It seemed to him that those five men were carrying fairly large loads. He followed them for a little way. They cut straight across the fields to the Havre road; and he heard the sound of a motor car driving away.
He retraced his steps, skirting a big farm. But, at the turn of the road that ran beside it, he had only just time to scramble up a slope and hide behind some trees. More men passed—four, five men—all carrying packages. And, two minutes later, another motor snorted.
This time, he had not the strength to return to his post; and he went back to bed.
When he woke and had finished dressing, the hotel waiter brought him a letter. He opened it. It contained Ganimard’s card.
“At last!” cried Beautrelet, who, after so hard a campaign, was really feeling the need of a comrade-in-arms.
He ran downstairs with outstretched hands. Ganimard took them, looked at him for a moment and said:
“You’re a fine fellow, my lad!”
“Pooh!” he said. “Luck has served me.”
“There’s no such thing as luck with ‘him,’” declared the inspector, who always spoke of Lupin in a solemn tone and without mentioning his name.
He sat down: