to-morrow at latest, I shall know what to think.” The afternoon was wearing on. The examining magistrate returned to the ruins of the cloisters, after giving orders that no unauthorized persons were to be admitted, and patiently, methodically, dividing the ground into lots which were successively explored, himself directed the search. But at the end of the day he was no farther than at the start; and he declared, before an army of reporters who, during that time, had invaded the château: “Gentlemen, everything leads us to suppose that the wounded man is here, within our reach; everything, that is, except the reality, the fact. Therefore, in our humble opinion, he must have escaped and we shall find him outside.” By way of precaution, however, he arranged, with the sergeant of gendarmes, for a complete watch to be kept over the park and, after making a fresh examination of the two drawing rooms, visiting the whole of the château and surrounding himself with all the necessary information, he took the road back to Dieppe, accompanied by the deputy prosecutor. Night fell. As the boudoir was to remain locked, Jean Daval’s body had been moved to another room. Two women from the neighborhood sat up with it, assisted by Suzanne and Raymonde. Downstairs, young Isidore Beautrelet slept on the bench in the old oratory, under the watchful eye of the village policeman, who had been attached to his person. Outside, the gendarmes, the farmer and a dozen peasants had taken up their position among the ruins and along the walls. All was still until eleven o’clock; but, at ten minutes past eleven, a shot echoed from the other side of the house. “Attention!” roared the sergeant. “Two men remain here: you, Fossier—and you, Lecanu—The others at the double!” They all rushed forward and ran round the house on the left. A figure was seen to make away in the dark. Then, suddenly, a second shot drew them farther on, almost to the borders of the farm. And, all at once, as they arrived, in a band, at the hedge which lines the orchard, a flame burst out, to the right of the farmhouse, and other flames also rose in a thick column. It was a barn burning, stuffed to the ridge with straw. “The scoundrels!” shouted the sergeant. “They’ve set fire to it. Have at them, lads! They can’t be far away!”