“From telling you what I know? No, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. I have given my word and I shall keep it. In less than ten minutes, you shall know—a part of the truth.” “A part?” “Yes, in my opinion, Lupin’s hiding-place does not constitute the whole of the problem. Far from it. But we shall see later on.” “M. Beautrelet, nothing that you do could astonish me now. But how were you able to discover—?” “Oh, in a very natural way! In the letter from old man Harlington to M. Étienne de Vaudreix, or rather to Lupin—” “The intercepted letter?” “Yes. There is a phrase which always puzzled me. After saying that the pictures are to be forwarded as arranged, he goes on to say, ‘You may add _the rest_, if you are able to succeed, which I doubt.’” “Yes, I remember.” “What was this ‘rest’? A work of art, a curiosity? The château contains nothing of any value besides the Rubenses and the tapestries. Jewelry? There is very little and what there is of it is not worth much. In that case, what could it be?—On the other hand, was it conceivable that people so prodigiously clever as Lupin should not have succeeded in adding ‘the rest,’ which they themselves had evidently suggested? A difficult undertaking, very likely; exceptional, surprising, I dare say; but possible and therefore certain, since Lupin wished it.” “And yet he failed: nothing has disappeared.” “He did not fail: something has disappeared.” “Yes, the Rubenses—but—” “The Rubenses and something besides—something which has been replaced by a similar thing, as in the case of the Rubenses; something much more uncommon, much rarer, much more valuable than the Rubenses.” “Well, what? You’re killing me with this procrastination!” While talking, the two men had crossed the ruins, turned toward the little door and were now walking beside the chapel. Beautrelet stopped: “Do you really want to know, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction?” “Of course, I do.” Beautrelet was carrying a walking-stick, a strong, knotted stick. Suddenly, with a back stroke of this stick, he smashed one of the little statues that adorned the front of the chapel. “Why, you’re mad!” shouted M. Filleul, beside himself, rushing at the broken pieces of the statue. “You’re mad! That old saint was an admirable bit of work—” “An admirable bit of work!” echoed Isidore, giving a whirl which brought down the Virgin Mary. M. Filleul took hold of him round the body: “Young man, I won’t allow you to commit—” A wise man of the East came toppling to the ground, followed by a manger containing the Mother and Child. . . . “If you stir another limb, I fire!” The Comte de Gesvres had appeared upon the scene and was cocking his revolver. Beautrelet burst out laughing: “That’s right, Monsieur le Comte, blaze away!—Take a shot at them, as if you were at a fair!—Wait a bit—this chap carrying his head in his hands—” St. John the Baptist fell, shattered to pieces.