He did not open his eyes, but tried to think where he could be and to imagine what had happened.  It was not conceivable that his enemy would let him escape, this delay was merely preliminary to something else and—­he was certainly a prisoner—­somewhere.

Reasoning thus he caught a sound as of rustling paper, then a faint scratching.  With eyes still shut, he turned his face toward the scratching sound, then away from it, then toward it, then away from it.  Now he sniffed the air about him, now he rubbed a finger on the floor and smelled it, now he lay quiet and listened.  He had found a fascinating problem, and for a long time he studied it without moving and without opening his eyes.

Finally he spoke aloud in playful reproach:  “It’s a pity, baron, to write in that wonderful diary of yours with a lead pencil.”

Instantly there came the scraping of a chair and quick approaching steps.

“How did you see me?” asked a harsh voice.

Coquenil smiled toward a faint light, but kept his eyes closed.  “I didn’t, I haven’t seen you yet.”

“But you knew I was writing in my diary?”

“Because you were so absorbed that you did not hear me stir.”

“Humph!  And the lead pencil?”

“I heard you sharpen it.  That was just before you stopped to eat the orange.”

The light came nearer.  M. Paul felt that the baron was bending over him.

“What’s the matter?  Your eyes are shut.”

“It amuses me to keep them shut.  Do you mind?”

“Singular man!” mattered the other.  “What makes you think I ate an orange?”

[Illustration:  “‘What’s the matter?  Your eyes are shut.’”]

“I got the smell of it when you tore the peel off and I heard the seeds drop.”

The baron’s voice showed growing interest.  “Where do you think you are?”

“In a deep underground room where you store firewood.”

“Extraordinary!”

“Not at all.  The floor is covered with chips of it and this bag is full of shavings.”

“How do you know we are underground?”

“By the smell of the floor and because you need a candle when it’s full daylight above.”

“Then you know what time it is?” asked the other incredulously.

“Why—­er—­I can tell by looking.”  He opened his eyes.  “Ah, it’s earlier than I thought, it’s barely seven.”

“How the devil do you know that?”

Coquenil did not answer for a moment.  He was looking about him wonderingly, noting the damp stone walls and high vaulted ceiling of a large windowless chamber.  By the uncertain light of the baron’s candle he made out an arched passageway at one side and around the walls piles of logs carefully roped and stacked together.

“Your candle hasn’t burned more than an hour,” answered the detective.

“It might be a second candle.”

M. Paul shook his head.  “Then you wouldn’t have been eating your breakfast orange.  And you wouldn’t have been waiting so patiently.”