The young sixth-form pupil had won a real victory. To compel two experts, two professionals like M. Filleul and Ganimard to take account of his surmises implied a testimony of respect of which any other would have been proud. But Beautrelet seemed not to feel those little satisfactions of self-conceit and, still smiling without the least trace of irony, he placidly waited. M. de Gesvres entered the room. “Monsieur le Comte,” said the magistrate, “the result of our inquiry has brought us face to face with an utterly unexpected contingency, which we submit to you with all reserve. It is possible—I say that it is possible—that the burglars, when breaking into the house, had it as their object to steal your four pictures by Rubens—or, at least, to replace them by four copies—copies which are said to have been made last year by a painter called Charpenais. Would you be so good as to examine the pictures and to tell us if you recognize them as genuine?” The count appeared to suppress a movement of annoyance, looked at Isidore Beautrelet and at M. Filleul and replied, without even troubling to go near the pictures: “I hoped, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that the truth might have remained unknown. As this is not so, I have no hesitation in declaring that the four pictures are false.” “You knew it, then?” “From the beginning.” “Why didn’t you say so?” “The owner of a work is never in a hurry to declare that that work is not—or, rather, is no longer genuine.” “Still, it was the only means of recovering them.” “I consider that there was another and a better.” “Which was that?” “Not to make the secret known, not to frighten my burglars and to offer to buy back the pictures, which they must find more or less difficult to dispose of.” “How would you communicate with them?” As the count did not reply, Isidore answered for him: “By means of an advertisement in the papers. The paragraph inserted in the agony column of the _Journal_, the _Écho de Paris_ and the _Matin_ runs, ‘Am prepared to buy back the pictures.’” The count agreed with a nod. Once again, the young man was teaching his elders. M. Filleul showed himself a good sportsman. “There’s no doubt about it, my dear sir,” he exclaimed. “I’m beginning to think your school-fellows were not quite wrong. By Jove, what an eye! What intuition! If this goes on, there will be nothing left for M. Ganimard and me to do.” “Oh, none of this part was so very complicated!” “You mean to say that the rest was more so I remember, in fact, that, when we first met you seemed to know all about it. Let me see, a far as I recollect, you said that you knew the name of the murderer.” “So I do.” “Well, then, who killed Jean Daval? Is the man alive? Where is he hiding?” “There is a misunderstanding between us, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, or, rather, you have misunderstood the facts from the beginning The murderer and the runaway are two distinct persons.”