"It's the Yser. You know what the men say: 'Yysery, misery!'" They dropped to the ground suddenly. The enemy was sweeping the path and the marshes with search-lights. There were two more alarms; and at last they reached the neighborhood of the old lighthouse without impediment. It was half-past eleven. With infinite caution they stole in between the demolished blocks of masonry and soon perceived that the post had been abandoned. Nevertheless, they discovered, under the broken steps of the staircase, an open trap-door and a ladder leading to a cellar which revealed gleams of swords and helmets. But Bernard, who was piercing the darkness from above with the rays of his electric lamp, declared: "There's nothing to fear, they're dead. The Huns must have thrown them in, after the recent bombardment." "Yes," said Paul. "And we must be prepared for the fact that they may send for the bodies. Keep guard on the Yser side, Bernard." "And suppose one of the beggars is still alive?" "I'll go down and see." "Turn out their pockets," said Bernard, as he moved away, "and bring us back their note-books. I love those. They're the best indications of the state of their souls . . . or rather of their stomachs." Paul went down. The cellar was a fairly large one. Half-a-dozen bodies lay spread over the floor, all lifeless and cold. Acting on Bernard's advice, he turned out the pockets and casually inspected the note-books. There was nothing interesting to attract his attention. But in the tunic of the sixth soldier whom he examined, a short, thin man, shot right through the head, he found a pocket-book bearing the name of Rosenthal and containing French and Belgian bank-notes and a packet of letters with Spanish, Dutch and Swiss postage stamps. The letters, all of which were in German, had been addressed to a German agent residing in France, whose name did not appear, and sent by him to Private Rosenthal, on whose body Paul discovered them. This private was to pass them on, together with a photograph, to a third person, referred to as his excellency. "Secret Service," said Paul, looking through them. "Confidential information. . . . Statistics. . . . What a pack of scoundrels!" But, on glancing at the pocket-book again, he saw an envelope which he tore open. Inside was a photograph; and Paul's surprise at the sight of it was so great that he uttered an exclamation. It represented the woman whose portrait he had seen in the locked room at Ornequin, the same woman, with the same lace scarf arranged in the identical way and with the same expression, whose hardness was not masked by its smile. And was this woman not the Comtesse Hermine d'Andeville, the mother of Élisabeth and Bernard? The print bore the name of a Berlin photographer. On turning it over, Paul saw something that increased his stupefaction. There were a few words of writing: "_To Stéphane d'Andeville. 1902._" Stéphane was the Comte d'Andeville's Christian name!