What was the motive for this particular letter? For what hidden reason was Lupin confessing his love and the failure of that love? Was it there that Beautrelet had to seek, or in the explanations regarding Mr. Harlington, or further still, between the lines, behind all those words whose apparent meaning had perhaps no other object than to suggest some wicked, perfidious, misleading little idea? For hours, the young man, confined to his compartment, remained pensive and anxious. The letter filled him with mistrust, as though it had been written for his benefit and were destined to lead him, personally, into error. For the first time and because he found himself confronted not with a direct attack, but with an ambiguous, indefinable method of fighting, he underwent a distinct sensation of fear. And, when he thought of his good old, easy-going father, kidnapped through his fault, he asked himself, with a pang, whether he was not mad to continue so unequal a contest. Was the result not certain? Had Lupin not won the game in advance? It was but a short moment of weakness. When he alighted from his compartment, at six o’clock in the morning, refreshed by a few hours’ sleep, he had recovered all his confidence. On the platform, Froberval, the dockyard clerk who had given hospitality to M. Beautrelet, senior, was waiting for him, accompanied by his daughter Charlotte, an imp of twelve or thirteen. “Well?” cried Isidore. The worthy man beginning to moan and groan, he interrupted him, dragged him to a neighboring tavern, ordered coffee and began to put plain questions, without permitting the other the slightest digression: “My father has not been carried off, has he? It was impossible.” “Impossible. Still, he has disappeared.” “Since when?” “We don’t know.” “What!” “No. Yesterday morning, at six o’clock, as I had not seen him come down as usual, I opened his door. He was gone.” “But was he there on the day before, two days ago?” “Yes. On the day before yesterday, he did not leave his room. He was a little tired; and Charlotte took his lunch up to him at twelve and his dinner at seven in the evening.” “So it was between seven o’clock in the evening, on the day before yesterday, and six o’clock on yesterday morning that he disappeared?” “Yes, during the night before last. Only—” “Only what?” “Well, it’s like this: you can’t leave the arsenal at night.” “Do you mean that he has not left it?” “That’s impossible! My friends and I have searched the whole naval harbor.” “Then he has left it!” “Impossible, every outlet is guarded!” Beautrelet reflected and then said: “What next?” “Next, I hurried to the commandant’s and informed the officer in charge.” “Did he come to your house?” “Yes; and a gentleman from the public prosecutor’s also. They searched all through the morning; and, when I saw that they were making no progress and that there was no hope left, I telegraphed to you.” “Was the bed disarranged in his room?” “No.”