knew the safe road
which he was to take."

"Through whom did he know it?"

Philippe lowered his head and, with half-closed eyes, whispered:

"Through my father!"

"That's not true!" shouted old Morestal, purple with rage. "That's not
true! I prepare ... I!..."

"Here is the paper which I found in Private Baufeld's pocket," said
Philippe, handing a sheet of note-paper to Le Corbier. "It gives a sort
of plan of escape, the road which the fugitive is to follow, the exact
spot at which he is to cross the frontier so as to avoid the watchers."

"What are you saying? What are you daring to say? A correspondence
between me and that wretch!"

"The two words, 'Albern Path,' are in your hand-writing, father, and it
was through the Albern Path that the deserter entered France. The sheet
is a sheet of your own note-paper."

Morestal gave a bound:

"And you took it from the waste-paper basket, where it lay torn and
crumpled! You did a thing like that, you, my son! You had the infamy
..."

"Oh, father!"

"Then what? Answer!"

"Private Baufeld gave it me before his death."

Morestal was standing opposite Philippe, with his arms crossed over his
chest, and, so far from defending himself against his son's accusations,
seemed rather to be addressing a culprit.

And Philippe looked at him with eyes of anguish. At each blow that he
struck, at each sentence that he uttered, he detected the mark of a
wound on his father's face. A vein swelling on the old man's temples
distressed him beyond measure. He was terrified to see streaks of blood
mingle with the whites of his eyes. And he feared, at every moment, that
his father would fall like a tree which the axe has struck to the heart.

The under-secretary, after examining the sheet of paper which Philippe
had given him, resumed:

"In any case, M. Morestal, these lines were written by you?"

"Yes, monsieur le ministre. I have already stated what the man
Dourlowski tried to get out of me and the answer which I gave him."

"Was it the first time that the fellow made the attempt?..."

"The first time," said Morestal, after an imperceptible hesitation.

"Then this paper?... These lines?..."

"Those lines were written by me in the course of the conversation. Upon
reflection, I threw away the paper. I see now that Dourlowski must have
picked it up behind my back and used it in order to carry out his plan.
If the police had discovered it on the deserter, it would have been a