“You will have to prove it, you will have to. In any case, the position is not what it was. Sergeant, one of your men will keep monsieur company.”
Isidore Beautrelet’s face denoted a keen vexation.
“Will it be for long?”
“Long enough to collect the necessary information.”
“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, I beseech you to collect it with all possible speed and discretion.”
“Why?”
“My father is an old man. We are very much attached to each other—and I would not have him suffer on my account.”
The more or less pathetic note in his voice made a bad impression on M. Filleul. It suggested a scene in a melodrama. Nevertheless, he promised:
“This evening—or to-morrow at latest, I shall know what to think.”
The afternoon was wearing on. The examining magistrate returned to the ruins of the cloisters, after giving orders that no unauthorized persons were to be admitted, and patiently, methodically, dividing the ground into lots which were successively explored, himself directed the search. But at the end of the day he was no farther than at the start; and he declared, before an army of reporters who, during that time, had invaded the château: