was waiting for him, accompanied
by his daughter Charlotte, an imp of twelve or thirteen.

"Well?" cried Isidore.

The worthy man beginning to moan and groan, he interrupted him, dragged
him to a neighboring tavern, ordered coffee and began to put plain
questions, without permitting the other the slightest digression:

"My father has not been carried off, has he? It was impossible."

"Impossible. Still, he has disappeared."

"Since when?"

"We don't know."

"What!"

"No. Yesterday morning, at six o'clock, as I had not seen him come down
as usual, I opened his door. He was gone."

"But was he there on the day before, two days ago?"

"Yes. On the day before yesterday, he did not leave his room. He was a
little tired; and Charlotte took his lunch up to him at twelve and his
dinner at seven in the evening."

"So it was between seven o'clock in the evening, on the day before
yesterday, and six o'clock on yesterday morning that he disappeared?"

"Yes, during the night before last. Only--"

"Only what?"

"Well, it's like this: you can't leave the arsenal at night."

"Do you mean that he has not left it?"

"That's impossible! My friends and I have searched the whole naval
harbor."

"Then he has left it!"

"Impossible, every outlet is guarded!"

Beautrelet reflected and then said:

"What next?"

"Next, I hurried to the commandant's and informed the officer in
charge."

"Did he come to your house?"

"Yes; and a gentleman from the public prosecutor's also. They searched
all through the morning; and, when I saw that they were making no
progress and that there was no hope left, I telegraphed to you."

"Was the bed disarranged in his room?"

"No."

"Nor the room disturbed in any way?"

"No. I found his pipe in its usual place, with his tobacco and the book
which he was reading. There was even this little photograph of yourself
in the middle of the book, marking the page."

"Let me see it."

Froberval passed him the photograph. Beautrelet gave a start of
surprise. He had recognized himself in the snapshot, standing, with his
two hands in his pockets, on a lawn from which rose trees and ruins.

Froberval added:

"It must be the last portrait of yourself which you sent him. Look, on
the back, you will see the date, 3 April, the name of the photographer,
R. de Val, and the name of the town, Lion--Lion-sur-Mer, perhaps."

Isidore turned the photograph over and read this little note, in his
own