“Frédéric Larsan arrived at the Glandier before me; he began his inquiry before me; he has had time to find out things about which I know nothing. Where did he find that cane?” Then he added: “It is probable that his suspicion—more than that, his reasoning—has led him to lay his hand on something tangible. Has this cane anything to do with it? Where the deuce could he have found it?” As I had to wait twenty minutes for the train at Epinay, we entered a cabaret. Almost immediately the door opened and Frédéric Larsan made his appearance, brandishing his famous cane. “I found it!” he said laughingly. The three of us seated ourselves at a table. Rouletabille never took his eyes off the cane; he was so absorbed that he did not notice a sign Larsan made to a railway employé, a young man with a chin decorated by a tiny blond and ill-kept beard. On the sign he rose, paid for his drink, bowed, and went out. I should not myself have attached any importance to the circumstance, if it had not been recalled to my mind, some months later, by the reappearance of the man with the beard at one of the most tragic moments of this case. I then learned that the youth was one of Larsan’s assistants and had been charged by him to watch the going and coming of travellers at the station of Epinay-sur-Orge. Larsan neglected nothing in any case on which he was engaged. I turned my eyes again on Rouletabille. “Ah!—Monsieur Fred!” he said, “when did you begin to use a walking-stick? I have always seen you walking with your hands in your pockets!” “It is a present,” replied the detective. “Recent?” insisted Rouletabille. “No, it was given to me in London.” “Ah, yes, I remember—you have just come from London. May I look at it?” “Oh!—certainly!” Fred passed the cane to Rouletabille. It was a large yellow bamboo with a crutch handle and ornamented with a gold ring. Rouletabille, after examining it minutely, returned it to Larsan, with a bantering expression on his face, saying:— “You were given a French cane in London!” “Possibly,” said Fred, imperturbably. “Read the mark there, in tiny letters: Cassette, 6a, Opera.” “Cannot English people buy canes in Paris?” When Rouletabille had seen me into the train, he said:— “You’ll remember the address?” “Yes,—Cassette, 6a, Opera. Rely on me; you shall have word to-morrow morning.” That evening, on reaching Paris, I saw Monsieur Cassette, dealer in walking-sticks and umbrellas, and wrote to my friend:—