The man was becoming conscious. What was I to do? I was unable to save him or condemn him. So I took his revolver and fired a shot in the air.

“My two acolytes will come and attend to his case,” I said to myself, as I hastened away by the road through the ravine. Twenty minutes later, I was seated in my automobile.

At four o’clock, I telegraphed to my friends at Rouen that an unexpected event would prevent me from making my promised visit. Between ourselves, considering what my friends must now know, my visit is postponed indefinitely. A cruel disillusion for them!

At six o’clock I was in Paris. The evening newspapers informed me that Pierre Onfrey had been captured at last.

Next day⁠—let us not despise the advantages of judicious advertising⁠—the Echo de France published this sensational item: