ceive that the high altar is nothing more
than a cast. Now, generally, the staircase leading to the crypt opens
in front of the high altar and passes under it."

"What do you conclude?"

"I conclude that Lupin discovered the crypt when working at the altar."

The count sent for a pickaxe and Beautrelet attacked the altar. The
plaster flew to right and left. He pushed the pieces aside as he went
on.

"By Jove!" muttered M. Filleul, "I am eager to know--"

"So am I," said Beautrelet, whose face was pale with anguish.

He hurried his blows. And, suddenly, his pickaxe, which, until then,
had encountered no resistance, struck against a harder material and
rebounded. There was a sound of something falling in; and all that
remained of the altar went tumbling into the gap after the block of
stone which had been struck by the pickaxe. Beautrelet bent forward. A
puff of cold air rose to his face. He lit a match and moved it from
side to side over the gap:

"The staircase begins farther forward than I expected, under the
entrance-flags, almost. I can see the last steps, there, right at the
bottom."

"Is it deep?"

"Three or four yards. The steps are very high--and there are some
missing."

"It is hardly likely," said M. Filleul, "that the accomplices can have
had time to remove the body from the cellar, when they were engaged in
carrying off Mlle. de Saint-Veran--during the short absence of the
gendarmes. Besides, why should they?--No, in my opinion, the body is
here."

A servant brought them a ladder. Beautrelet let it down through the
opening and fixed it, after groping among the fallen fragments. Holding
the two uprights firmly:

"Will you go down, M. Filleul?" he asked.

The magistrate, holding a candle in his hand, ventured down the ladder.
The Comte de Gesvres followed him and Beautrelet, in his turn, placed
his foot on the first rung.

Mechanically, he counted eighteen rungs, while his eyes examined the
crypt, where the glimmer of the candle struggled against the heavy
darkness. But, at the bottom, his nostrils were assailed by one of
those foul and violent smells which linger in the memory for many a
long day. And, suddenly, a trembling hand seized him by the shoulder.

"Well, what is it?"

"B-beautrelet," stammered M. Filleul. "B-beau-trelet--"

He could not get a word out for terror.

"Come, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction, compose yourself!"

"Beautrelet--he is there--"

"Eh?"

"Yes--there w