He was thinking of leaving, when, one Monday morning, he saw, on the envelope of an unstamped letter, sent on to him from Paris, a handwriting that set him trembling with emotion. So great was his excitement that, for some minutes, he dared not open the letter, for fear of a disappointment. His hand shook. Was it possible? Was this not a trap laid for him by his infernal enemy? He tore open the envelope. It was indeed a letter from his father, written by his father himself. The handwriting presented all the peculiarities, all the oddities of the hand which he knew so well. He read: Will these lines ever reach you, my dear son? I dare not believe it. During the whole night of my abduction, we traveled by motor car; then, in the morning, by carriage. I could see nothing. My eyes were bandaged. The castle in which I am confined should be somewhere in the midlands, to judge by its construction and the vegetation in the park. The room which I occupy is on the second floor: it is a room with two windows, one of which is almost blocked by a screen of climbing glycines. In the afternoon, I am allowed to walk about the park, at certain hours, but I am kept under unrelaxing observation. I am writing this letter, on the mere chance of its reaching you, and fastening it to a stone. Perhaps, one day, I shall be able to throw it over the wall and some peasant will pick it up. But do not be distressed about me. I am treated with every consideration. Your old father, who is very fond of you and very sad to think of the trouble he is giving you, BEAUTRELET. Isidore at once looked at the postmarks. They read, “Cuzion, Indre.” The Indre! The department which he had been stubbornly searching for weeks! He consulted a little pocket-guide which he always carried. Cuzion, in the canton of Éguzon—he had been there too. For prudence’s sake, he discarded his personality as an Englishman, which was becoming too well known in the district, disguised himself as a workman and made for Cuzion. It was an unimportant village. He would easily discover the sender of the letter. For that matter, chance served him without delay: “A letter posted on Wednesday last?” exclaimed the mayor, a respectable tradesman in whom he confided and who placed himself at his disposal. “Listen, I think I can give you a valuable clue: on Saturday morning, Gaffer Charel, an old knife-grinder who visits all the fairs in the department, met me at the end of the village and asked, ‘Monsieur le maire, does a letter without a stamp on it go all the same?’ ‘Of course,’ said I. ‘And does it get there?’ ‘Certainly. Only there’s double postage to pay on it, that’s all the difference.’” “And where does he live?” “He lives over there, all alone—on the slope—the hovel that comes next after the churchyard.—Shall I go with you?”