“Nor the room disturbed in any way?” “No. I found his pipe in its usual place, with his tobacco and the book which he was reading. There was even this little photograph of yourself in the middle of the book, marking the page.” “Let me see it.” Froberval passed him the photograph. Beautrelet gave a start of surprise. He had recognized himself in the snapshot, standing, with his two hands in his pockets, on a lawn from which rose trees and ruins. Froberval added: “It must be the last portrait of yourself which you sent him. Look, on the back, you will see the date, 3 April, the name of the photographer, R. de Val, and the name of the town, Lion—Lion-sur-Mer, perhaps.” Isidore turned the photograph over and read this little note, in his own handwriting: “R. de Val.—3.4—Lion.” He was silent for a few minutes and resumed: “My father hadn’t shown you that snapshot yet?” “No—and that’s just what astonished me when I saw it yesterday—for your father used so often to talk to us about you.” There was a fresh pause, greatly prolonged. Froberval muttered: “I have business at the workshop. We might as well go in—” He was silent. Isidore had not taken his eyes from the photograph, was examining it from every point of view. At last, the boy asked: “Is there such a thing as an inn called the Lion d’Or at a short league outside the town?” “Yes, about a league from here.” “On the Route de Valognes, is it?” “Yes, on the Route de Valognes.” “Well, I have every reason to believe that this inn was the head-quarters of Lupin’s friends. It was from there that they entered into communication with my father.” “What an idea! Your father spoke to nobody. He saw nobody.” “He saw nobody, but they made use of an intermediary.” “What proof have you?” “This photograph.” “But it’s your photograph!” “It’s my photograph, but it was not sent by me. I was not even aware of its existence. It was taken, without my knowledge, in the ruins of Ambrumésy, doubtless by the examining-magistrate’s clerk, who, as you know, was an accomplice of Arsène Lupin’s.” “And then?” “Then this photograph became the passport, the talisman, by means of which they obtained my father’s confidence.” “But who? Who was able to get into my house?” “I don’t know, but my father fell into the trap. They told him and he believed that I was in the neighborhood, that I was asking to see him and that I was giving him an appointment at the Golden Lion.” “But all this is nonsense! How can you assert—?” “Very simply. They imitated my writing on the back of the photograph and specified the meeting-place: Valognes Road, 3 kilometres 400, Lion Inn. My father came and they seized him, that’s all.” “Very well,” muttered Froberval, dumbfounded, “very well. I admit it—things happened as you say—but that does not explain how he was able to leave during the night.” “He left in broad daylight, though he waited until dark to go to the meeting-place.”