e at once looked at the postmarks. They read, "Cuzion, Indre."

The Indre! The department which he had been stubbornly searching for
weeks!

He consulted a little pocket-guide which he always carried. Cuzion, in
the canton of Eguzon--he had been there too.

For prudence's sake, he discarded his personality as an Englishman,
which was becoming too well known in the district, disguised himself as
a workman and made for Cuzion. It was an unimportant village. He would
easily discover the sender of the letter.

For that matter, chance served him without delay:

"A letter posted on Wednesday last?" exclaimed the mayor, a respectable
tradesman in whom he confided and who placed himself at his disposal.
"Listen, I think I can give you a valuable clue: on Saturday morning,
Gaffer Charel, an old knife-grinder who visits all the fairs in the
department, met me at the end of the village and asked, 'Monsieur le
maire, does a letter without a stamp on it go all the same?' 'Of
course,' said I. 'And does it get there?' 'Certainly. Only there's
double postage to pay on it, that's all the difference.'"

"And where does he live?"

"He lives over there, all alone--on the slope--the hovel that comes
next after the churchyard.--Shall I go with you?"

It was a hovel standing by itself, in the middle of an orchard
surrounded by tall trees. As they entered the orchard, three magpies
flew away with a great splutter and they saw that the birds were flying
out of the very hole in which the watch-dog was fastened. And the dog
neither barked nor stirred as they approached.

Beautrelet went up in great surprise. The brute was lying on its side,
with stiff paws, dead.

They ran quickly to the cottage. The door stood open. They entered. At
the back of a low, damp room, on a wretched straw mattress, flung on
the floor itself, lay a man fully dressed.

"Gaffer Charel!" cried the mayor. "Is he dead, too?"

The old man's hands were cold, his face terribly pale, but his heart
was still beating, with a faint, slow throb, and he seemed not to be
wounded in any way.

They tried to resuscitate him and, as they failed in their efforts,
Beautrelet went to fetch a doctor. The doctor succeeded no better than
they had done. The old man did not seem to be suffering. He looked as
if he were just asleep, but with an artificial slumber, as though he
had been put to sleep by hypnotism or with the aid of a narcotic.

In the middle of the night that follow