“Louis Valméras, 34, Rue du Mont-Thabor.”
Beautrelet took the train for Paris at the nearest station. On the next day but one, after three fruitless calls, he at last found Louis Valméras at home. He was a man of about thirty, with a frank and pleasing face. Beautrelet saw no need to beat about the bush, stated who he was and described his efforts and the object of the step which he was now taking:
“I have good reason to believe,” he concluded, “that my father is imprisoned in the Château de l’Aiguille, doubtless in the company of other victims. And I have come to ask you what you know of your tenant, Baron Anfredi.”
“Not much. I met Baron Anfredi last winter at Monte Carlo. He had heard by accident that I was the owner of the Château de l’Aiguille and, as he wished to spend the summer in France, he made me an offer for it.”
“He is still a young man—”
“Yes, with very expressive eyes, fair hair—”
“And a beard?”
“Yes, ending in two points, which fall over a collar fastened at the back, like a clergyman’s. In fact, he looks a little like an English parson.”
“It’s he,” murmured Beautrelet, “it’s he, as I have seen him: it’s his exact description.”
“What! Do you think—?”