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However, apart from the identity which he could not
manage to catch, Boulatruelle put things together and made
calculations. This man did not belong in the country-side.
He had just arrived there. On foot, evidently. No public con-
veyance passes through Montfermeil at that hour. He had
walked all night. Whence came he? Not from a very great
distance; for he had neither haversack, nor bundle. From
Paris, no doubt. Why was he in these woods? why was he
there at such an hour? what had he come there for?
Boulatruelle thought of the treasure. By dint of ran-
sacking his memory, he recalled in a vague way that he had
already, many years before, had a similar alarm in connec-
tion with a man who produced on him the effect that he
might well be this very individual.
‘By the deuce,’ said Boulatruelle, ‘I’ll find him again.
I’ll discover the parish of that parishioner. This prowler of
Patron-Minette has a reason, and I’ll know it. People can’t
have secrets in my forest if I don’t have a finger in the pie.’
He took his pick-axe which was very sharply pointed.
‘There now,’ he grumbled, ‘is something that will search
the earth and a man.’
And, as one knots one thread to another thread, he took
up the line of march at his best pace in the direction which
the man must follow, and set out across the thickets.
When he had compassed a hundred strides, the day,
which was already beginning to break, came to his assis-
tance. Footprints stamped in the sand, weeds trodden
down here and there, heather crushed, young branches in
the brushwood bent and in the act of straightening them-