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By the time that they had mastered the flames, it was two o’clock in the morning. All pursuit would have been vain.
    “We’ll look into it by daylight,” said the sergeant. “They are sure to have left traces: we shall find them.”
    “And I shall not be sorry,” added M. de Gesvres, “to learn the reason of this attack. To set fire to trusses of straw strikes me as a very useless proceeding.”
    “Come with me, Monsieur le Comte: I may be able to tell you the reason.”
    Together they reached the ruins of the cloisters. The sergeant called out:
    “Lecanu!—Fossier!”
    The other gendarmes were already hunting for their comrades whom they had left standing sentry. They ended by finding them at a few paces from the little door. The two men were lying full length on the ground, bound and gagged, with bandages over their eyes.
    “Monsieur le Comte,” muttered the sergeant, while his men were being released; “Monsieur le Comte, we have been tricked like children.”
    “How so?”
    “The shots—the attack on the barn—the fire—all so much humbug to get us down there—a diversion. During that time they were tying up our two men and the business was done.”
    “What business?”
    “Carrying off the wounded man, of course!”
    “You don’t mean to say you think—?”
    “Think? Why, it’s as plain as a pikestaff! The idea came to me ten minutes ago—but I’m a fool not to have thought of it earlier. We should have nabbed them all.” Quevillon stamped his foot on the ground, with a sudden attack of rage. “But where, confound it, where did they go through? Which way did they carry him off? For, dash it all, we beat the ground all day; and a man can’t hide in a tuft of grass, especially when he’s wounded! It’s witchcraft, that’s what it is!—”
    Nor was this the last surprise awaiting Sergeant Quevillon. At dawn, when they entered the oratory which had been used as a cell for young Isidore Beautrelet, they realized that young Isidore Beautrelet had vanished.
    On a chair slept the village policeman, bent in two. By his side stood a water-bottle and two tumblers. At the bottom of one of those tumblers a few grains of white powder.
    On examination, it was proved, first, that young Isidore Beautrelet had administered a sleeping draught to the village policeman; secondly, that he could only have escaped by a window situated at a height of seven or eight feet in the wall; and lastly—a charming detail, this—that he could only have reached this window by using the back of his warder as a footstool.

CHAPTER TWO
    ISIDORE BEAUTRELET, SIXTH-FORM SCHOOLBOY
    From the Grand Journal.
    LATEST NEWS
DOCTOR DELATTRE KIDNAPPED A MAD PIECE OF CRIMINAL DARING
    At the moment of going to press, we have received an item of news which we dare not guarantee as authentic, because of its very improbable character. We print it, therefore, with all reserve.
    Yesterday evening, Dr. Delattre, the well-known surgeon, was present, with his wife and daughter, at the performance of Hernani at the Comedie Francaise. At the commencement of the third act, that is to say, at about ten o’clock, the door of his box opened and a gentleman, accompanied by two others, leaned over to the doctor and said to him, in a low voice, but loud enough for Mme. Delattre to hear:
    “Doctor, I have a very painful task to fulfill and I shall be very grateful to you if you will make it as easy for me as you can.”
    “Who are you, sir?”
    “M. Thezard, commissary of police of the first district; and my instructions are to take you to M. Dudouis, at the prefecture.”
    “But—”
    “Not a word, doctor, I entreat you, not a movement—There is some regrettable mistake; and that is why we must act in silence and not attract anybody’s attention. You will be back, I have no doubt, before the end of the performance.”
    The doctor rose and went with the commissary. At the end of the performance, he had not returned. Mme. Delattre, greatly