“Every man should mind his own business. Do you mind yours. If not, you must take the consequences.”
“Capital!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with delight. “Things are going badly in the adversary’s camp. That threat is as stupid and vulgar as the sham flyman’s. What a style! One can see that it wasn’t composed by Lupin.”
The train threaded the tunnel that precedes the old Norman city. On reaching the station, Isidore took a few turns on the platform to stretch his legs. He was about to re-enter his compartment, when a cry escaped him. As he passed the bookstall, he had read, in an absentminded way, the following lines on the front page of a special edition of the Journal de Rouen; and their alarming sense suddenly burst upon him:
Stop-press news
We hear by telephone from Dieppe that the Château d’Ambrumésy was broken into last night by criminals, who bound and gagged Mlle. de Gesvres and carried off Mlle. de Saint-Véran. Traces of blood have been seen at a distance of five hundred yards from the house and a scarf has been found close by, which is also stained with blood. There is every reason to fear that the poor young girl has been murdered.
Isidore Beautrelet completed his journey to Dieppe without moving a limb. Bent in two, with his elbows on his knees and his hands plastered against his face, he sat thinking.
At Dieppe, he took a fly. At the door of Ambrumésy, he met the examining magistrate, who confirmed the horrible news.
“You know nothing more?” asked Beautrelet.
“Nothing. I have only just arrived.”
At that moment, the sergeant of gendarmes came up to M. Filleul and handed him a crumpled, torn and discolored piece of paper, which he had picked up not far from the place where the scarf was found. M. Filleul looked at it and gave it to Beautrelet, saying:
“I don’t suppose this will help us much in our investigations.”
Isidore turned the paper over and over. It was covered with figures, dots and signs and presented the exact appearance reproduced below:
III
The Corpse
At six o’clock in the evening, having finished all he had to do, M. Filluel, accompanied by M. Brédoux, his clerk, stood waiting for the carriage which was to take him back to Dieppe. He seemed restless, nervous. Twice over, he asked:
“You haven’t seen anything of young Beautrelet, I suppose?”
“No, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, I can’t say I have.”
“Where on earth can he be? I haven’t set eyes on him all day!”
Suddenly, he had an idea, handed his portfolio to Brédoux, ran round the château and made for the ruins. Isidore Beautrelet was lying near the cloisters, flat on his face, with one arm folded under his head, on the ground carpeted with pine-needles. He seemed drowsing.
“Hullo, young man, what are you doing here? Are you asleep?”
“I’m not asleep. I’ve been thinking.”
“Ever since this morning?”
“Ever since this morning.”
“It’s not a question of thinking! One must see into things first, study facts, look for clues, establish connecting links. The time for thinking comes after, when one pieces all that together and discovers the truth.”
“Yes, I know.—That’s the usual way, the right one, I dare say.—Mine is different.—I think first, I try, above all, to get the general hang of the case, if I may so express myself. Then I imagine a reasonable and logical hypothesis, which fits in with the general idea. And then, and not before, I examine the facts to see if they agree with my hypothesis.”
“That’s a funny method and a terribly complicated one!”
“It’s a sure method, M. Filleul, which is more than can be said of yours.”
“Come, come! Facts are facts.”
“With your ordinary sort of adversary, yes. But, given an enemy endowed with a certain amount of cunning, the facts are those which he happens to have selected. Take the famous clues upon which you base your inquiry: why, he was at liberty to arrange them as he liked. And you see where that can lead you, into what mistakes and absurdities, when you are dealing with a man like Arsène Lupin. Holmlock Shears himself fell into the trap.”
“Arsène Lupin is dead.”
“No matter. His gang remains and the pupils of such a master are masters themselves.”
M. Filleul took Isidore by the arm and, leading him away:
“Words, young man, words. Here is something of more importance. Listen to me. Ganimard is otherwise engaged at this moment and will not be here for a few days. On the other hand, the Comte de Gesvres has telegraphed to Holmlock Shears, who has promised his assistance next week. Now don’t you think, young man, that it would be a feather in our cap if we were able to say to those two celebrities, on the day of their arrival, ‘Awfully sorry, gentlemen, but we couldn’t wait. The business is done’?”
It was impossible for M. Filleul to confess helplessness with greater candor. Beautrelet suppressed a smile and, pretending not to see through the worthy magistrate, replied:
“I confess. Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that, if I was not present at your inquiry just now, it was because I hoped that you would consent to tell me the results. May I ask what you
