efforts had led to the smallest
discovery.

More days still passed by, monotonous days of discouragement. He read
in the newspapers that the Comte de Gesvres and his daughter had left
Ambrumesy and gone to stay near Nice. He also learnt that Harlington
had been released, that gentleman's innocence having become
self-obvious, in accordance with the indications supplied by Arsene
Lupin.

Isidore changed his head-quarters, established himself for two days at
the Chatre, for two days at Argenton. The result was the same.

Just then, he was nearly throwing up the game. Evidently, the gig in
which his father had been carried off could only have furnished a
stage, which had been followed by another stage, furnished by some
other conveyance. And his father was far away.

He was thinking of leaving, when, one Monday morning, he saw, on the
envelope of an unstamped letter, sent on to him from Paris, a
handwriting that set him trembling with emotion. So great was his
excitement that, for some minutes, he dared not open the letter, for
fear of a disappointment. His hand shook. Was it possible? Was this not
a trap laid for him by his infernal enemy?

He tore open the envelope. It was indeed a letter from his father,
written by his father himself. The handwriting presented all the
peculiarities, all the oddities of the hand which he knew so well.

He read:

* * * * *

Will these lines ever reach you, my dear son? I dare not believe it.

During the whole night of my abduction, we traveled by motor car; then,
in the morning, by carriage. I could see nothing. My eyes were
bandaged. The castle in which I am confined should be somewhere in the
midlands, to judge by its construction and the vegetation in the park.
The room which I occupy is on the second floor: it is a room with two
windows, one of which is almost blocked by a screen of climbing
glycines. In the afternoon, I am allowed to walk about the park, at
certain hours, but I am kept under unrelaxing observation.

I am writing this letter, on the mere chance of its reaching you, and
fastening it to a stone. Perhaps, one day, I shall be able to throw it
over the wall and some peasant will pick it up.

But do not be distressed about me. I am treated with every
consideration.

Your old father, who is very fond of you and very sad to think of the
trouble he is giving you,

BEAUTRELET.

* * * * *

Isidor