m and
obscure, unknown and all the more alarming, inasmuch as it is invisible
and impalpable. A whole side of the history of France and of the royal
house is explained by the Needle, even as it explains the whole story
of Arsene Lupin. The same sources of energy and power supply and renew
the fortunes of kings and of the adventurer."

Beautrelet ferreted and snuffed from village to village, from the river
to the sea, with his nose in the wind, his ears pricked, trying to
compel the inanimate things to surrender their deep meaning. Ought this
hill-slope to be questioned? Or that forest? Or the houses of this
hamlet? Or was it among the insignificant phrases spoken by that
peasant yonder that he might hope to gather the one little illuminating
word?

One morning, he was lunching at an inn, within sight of Honfleur, the
old city of the estuary. Opposite him was sitting one of those heavy,
red-haired Norman horse-dealers who do the fairs of the district, whip
in hand and clad in a long smock-frock. After a moment, it seemed to
Beautrelet that the man was looking at him with a certain amount of
attention, as though he knew him or, at least, was trying to recognize
him.

"Pooh," he thought, "there's some mistake: I've never seen that
merchant before, nor he me."

As a matter of fact, the man appeared to take no further interest in
him. He lit his pipe, called for coffee and brandy, smoked and drank.

When Beautrelet had finished his meal, he paid and rose to go. A group
of men entered just as he was about to leave and he had to stand for a
few seconds near the table at which the horse-dealer sat. He then heard
the man say in a low voice:

"Good-afternoon, M. Beautrelet."

Without hesitation, Isidore sat down beside the man and said:

"Yes, that is my name--but who are you? How did you know me?"

"That's not difficult--and yet I've only seen your portrait in the
papers. But you are so badly--what do you call it in French--so badly
made-up."

He had a pronounced foreign accent and Beautrelet seemed to perceive,
as he looked at him, that he too wore a facial disguise that entirely
altered his features.

"Who are you?" he repeated. "Who are you?"

The stranger smiled:

"Don't you recognize me?"

"No, I never saw you before."

"Nor I you. But think. The papers print my portrait also--and pretty
often. Well, have you got it?"

"No."

"Holmlock Shears."

It was an amusing and, at the same time, a significan