“What? What is it?” said Massiban. “The words don’t make sense.” “No more they do,” replied Massiban. “‘The first is so conceived to revenge myself on the King—’ What can that mean?” “Damn!” yelled Beautrelet. “Well?” “Torn! Two pages! The next two pages! Look at the marks!” He trembled, shaking with rage and disappointment. Massiban bent forward. “It is true—there are the ends of two pages left, like bookbinders’ guards. The marks seem pretty fresh. They’ve not been cut, but torn out—torn out with violence. Look, all the pages at the end of the book have been rumpled.” “But who can have done it? Who?” moaned Isidore, wringing his hands. “A servant? An accomplice?” “All the same, it may date back to a few months since,” observed Massiban. “Even so—even so—some one must have hunted out and taken the book—Tell me, monsieur,” cried Beautrelet, addressing the baron, “is there no one whom you suspect?” “We might ask my daughter.” “Yes—yes—that’s it—perhaps she will know.” M. de Vélines rang for the footman. A few minutes later, Mme. de Villemon entered. She was a young woman, with a sad and resigned face. Beautrelet at once asked her: “You found this volume upstairs, madame, in the library?” “Yes, in a parcel of books that had not been uncorded.” “And you read it?” “Yes, last night.” “When you read it, were those two pages missing? Try and remember: the two pages following this table of figures and dots?” “No, certainly not,” she said, greatly astonished. “There was no page missing at all.” “Still, somebody has torn—” “But the book did not leave my room last night.” “And this morning?” “This morning, I brought it down here myself, when M. Massiban’s arrival was announced.” “Then—?” “Well, I don’t understand—unless—but no.” “What?” “Georges—my son—this morning—Georges was playing with the book.” She ran out headlong, accompanied by Beautrelet, Massiban and the baron. The child was not in his room. They hunted in every direction. At last, they found him playing behind the castle. But those three people seemed so excited and called him so peremptorily to account that he began to yell aloud. Everybody ran about to right and left. The servants were questioned. It was an indescribable tumult. And Beautrelet received the awful impression that the truth was ebbing away from him, like water trickling through his fingers. He made an effort to recover himself, took Mme. de Villemon’s arm, and, followed by the baron and Massiban, led her back to the drawing room and said: “The book is incomplete. Very well. There are two pages torn out; but you read them, did you not, madame?” “Yes.” “You know what they contained?” “Yes.” “Could you repeat it to us?” “Certainly. I read the book with a great deal of curiosity, but those two pages struck me in particular because the revelations were so very interesting.”