“What has taken place here?” asked Uncle Graff, in low tones.
“Look in the drawer, Uncle Graff,” said Marcel. “Try to find the formula I placed there before your eyes.”
“Well!”
“It is there no longer! It has been stolen! Look for the flagon containing the war powder, which was on the table. Disappeared!”
“Stolen? By whom?”
“Perhaps by the same person who set fire to the works? Whose blood is that on the floor? Uncle Graff, we have brought about our heads a terrible stream of enemies. Think of what has happened concerning the inventions of M. de Trémont. There has been a whole band of rascals at work for months, bent on stealing these secrets at whatever cost, and in face of the greatest difficulties! My father guessed this, for it was with the utmost trouble that I succeeded in obtaining his permission to continue this discovery. Baudoin knew it, for he asked my permission to keep watch in the laboratory. It was the excitement caused by the fire which forced him to quit his post; doubtless, had he stayed here, he, too, would have lost his life. But whose blood is this that has been shed?”
“Come, my child, do calm yourself,” said the old man, alarmed at the increasing agitation of his nephew. “Speak, Baudoin, tell us all you know.”
“Monsieur Graff, I know who has fallen here, and I know, too, whose hand struck the blow. The victim is a man devoted to our cause, who, from the very first, had scented the culprits. He could not help the robbery being committed, and, had he not been killed, he would certainly have arrested the thief.”
“And who is the man who struck him?”
“Ah! This is by no means the first attempt. He is a determined villain; all the troubles in the district have been caused by this man. It is he who started the conflagration. He who stabbed General de Trémont. It is the man of Vanves. In a word, it is Hans!”