"Good," said M. Formery. "We are getting on."

M. Formery was silent. Guerchard and the Duke sat down and lighted
cigarettes.

"You found plenty of traces," said M. Formery, waving his hand
towards the window.

"Yes; I've found plenty of traces," said Guerchard.

"Of Lupin?" said M. Formery, with a faint sneer.

"No; not of Lupin," said Guerchard.

A smile of warm satisfaction illumined M. Formery's face:

"What did I tell you?" he said. "I'm glad that you've changed your
mind about that."

"I have hardly changed my mind," said Guerchard, in his husky,
gentle voice.

There came a loud knocking on the front door, the sound of excited
voices on the stairs. The door opened, and in burst M. Gournay-
Martin. He took one glance round the devastated room, raised his
clenched hands towards the ceiling, and bellowed, "The scoundrels!
the dirty scoundrels!" And his voice stuck in his throat. He
tottered across the room to a couch, dropped heavily to it, gazed
round the scene of desolation, and burst into tears.