“Not at all,” said Beautrelet, in a thoughtful tone. “Not at all, for the moment.—Later on, we shall see.—I have an idea that a number of things are included in the puzzling conjunction of those two words, _aiguille creuse_. What is troubling me at present is rather the material on which the document is written, the paper employed.—Do they still manufacture this sort of rather coarse-grained parchment? And then this ivory color.—And those folds—the wear of those folds—and, lastly, look, those marks of red sealing-wax, on the back—” At that moment Beautrelet, was interrupted by Brédoux, the magistrate’s clerk, who opened the door and announced the unexpected arrival of the chief public prosecutor. M. Filleul rose: “Anything new? Is Monsieur le Procureur Général downstairs?” “No, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction. Monsieur le Procureur Général has not left his carriage. He is only passing through Ambrumésy and begs you to be good enough to go down to him at the gate. He only has a word to say to you.” “That’s curious,” muttered M. Filleul. “However—we shall see. Excuse me, Beautrelet, I shan’t be long.” He went away. His footsteps sounded outside. Then the clerk closed the door, turned the key and put it in his pocket. “Hullo!” exclaimed Beautrelet, greatly surprised. “What are you locking us in for?” “We shall be able to talk so much better,” retorted Brédoux. Beautrelet rushed toward another door, which led to the next room. He had understood: the accomplice was Brédoux, the clerk of the examining magistrate himself. Brédoux grinned: “Don’t hurt your fingers, my young friend. I have the key of that door, too.” “There’s the window!” cried Beautrelet. “Too late,” said Brédoux, planting himself in front of the casement, revolver in hand. Every chance of retreat was cut off. There was nothing more for Isidore to do, nothing except to defend himself against the enemy who was revealing himself with such brutal daring. He crossed his arms. “Good,” mumbled the clerk. “And now let us waste no time.” He took out his watch. “Our worthy M. Filleul will walk down to the gate. At the gate, he will find nobody, of course: no more public prosecutor than my eye. Then he will come back. That gives us about four minutes. It will take me one minute to escape by this window, clear through the little door by the ruins and jump on the motor cycle waiting for me. That leaves three minutes, which is just enough.” Brédoux was a queer sort of misshapen creature, who balanced on a pair of very long spindle-legs a huge trunk, as round as the body of a spider and furnished with immense arms. A bony face and a low, small stubborn forehead pointed to the man’s narrow obstinacy. Beautrelet felt a weakness in the legs and staggered. He had to sit down: “Speak,” he said. “What do you want?” “The paper. I’ve been looking for it for three days.” “I haven’t got it.” “You’re lying. I saw you put it back in your pocket-book when I came in.” “Next?”