widower many years ago and who
led a very retired life with his daughter, Gabrielle de Villemon. This
lady had just suffered a cruel blow through the loss of her husband and
her eldest son, both of whom had died as the result of a motor-car
accident.

"Monsieur le baron begs the gentlemen to be good enough to come
upstairs."

The servant led the way to the first floor, to a large, bare-walled
room, very simply furnished with desks, pigeon-holes and tables covered
with papers and account-books.

The baron received them very affably and with the volubility often
displayed by people who live too much alone. They had great difficulty
in explaining the object of their visit.

"Oh, yes, I know, you wrote to me about it, M. Massiban. It has
something to do with a book about a needle, hasn't it, a book which is
supposed to have come down to me from my ancestors?"

"Just so."

"I may as well tell you that my ancestors and I have fallen out. They
had funny ideas in those days. I belong to my own time. I have broken
with the past."

"Yes," said Beautrelet, impatiently, "but have you no recollection of
having seen the book?--"

"Certainly, I said so in my telegram," he exclaimed, addressing M.
Massiban, who, in his annoyance, was walking up and down the room and
looking out of the tall windows. "Certainly--or, at least, my daughter
thought she had seen the title among the thousands of books that lumber
up the library, upstairs--for I don't care about reading myself--I
don't even read the papers. My daughter does, sometimes, but only when
there is nothing the matter with Georges, her remaining son! As for me,
as long as my tenants pay their rents and my leases are kept up--! You
see my account-books: I live in them, gentlemen; and I confess that I
know absolutely nothing whatever about that story of which you wrote to
me in your letter, M. Massiban--"

Isidore Beautrelet, nerve-shattered at all this talk, interrupted him
bluntly:

"I beg your pardon, monsieur, but the book--"

"My daughter has looked for it. She looked for it all day yesterday."

"Well?"

"Well, she found it; she found it a few hours ago. When you arrived--"

"And where is it?"

"Where is it? Why, she put it on that table--there it is--over there--"

Isidore gave a bound. At one end of the table, on a muddled heap of
papers, lay a little book bound in red morocco. He banged his fist down
upon it, as though he were forbidding anybody to touch it