[illustration: "_suddenly he rushed at her and caught her by the arm_"] the international adventure library three owls edition the confessions of arsÈne lupin an adventure story by maurice leblanc author of "arsène lupin" w. r. caldwell & co. new york _copyright, , , by_ maurice leblanc _all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian_ contents chapter page i. two hundred thousand francs reward! ii. the wedding-ring iii. the sign of the shadow iv. the infernal trap v. the red silk scarf vi. shadowed by death vii. a tragedy in the forest of morgues viii. lupin's marriage ix. the invisible prisoner x. edith swan-neck the confessions of arsÈne lupin the confessions of arsÈne lupin i two hundred thousand francs reward!... "lupin," i said, "tell me something about yourself." "why, what would you have me tell you? everybody knows my life!" replied lupin, who lay drowsing on the sofa in my study. "nobody knows it!" i protested. "people know from your letters in the newspapers that you were mixed up in this case, that you started that case. but the part which you played in it all, the plain facts of the story, the upshot of the mystery: these are things of which they know nothing." "pooh! a heap of uninteresting twaddle!" "what! your present of fifty thousand francs to nicolas dugrival's wife! do you call that uninteresting? and what about the way in which you solved the puzzle of the three pictures?" lupin laughed: "yes, that was a queer puzzle, certainly. i can suggest a title for you if you like: what do you say to _the sign of the shadow_?" "and your successes in society and with the fair sex?" i continued. "the dashing arsène's love-affairs!... and the clue to your good actions? those chapters in your life to which you have so often alluded under the names of _the wedding-ring_, _shadowed by death_, and so on!... why delay these confidences and confessions, my dear lupin?... come, do what i ask you!..." it was at the time when lupin, though already famous, had not yet fought his biggest battles; the time that preceded the great adventures of _the hollow needle_ and _ _. he had not yet dreamt of annexing the accumulated treasures of the french royal house[a] nor of changing the map of europe under the kaiser's nose[b]: he contented himself with milder surprises and humbler profits, making his daily effort, doing evil from day to day and doing a little good as well, naturally and for the love of the thing, like a whimsical and compassionate don quixote. [a] _the hollow needle._ by maurice leblanc. translated by alexander teixeira de mattos (eveleigh nash). [b] _ ._ by maurice leblanc. translated by alexander teixeira de mattos (mills & boon). he was silent; and i insisted: "lupin, i wish you would!" to my astonishment, he replied: "take a sheet of paper, old fellow, and a pencil." i obeyed with alacrity, delighted at the thought that he at last meant to dictate to me some of those pages which he knows how to clothe with such vigour and fancy, pages which i, unfortunately, am obliged to spoil with tedious explanations and boring developments. "are you ready?" he asked. "quite." "write down, , , , , , ." "what?" "write it down, i tell you." he was now sitting up, with his eyes turned to the open window and his fingers rolling a turkish cigarette. he continued: "write down, , , , ...." he stopped. then he went on: " , , , ..." and, after a pause: " , , ..." was he mad? i looked at him hard and, presently, i saw that his eyes were no longer listless, as they had been a little before, but keen and attentive and that they seemed to be watching, somewhere, in space, a sight that apparently captivated them. meanwhile, he dictated, with intervals between each number: " , , , , ..." there was hardly anything to be seen through the window but a patch of blue sky on the right and the front of the building opposite, an old private house, whose shutters were closed as usual. there was nothing particular about all this, no detail that struck me as new among those which i had had before my eyes for years.... " , ...." and suddenly i understood ... or rather i thought i understood, for how could i admit that lupin, a man so essentially level-headed under his mask of frivolity, could waste his time upon such childish nonsense? what he was counting was the intermittent flashes of a ray of sunlight playing on the dingy front of the opposite house, at the height of the second floor! " , ..." said lupin. the flash disappeared for a few seconds and then struck the house again, successively, at regular intervals, and disappeared once more. i had instinctively counted the flashes and i said, aloud: " ...." "caught the idea? i congratulate you!" he replied, sarcastically. he went to the window and leant out, as though to discover the exact direction followed by the ray of light. then he came and lay on the sofa again, saying: "it's your turn now. count away!" the fellow seemed so positive that i did as he told me. besides, i could not help confessing that there was something rather curious about the ordered frequency of those gleams on the front of the house opposite, those appearances and disappearances, turn and turn about, like so many flash signals. they obviously came from a house on our side of the street, for the sun was entering my windows slantwise. it was as though some one were alternately opening and shutting a casement, or, more likely, amusing himself by making sunlight flashes with a pocket-mirror. "it's a child having a game!" i cried, after a moment or two, feeling a little irritated by the trivial occupation that had been thrust upon me. "never mind, go on!" and i counted away.... and i put down rows of figures.... and the sun continued to play in front of me, with mathematical precision. "well?" said lupin, after a longer pause than usual. "why, it seems finished.... there has been nothing for some minutes...." we waited and, as no more light flashed through space, i said, jestingly: "my idea is that we have been wasting our time. a few figures on paper: a poor result!" lupin, without stirring from his sofa, rejoined: "oblige me, old chap, by putting in the place of each of those numbers the corresponding letter of the alphabet. count a as , b as and so on. do you follow me?" "but it's idiotic!" "absolutely idiotic, but we do such a lot of idiotic things in this life.... one more or less, you know!..." i sat down to this silly work and wrote out the first letters: "_take no...._" i broke off in surprise: "words!" i exclaimed. "two english words meaning...." "go on, old chap." and i went on and the next letters formed two more words, which i separated as they appeared. and, to my great amazement, a complete english sentence lay before my eyes. "done?" asked lupin, after a time. "done!... by the way, there are mistakes in the spelling...." "never mind those and read it out, please.... read slowly." thereupon i read out the following unfinished communication, which i will set down as it appeared on the paper in front of me: "_take no unnecessery risks. above all, avoid atacks, approach ennemy with great prudance and...._" i began to laugh: "and there you are! _fiat lux!_ we're simply dazed with light! but, after all, lupin, confess that this advice, dribbled out by a kitchen-maid, doesn't help you much!" lupin rose, without breaking his contemptuous silence, and took the sheet of paper. i remembered soon after that, at this moment, i happened to look at the clock. it was eighteen minutes past five. lupin was standing with the paper in his hand; and i was able at my ease to watch, on his youthful features, that extraordinary mobility of expression which baffles all observers and constitutes his great strength and his chief safeguard. by what signs can one hope to identify a face which changes at pleasure, even without the help of make-up, and whose every transient expression seems to be the final, definite expression?... by what signs? there was one which i knew well, an invariable sign: two little crossed wrinkles that marked his forehead whenever he made a powerful effort of concentration. and i saw it at that moment, saw the tiny tell-tale cross, plainly and deeply scored. he put down the sheet of paper and muttered: "child's play!" the clock struck half-past five. "what!" i cried. "have you succeeded?... in twelve minutes?..." he took a few steps up and down the room, lit a cigarette and said: "you might ring up baron repstein, if you don't mind, and tell him i shall be with him at ten o'clock this evening." "baron repstein?" i asked. "the husband of the famous baroness?" "yes." "are you serious?" "quite serious." feeling absolutely at a loss, but incapable of resisting him, i opened the telephone-directory and unhooked the receiver. but, at that moment, lupin stopped me with a peremptory gesture and said, with his eyes on the paper, which he had taken up again: "no, don't say anything.... it's no use letting him know.... there's something more urgent ... a queer thing that puzzles me.... why on earth wasn't the last sentence finished? why is the sentence...." he snatched up his hat and stick: "let's be off. if i'm not mistaken, this is a business that requires immediate solution; and i don't believe i _am_ mistaken." he put his arm through mine, as we went down the stairs, and said: "i know what everybody knows. baron repstein, the company-promoter and racing-man, whose colt etna won the derby and the grand prix this year, has been victimized by his wife. the wife, who was well known for her fair hair, her dress and her extravagance, ran away a fortnight ago, taking with her a sum of three million francs, stolen from her husband, and quite a collection of diamonds, pearls and jewellery which the princesse de berny had placed in her hands and which she was supposed to buy. for two weeks the police have been pursuing the baroness across france and the continent: an easy job, as she scatters gold and jewels wherever she goes. they think they have her every moment. two days ago, our champion detective, the egregious ganimard, arrested a visitor at a big hotel in belgium, a woman against whom the most positive evidence seemed to be heaped up. on enquiry, the lady turned out to be a notorious chorus-girl called nelly darbal. as for the baroness, she has vanished. the baron, on his side, has offered a reward of two hundred thousand francs to whosoever finds his wife. the money is in the hands of a solicitor. moreover, he has sold his racing-stud, his house on the boulevard haussmann and his country-seat of roquencourt in one lump, so that he may indemnify the princesse de berny for her loss." "and the proceeds of the sale," i added, "are to be paid over at once. the papers say that the princess will have her money to-morrow. only, frankly, i fail to see the connection between this story, which you have told very well, and the puzzling sentence...." lupin did not condescend to reply. we had been walking down the street in which i live and had passed some four or five houses, when he stepped off the pavement and began to examine a block of flats, not of the latest construction, which looked as if it contained a large number of tenants: "according to my calculations," he said, "this is where the signals came from, probably from that open window." "on the third floor?" "yes." he went to the portress and asked her: "does one of your tenants happen to be acquainted with baron repstein?" "why, of course!" replied the woman. "we have m. lavernoux here, such a nice gentleman; he is the baron's secretary and agent. i look after his flat." "and can we see him?" "see him?... the poor gentleman is very ill." "ill?" "he's been ill a fortnight ... ever since the trouble with the baroness.... he came home the next day with a temperature and took to his bed." "but he gets up, surely?" "ah, that i can't say!" "how do you mean, you can't say?" "no, his doctor won't let any one into his room. he took my key from me." "who did?" "the doctor. he comes and sees to his wants, two or three times a day. he left the house only twenty minutes ago ... an old gentleman with a grey beard and spectacles.... walks quite bent.... but where are you going sir?" "i'm going up, show me the way," said lupin, with his foot on the stairs. "it's the third floor, isn't it, on the left?" "but i mustn't!" moaned the portress, running after him. "besides, i haven't the key ... the doctor...." they climbed the three flights, one behind the other. on the landing, lupin took a tool from his pocket and, disregarding the woman's protests, inserted it in the lock. the door yielded almost immediately. we went in. at the back of a small dark room we saw a streak of light filtering through a door that had been left ajar. lupin ran across the room and, on reaching the threshold, gave a cry: "too late! oh, hang it all!" the portress fell on her knees, as though fainting. i entered the bedroom, in my turn, and saw a man lying half-dressed on the carpet, with his legs drawn up under him, his arms contorted and his face quite white, an emaciated, fleshless face, with the eyes still staring in terror and the mouth twisted into a hideous grin. "he's dead," said lupin, after a rapid examination. "but why?" i exclaimed. "there's not a trace of blood!" "yes, yes, there is," replied lupin, pointing to two or three drops that showed on the chest, through the open shirt. "look, they must have taken him by the throat with one hand and pricked him to the heart with the other. i say, 'pricked,' because really the wound can't be seen. it suggests a hole made by a very long needle." [illustration: "_lupin took a tool from his pocket ... and inserted it in the lock_"] he looked on the floor, all round the corpse. there was nothing to attract his attention, except a little pocket-mirror, the little mirror with which m. lavernoux had amused himself by making the sunbeams dance through space. but, suddenly, as the portress was breaking into lamentations and calling for help, lupin flung himself on her and shook her: "stop that!... listen to me ... you can call out later.... listen to me and answer me. it is most important. m. lavernoux had a friend living in this street, had he not? on the same side, to the right? an intimate friend?" "yes." "a friend whom he used to meet at the café in the evening and with whom he exchanged the illustrated papers?" "yes." "was the friend an englishman?" "yes." "what's his name?" "mr. hargrove." "where does he live?" "at no. in this street." "one word more: had that old doctor been attending him long?" "no. i did not know him. he came on the evening when m. lavernoux was taken ill." without another word, lupin dragged me away once more, ran down the stairs and, once in the street, turned to the right, which took us past my flat again. four doors further, he stopped at no. , a small, low-storied house, of which the ground-floor was occupied by the proprietor of a dram-shop, who stood smoking in his doorway, next to the entrance-passage. lupin asked if mr. hargrove was at home. "mr. hargrove went out about half-an-hour ago," said the publican. "he seemed very much excited and took a taxi-cab, a thing he doesn't often do." "and you don't know...." "where he was going? well, there's no secret about it he shouted it loud enough! 'prefecture of police' is what he said to the driver...." lupin was himself just hailing a taxi, when he changed his mind; and i heard him mutter: "what's the good? he's got too much start of us...." he asked if any one called after mr. hargrove had gone. "yes, an old gentleman with a grey beard and spectacles. he went up to mr. hargrove's, rang the bell, and went away again." "i am much obliged," said lupin, touching his hat. he walked away slowly without speaking to me, wearing a thoughtful air. there was no doubt that the problem struck him as very difficult, and that he saw none too clearly in the darkness through which he seemed to be moving with such certainty. he himself, for that matter, confessed to me: "these are cases that require much more intuition than reflection. but this one, i may tell you, is well worth taking pains about." we had now reached the boulevards. lupin entered a public reading-room and spent a long time consulting the last fortnight's newspapers. now and again, he mumbled: "yes ... yes ... of course ... it's only a guess, but it explains everything.... well, a guess that answers every question is not far from being the truth...." it was now dark. we dined at a little restaurant and i noticed that lupin's face became gradually more animated. his gestures were more decided. he recovered his spirits, his liveliness. when we left, during the walk which he made me take along the boulevard haussmann, towards baron repstein's house, he was the real lupin of the great occasions, the lupin who had made up his mind to go in and win. we slackened our pace just short of the rue de courcelles. baron repstein lived on the left-hand side, between this street and the faubourg saint-honoré, in a three-storied private house of which we could see the front, decorated with columns and caryatides. "stop!" said lupin, suddenly. "what is it?" "another proof to confirm my supposition...." "what proof? i see nothing." "i do.... that's enough...." he turned up the collar of his coat, lowered the brim of his soft hat and said: "by jove, it'll be a stiff fight! go to bed, my friend. i'll tell you about my expedition to-morrow ... if it doesn't cost me my life." "what are you talking about?" "oh, i know what i'm saying! i'm risking a lot. first of all, getting arrested, which isn't much. next, getting killed, which is worse. but...." he gripped my shoulder. "but there's a third thing i'm risking, which is getting hold of two millions.... and, once i possess a capital of two millions, i'll show people what i can do! good-night, old chap, and, if you never see me again...." he spouted musset's lines: "plant a willow by my grave, the weeping willow that i love...." i walked away. three minutes later--i am continuing the narrative as he told it to me next day--three minutes later, lupin rang at the door of the hôtel repstein. * * * * * "is monsieur le baron at home?" "yes," replied the butler, examining the intruder with an air of surprise, "but monsieur le baron does not see people as late as this." "does monsieur le baron know of the murder of m. lavernoux, his land-agent?" "certainly." "well, please tell monsieur le baron that i have come about the murder and that there is not a moment to lose." a voice called from above: "show the gentleman up, antoine." in obedience to this peremptory order, the butler led the way to the first floor. in an open doorway stood a gentleman whom lupin recognized from his photograph in the papers as baron repstein, husband of the famous baroness and owner of etna, the horse of the year. he was an exceedingly tall, square-shouldered man. his clean-shaven face wore a pleasant, almost smiling expression, which was not affected by the sadness of his eyes. he was dressed in a well-cut morning-coat, with a tan waistcoat and a dark tie fastened with a pearl pin, the value of which struck lupin as considerable. he took lupin into his study, a large, three-windowed room, lined with book-cases, sets of pigeonholes, an american desk and a safe. and he at once asked, with ill-concealed eagerness: "do you know anything?" "yes, monsieur le baron." "about the murder of that poor lavernoux?" "yes, monsieur le baron, and about madame le baronne also." "do you really mean it? quick, i entreat you...." he pushed forward a chair. lupin sat down and began: "monsieur le baron, the circumstances are very serious. i will be brief." "yes, do, please." "well, monsieur le baron, in a few words, it amounts to this: five or six hours ago, lavernoux, who, for the last fortnight, had been kept in a sort of enforced confinement by his doctor, lavernoux--how shall i put it?--telegraphed certain revelations by means of signals which were partly taken down by me and which put me on the track of this case. he himself was surprised in the act of making this communication and was murdered." "but by whom? by whom?" "by his doctor." "who is this doctor?" "i don't know. but one of m. lavernoux's friends, an englishman called hargrove, the friend, in fact, with whom he was communicating, is bound to know and is also bound to know the exact and complete meaning of the communication, because, without waiting for the end, he jumped into a motor-cab and drove to the prefecture of police." "why? why?... and what is the result of that step?" "the result, monsieur le baron, is that your house is surrounded. there are twelve detectives under your windows. the moment the sun rises, they will enter in the name of the law and arrest the criminal." "then is lavernoux's murderer concealed in my house? who is he? one of the servants? but no, for you were speaking of a doctor!..." "i would remark, monsieur le baron, that when this mr. hargrove went to the police to tell them of the revelations made by his friend lavernoux, he was not aware that his friend lavernoux was going to be murdered. the step taken by mr hargrove had to do with something else...." "with what?" "with the disappearance of madame la baronne, of which he knew the secret, thanks to the communication made by lavernoux." "what! they know at last! they have found the baroness! where is she? and the jewels? and the money she robbed me of?" baron repstein was talking in a great state of excitement. he rose and, almost shouting at lupin, cried: "finish your story, sir! i can't endure this suspense!" lupin continued, in a slow and hesitating voice: "the fact is ... you see ... it is rather difficult to explain ... for you and i are looking at the thing from a totally different point of view." "i don't understand." "and yet you ought to understand, monsieur le baron.... we begin by saying--i am quoting the newspapers--by saying, do we not, that baroness repstein knew all the secrets of your business and that she was able to open not only that safe over there, but also the one at the crédit lyonnais in which you kept your securities locked up?" "yes." "well, one evening, a fortnight ago, while you were at your club, baroness repstein, who, unknown to yourself, had converted all those securities into cash, left this house with a travelling-bag, containing your money and all the princesse de berny's jewels?" "yes." "and, since then, she has not been seen?" "no." "well, there is an excellent reason why she has not been seen." "what reason?" "this, that baroness repstein has been murdered...." "murdered!... the baroness!... but you're mad!" "murdered ... and probably that same evening." "i tell you again, you are mad! how can the baroness have been murdered, when the police are following her tracks, so to speak, step by step?" "they are following the tracks of another woman." "what woman?" "the murderer's accomplice." "and who is the murderer?" "the same man who, for the last fortnight, knowing that lavernoux, through the situation which he occupied in this house, had discovered the truth, kept him imprisoned, forced him to silence, threatened him, terrorized him; the same man who, finding lavernoux in the act of communicating with a friend, made away with him in cold blood by stabbing him to the heart." "the doctor, therefore?" "yes." "but who is this doctor? who is this malevolent genius, this infernal being who appears and disappears, who slays in the dark and whom nobody suspects?" "can't you guess?" "no." "and do you want to know?" "do i want to know?... why, speak, man, speak!... you know where he is hiding?" "yes." "in this house?" "yes." "and it is he whom the police are after?" "yes." "and i know him?" "yes." "who is it?" "you!" "i!..." lupin had not been more than ten minutes with the baron; and the duel was commencing. the accusation was hurled, definitely, violently, implacably. lupin repeated: "you yourself, got up in a false beard and a pair of spectacles, bent in two, like an old man. in short, you, baron repstein; and it is you for a very good reason, of which nobody has thought, which is that, if it was not you who contrived the whole plot, the case becomes inexplicable. whereas, taking you as the criminal, you as murdering the baroness in order to get rid of her and run through those millions with another woman, you as murdering lavernoux, your agent, in order to suppress an unimpeachable witness, oh, then the whole case is explained! well, is it pretty clear? and are not you yourself convinced?" the baron, who, throughout this conversation, had stood bending over his visitor, waiting for each of his words with feverish avidity, now drew himself up and looked at lupin as though he undoubtedly had to do with a madman. when lupin had finished speaking, the baron stepped back two or three paces, seemed on the point of uttering words which he ended by not saying, and then, without taking his eyes from his strange visitor, went to the fireplace and rang the bell. lupin did not make a movement. he waited smiling. the butler entered. his master said: "you can go to bed, antoine. i will let this gentleman out." "shall i put out the lights, sir?" "leave a light in the hall." antoine left the room and the baron, after taking a revolver from his desk, at once came back to lupin, put the weapon in his pocket and said, very calmly: "you must excuse this little precaution, sir. i am obliged to take it in case you should be mad, though that does not seem likely. no, you are not mad. but you have come here with an object which i fail to grasp; and you have sprung upon me an accusation of so astounding a character that i am curious to know the reason. i have experienced so much disappointment and undergone so much suffering that an outrage of this kind leaves me indifferent. continue, please." his voice shook with emotion and his sad eyes seemed moist with tears. lupin shuddered. had he made a mistake? was the surmise which his intuition had suggested to him and which was based upon a frail groundwork of slight facts, was this surmise wrong? his attention was caught by a detail: through the opening in the baron's waistcoat he saw the point of the pin fixed in the tie and was thus able to realize the unusual length of the pin. moreover, the gold stem was triangular and formed a sort of miniature dagger, very thin and very delicate, yet formidable in an expert hand. and lupin had no doubt but that the pin attached to that magnificent pearl was the weapon which had pierced the heart of the unfortunate m. lavernoux. he muttered: "you're jolly clever, monsieur le baron!" the other, maintaining a rather scornful gravity, kept silence, as though he did not understand and as though waiting for the explanation to which he felt himself entitled. and, in spite of everything, this impassive attitude worried arsène lupin. nevertheless, his conviction was so profound and, besides, he had staked so much on the adventure that he repeated: "yes, jolly clever, for it is evident that the baroness only obeyed your orders in realizing your securities and also in borrowing the princess's jewels on the pretence of buying them. and it is evident that the person who walked out of your house with a bag was not your wife, but an accomplice, that chorus-girl probably, and that it is your chorus-girl who is deliberately allowing herself to be chased across the continent by our worthy ganimard. and i look upon the trick as marvellous. what does the woman risk, seeing that it is the baroness who is being looked for? and how could they look for any other woman than the baroness, seeing that you have promised a reward of two hundred thousand francs to the person who finds the baroness?... oh, that two hundred thousand francs lodged with a solicitor: what a stroke of genius! it has dazzled the police! it has thrown dust in the eyes of the most clear-sighted! a gentleman who lodges two hundred thousand francs with a solicitor is a gentleman who speaks the truth.... so they go on hunting the baroness! and they leave you quietly to settle your affairs, to sell your stud and your two houses to the highest bidder and to prepare your flight! heavens, what a joke!" the baron did not wince. he walked up to lupin and asked, without abandoning his imperturbable coolness: "who are you?" lupin burst out laughing. "what can it matter who i am? take it that i am an emissary of fate, looming out of the darkness for your destruction!" he sprang from his chair, seized the baron by the shoulder and jerked out: "yes, for your destruction, my bold baron! listen to me! your wife's three millions, almost all the princess's jewels, the money you received to-day from the sale of your stud and your real estate: it's all there, in your pocket, or in that safe. your flight is prepared. look, i can see the leather of your portmanteau behind that hanging. the papers on your desk are in order. this very night, you would have done a guy. this very night, disguised beyond recognition, after taking all your precautions, you would have joined your chorus-girl, the creature for whose sake you have committed murder, that same nelly darbal, no doubt, whom ganimard arrested in belgium. but for one sudden, unforeseen obstacle: the police, the twelve detectives who, thanks to lavernoux's revelations, have been posted under your windows. they've cooked your goose, old chap!... well, i'll save you. a word through the telephone; and, by three or four o'clock in the morning, twenty of my friends will have removed the obstacle, polished off the twelve detectives, and you and i will slip away quietly. my conditions? almost nothing; a trifle to you: we share the millions and the jewels. is it a bargain?" he was leaning over the baron, thundering at him with irresistible energy. the baron whispered: "i'm beginning to understand. it's blackmail...." "blackmail or not, call it what you please, my boy, but you've got to go through with it and do as i say. and don't imagine that i shall give way at the last moment. don't say to yourself, 'here's a gentleman whom the fear of the police will cause to think twice. if i run a big risk in refusing, he also will be risking the handcuffs, the cells and the rest of it, seeing that we are both being hunted down like wild beasts.' that would be a mistake, monsieur le baron. i can always get out of it. it's a question of yourself, of yourself alone.... your money or your life, my lord! share and share alike ... if not, the scaffold! is it a bargain?" a quick movement. the baron released himself, grasped his revolver and fired. but lupin was prepared for the attack, the more so as the baron's face had lost its assurance and gradually, under the slow impulse of rage and fear, acquired an expression of almost bestial ferocity that heralded the rebellion so long kept under control. he fired twice. lupin first flung himself to one side and then dived at the baron's knees, seized him by both legs and brought him to the ground. the baron freed himself with an effort. the two enemies rolled over in each other's grip; and a stubborn, crafty, brutal, savage struggle followed. suddenly, lupin felt a pain at his chest: "you villain!" he yelled. "that's your lavernoux trick; the tie-pin!" stiffening his muscles with a desperate effort, he overpowered the baron and clutched him by the throat victorious at last and omnipotent. "you ass!" he cried. "if you hadn't shown your cards, i might have thrown up the game! you have such a look of the honest man about you! but what a biceps, my lord!... i thought for a moment.... but it's all over, now!... come, my friend, hand us the pin and look cheerful.... no, that's what i call pulling a face.... i'm holding you too tight, perhaps? my lord's at his last gasp?... come, be good!... that's it, just a wee bit of string round the wrists; do you allow me?... why, you and i are agreeing like two brothers! it's touching!... at heart, you know, i'm rather fond of you.... and now, my bonnie lad, mind yourself! and a thousand apologies!..." half raising himself, with all his strength he caught the other a terrible blow in the pit of the stomach. the baron gave a gurgle and lay stunned and unconscious. "that comes of having a deficient sense of logic, my friend," said lupin. "i offered you half your money. now i'll give you none at all ... provided i know where to find any of it. for that's the main thing. where has the beggar hidden his dust? in the safe? by george, it'll be a tough job! luckily, i have all the night before me...." he began to feel in the baron's pockets, came upon a bunch of keys, first made sure that the portmanteau behind the curtain held no papers or jewels, and then went to the safe. but, at that moment, he stopped short: he heard a noise somewhere. the servants? impossible. their attics were on the top floor. he listened. the noise came from below. and, suddenly, he understood: the detectives, who had heard the two shots, were banging at the front door, as was their duty, without waiting for daybreak. then an electric bell rang, which lupin recognized as that in the hall: "by jupiter!" he said. "pretty work! here are these jokers coming ... and just as we were about to gather the fruits of our laborious efforts! tut, tut, lupin, keep cool! what's expected of you? to open a safe, of which you don't know the secret, in thirty seconds. that's a mere trifle to lose your head about! come, all you have to do is to discover the secret! how many letters are there in the word? four?" he went on thinking, while talking and listening to the noise outside. he double-locked the door of the outer room and then came back to the safe: "four ciphers.... four letters ... four letters.... who can lend me a hand?... who can give me just a tiny hint?... who? why, lavernoux, of course! that good lavernoux, seeing that he took the trouble to indulge in optical telegraphy at the risk of his life.... lord, what a fool i am!... why, of course, why, of course, that's it!... by jove, this is too exciting!... lupin, you must count ten and suppress that distracted beating of your heart. if not, it means bad work." he counted ten and, now quite calm, knelt in front of the safe. he turned the four knobs with careful attention. next, he examined the bunch of keys, selected one of them, then another, and attempted, in vain, to insert them in the lock: "there's luck in odd numbers," he muttered, trying a third key. "victory! this is the right one! open sesame, good old sesame, open!" the lock turned. the door moved on its hinges. lupin pulled it to him, after taking out the bunch of keys: "the millions are ours," he said. "baron, i forgive you!" and then he gave a single bound backward, hiccoughing with fright. his legs staggered beneath him. the keys jingled together in his fevered hand with a sinister sound. and, for twenty, for thirty seconds, despite the din that was being raised and the electric bells that kept ringing through the house, he stood there, wild-eyed, gazing at the most horrible, the most abominable sight: a woman's body, half-dressed, bent in two in the safe, crammed in, like an over-large parcel ... and fair hair hanging down ... and blood ... clots of blood ... and livid flesh, blue in places, decomposing, flaccid. "the baroness!" he gasped. "the baroness!... oh, the monster!..." he roused himself from his torpor, suddenly, to spit in the murderer's face and pound him with his heels: "take that, you wretch!... take that, you villain!... and, with it, the scaffold, the bran-basket!..." meanwhile, shouts came from the upper floors in reply to the detectives' ringing. lupin heard footsteps scurrying down the stairs. it was time to think of beating a retreat. in reality, this did not trouble him greatly. during his conversation with the baron, the enemy's extraordinary coolness had given him the feeling that there must be a private outlet. besides, how could the baron have begun the fight, if he were not sure of escaping the police? lupin went into the next room. it looked out on the garden. at the moment when the detectives were entering the house, he flung his legs over the balcony and let himself down by a rain-pipe. he walked round the building. on the opposite side was a wall lined with shrubs. he slipped in between the shrubs and the wall and at once found a little door which he easily opened with one of the keys on the bunch. all that remained for him to do was to walk across a yard and pass through the empty rooms of a lodge; and in a few moments he found himself in the rue du faubourg saint-honoré. of course--and this he had reckoned on--the police had not provided for this secret outlet. * * * * * "well, what do you think of baron repstein?" cried lupin, after giving me all the details of that tragic night. "what a dirty scoundrel! and how it teaches one to distrust appearances! i swear to you, the fellow looked a thoroughly honest man!" "but what about the millions?" i asked. "the princess's jewels?" "they were in the safe. i remember seeing the parcel." "well?" "they are there still." "impossible!" "they are, upon my word! i might tell you that i was afraid of the detectives, or else plead a sudden attack of delicacy. but the truth is simpler ... and more prosaic: the smell was too awful!..." "what?" "yes, my dear fellow, the smell that came from that safe ... from that coffin.... no, i couldn't do it ... my head swam.... another second and i should have been ill.... isn't it silly?... look, this is all i got from my expedition: the tie-pin.... the bed-rock value of the pearl is thirty thousand francs.... but all the same, i feel jolly well annoyed. what a sell!" "one more question," i said. "the word that opened the safe!" "well?" "how did you guess it?" "oh, quite easily! in fact, i am surprised that i didn't think of it sooner." "well, tell me." "it was contained in the revelations telegraphed by that poor lavernoux." "what?" "just think, my dear chap, the mistakes in spelling...." "the mistakes in spelling?" "why, of course! they were deliberate. surely, you don't imagine that the agent, the private secretary of the baron--who was a company-promoter, mind you, and a racing-man--did not know english better than to spell 'necessery' with an 'e,' 'atack' with one 't,' 'ennemy' with two 'n's' and 'prudance' with an 'a'! the thing struck me at once. i put the four letters together and got 'etna,' the name of the famous horse." "and was that one word enough?" "of course! it was enough to start with, to put me on the scent of the repstein case, of which all the papers were full, and, next, to make me guess that it was the key-word of the safe, because, on the one hand, lavernoux knew the gruesome contents of the safe and, on the other, he was denouncing the baron. and it was in the same way that i was led to suppose that lavernoux had a friend in the street, that they both frequented the same café, that they amused themselves by working out the problems and cryptograms in the illustrated papers and that they had contrived a way of exchanging telegrams from window to window." "that makes it all quite simple!" i exclaimed. "very simple. and the incident once more shows that, in the discovery of crimes, there is something much more valuable than the examination of facts, than observations, deductions, inferences and all that stuff and nonsense. what i mean is, as i said before, intuition ... intuition and intelligence.... and arsène lupin, without boasting, is deficient in neither one nor the other!..." ii the wedding-ring yvonne d'origny kissed her son and told him to be good: "you know your grandmother d'origny is not very found of children. now that she has sent for you to come and see her, you must show her what a sensible little boy you are." and, turning to the governess, "don't forget, fräulein, to bring him home immediately after dinner.... is monsieur still in the house?" "yes, madame, monsieur le comte is in his study." as soon as she was alone, yvonne d'origny walked to the window to catch a glimpse of her son as he left the house. he was out in the street in a moment, raised his head and blew her a kiss, as was his custom every day. then the governess took his hand with, as yvonne remarked to her surprise, a movement of unusual violence. yvonne leant further out of the window and, when the boy reached the corner of the boulevard, she suddenly saw a man step out of a motor-car and go up to him. the man, in whom she recognized bernard, her husband's confidential servant, took the child by the arm, made both him and the governess get into the car, and ordered the chauffeur to drive off. the whole incident did not take ten seconds. yvonne, in her trepidation, ran to her bedroom, seized a wrap and went to the door. the door was locked; and there was no key in the lock. she hurried back to the boudoir. the door of the boudoir also was locked. then, suddenly, the image of her husband appeared before her, that gloomy face which no smile ever lit up, those pitiless eyes in which, for years, she had felt so much hatred and malice. "it's he ... it's he!" she said to herself. "he has taken the child.... oh, it's horrible!" she beat against the door with her fists, with her feet, then flew to the mantelpiece and pressed the bell fiercely. the shrill sound rang through the house from top to bottom. the servants would be sure to come. perhaps a crowd would gather in the street. and, impelled by a sort of despairing hope, she kept her finger on the button. a key turned in the lock.... the door was flung wide open. the count appeared on the threshold of the boudoir. and the expression of his face was so terrible that yvonne began to tremble. he entered the room. five or six steps separated him from her. with a supreme effort, she tried to stir, but all movement was impossible; and, when she attempted to speak, she could only flutter her lips and emit incoherent sounds. she felt herself lost. the thought of death unhinged her. her knees gave way beneath her and she sank into a huddled heap, with a moan. the count rushed at her and seized her by the throat: "hold your tongue ... don't call out!" he said, in a low voice. "that will be best for you!..." seeing that she was not attempting to defend herself, he loosened his hold of her and took from his pocket some strips of canvas ready rolled and of different lengths. in a few minutes, yvonne was lying on a sofa, with her wrists and ankles bound and her arms fastened close to her body. it was now dark in the boudoir. the count switched on the electric light and went to a little writing-desk where yvonne was accustomed to keep her letters. not succeeding in opening it, he picked the lock with a bent wire, emptied the drawers and collected all the contents into a bundle, which he carried off in a cardboard file: "waste of time, eh?" he grinned. "nothing but bills and letters of no importance.... no proof against you.... tah! i'll keep my son for all that; and i swear before heaven that i will not let him go!" as he was leaving the room, he was joined, near the door, by his man bernard. the two stopped and talked, in a low voice; but yvonne heard these words spoken by the servant: "i have had an answer from the working jeweller. he says he holds himself at my disposal." and the count replied: "the thing is put off until twelve o'clock midday, to-morrow. my mother has just telephoned to say that she could not come before." then yvonne heard the key turn in the lock and the sound of steps going down to the ground-floor, where her husband's study was. she long lay inert, her brain reeling with vague, swift ideas that burnt her in passing, like flames. she remembered her husband's infamous behaviour, his humiliating conduct to her, his threats, his plans for a divorce; and she gradually came to understand that she was the victim of a regular conspiracy, that the servants had been sent away until the following evening by their master's orders, that the governess had carried off her son by the count's instructions and with bernard's assistance, that her son would not come back and that she would never see him again. "my son!" she cried. "my son!..." exasperated by her grief, she stiffened herself, with every nerve, with every muscle tense, to make a violent effort. and she was astonished to find that her right hand, which the count had fastened too hurriedly, still retained a certain freedom. then a mad hope invaded her; and, slowly, patiently, she began the work of self-deliverance. it was long in the doing. she needed a deal of time to widen the knot sufficiently and a deal of time afterward, when the hand was released, to undo those other bonds which tied her arms to her body and those which fastened her ankles. still, the thought of her son sustained her; and the last shackle fell as the clock struck eight. she was free! she was no sooner on her feet than she flew to the window and flung back the latch, with the intention of calling the first passer-by. at that moment a policeman came walking along the pavement. she leant out. but the brisk evening air, striking her face, calmed her. she thought of the scandal, of the judicial investigation, of the cross-examination, of her son. o heaven! what could she do to get him back? how could she escape? the count might appear at the least sound. and who knew but that, in a moment of fury ...? she shivered from head to foot, seized with a sudden terror. the horror of death mingled, in her poor brain, with the thought of her son; and she stammered, with a choking throat: "help!... help!..." she stopped and said to herself, several times over, in a low voice, "help!... help!..." as though the word awakened an idea, a memory within her, and as though the hope of assistance no longer seemed to her impossible. for some minutes she remained absorbed in deep meditation, broken by fears and starts. then, with an almost mechanical series of movements, she put out her arm to a little set of shelves hanging over the writing-desk, took down four books, one after the other, turned the pages with a distraught air, replaced them and ended by finding, between the pages of the fifth, a visiting-card on which her eyes spelt the name: horace velmont, followed by an address written in pencil: cercle de la rue royale. and her memory conjured up the strange thing which that man had said to her, a few years before, in that same house, on a day when she was at home to her friends: "if ever a danger threatens you, if you need help, do not hesitate; post this card, which you see me put into this book; and, whatever the hour, whatever the obstacles, i will come." with what a curious air he had spoken these words and how well he had conveyed the impression of certainty, of strength, of unlimited power, of indomitable daring! abruptly, unconsciously, acting under the impulse of an irresistible determination, the consequences of which she refused to anticipate, yvonne, with the same automatic gestures, took a pneumatic-delivery envelope, slipped in the card, sealed it, directed it to "horace velmont, cercle de la rue royale" and went to the open window. the policeman was walking up and down outside. she flung out the envelope, trusting to fate. perhaps it would be picked up, treated as a lost letter and posted. she had hardly completed this act when she realized its absurdity. it was mad to suppose that the message would reach the address and madder still to hope that the man to whom she was sending could come to her assistance, "whatever the hour, whatever the obstacles." a reaction followed which was all the greater inasmuch as the effort had been swift and violent. yvonne staggered, leant against a chair and, losing all energy, let herself fall. the hours passed by, the dreary hours of winter evenings when nothing but the sound of carriages interrupts the silence of the street. the clock struck, pitilessly. in the half-sleep that numbed her limbs, yvonne counted the strokes. she also heard certain noises, on different floors of the house, which told her that her husband had dined, that he was going up to his room, that he was going down again to his study. but all this seemed very shadowy to her; and her torpor was such that she did not even think of lying down on the sofa, in case he should come in.... the twelve strokes of midnight.... then half-past twelve ... then one.... yvonne thought of nothing, awaiting the events which were preparing and against which rebellion was useless. she pictured her son and herself as one pictures those beings who have suffered much and who suffer no more and who take each other in their loving arms. but a nightmare shattered this dream. for now those two beings were to be torn asunder; and she had the awful feeling, in her delirium, that she was crying and choking.... she leapt from her seat. the key had turned in the lock. the count was coming, attracted by her cries. yvonne glanced round for a weapon with which to defend herself. but the door was pushed back quickly and, astounded, as though the sight that presented itself before her eyes seemed to her the most inexplicable prodigy, she stammered: "you!... you!..." a man was walking up to her, in dress-clothes, with his opera-hat and cape under his arm, and this man, young, slender and elegant, she had recognized as horace velmont. "you!" she repeated. he said, with a bow: "i beg your pardon, madame, but i did not receive your letter until very late." "is it possible? is it possible that this is you ... that you were able to ...?" he seemed greatly surprised: "did i not promise to come in answer to your call?" "yes ... but ..." "well, here i am," he said, with a smile. he examined the strips of canvas from which yvonne had succeeded in freeing herself and nodded his head, while continuing his inspection: "so those are the means employed? the comte d'origny, i presume?... i also saw that he locked you in.... but then the pneumatic letter?... ah, through the window!... how careless of you not to close it!" he pushed both sides to. yvonne took fright: "suppose they hear!" "there is no one in the house. i have been over it." "still ..." "your husband went out ten minutes ago." "where is he?" "with his mother, the comtesse d'origny." "how do you know?" "oh, it's very simple! he was rung up by telephone and i awaited the result at the corner of this street and the boulevard. as i expected, the count came out hurriedly, followed by his man. i at once entered, with the aid of special keys." he told this in the most natural way, just as one tells a meaningless anecdote in a drawing-room. but yvonne, suddenly seized with fresh alarm, asked: "then it's not true?... his mother is not ill?... in that case, my husband will be coming back...." "certainly, the count will see that a trick has been played on him and in three quarters of an hour at the latest...." "let us go.... i don't want him to find me here.... i must go to my son...." "one moment...." "one moment!... but don't you know that they have taken him from me?... that they are hurting him, perhaps?..." with set face and feverish gestures, she tried to push velmont back. he, with great gentleness, compelled her to sit down and, leaning over her in a respectful attitude, said, in a serious voice: "listen, madame, and let us not waste time, when every minute is valuable. first of all, remember this: we met four times, six years ago.... and, on the fourth occasion, when i was speaking to you, in the drawing-room of this house, with too much--what shall i say?--with too much feeling, you gave me to understand that my visits were no longer welcome. since that day i have not seen you. and, nevertheless, in spite of all, your faith in me was such that you kept the card which i put between the pages of that book and, six years later, you send for me and none other. that faith in me i ask you to continue. you must obey me blindly. just as i surmounted every obstacle to come to you, so i will save you, whatever the position may be." horace velmont's calmness, his masterful voice, with the friendly intonation, gradually quieted the countess. though still very weak, she gained a fresh sense of ease and security in that man's presence. "have no fear," he went on. "the comtesse d'origny lives at the other end of the bois de vincennes. allowing that your husband finds a motor-cab, it is impossible for him to be back before a quarter-past three. well, it is twenty-five to three now. i swear to take you away at three o'clock exactly and to take you to your son. but i will not go before i know everything." "what am i to do?" she asked. "answer me and very plainly. we have twenty minutes. it is enough. but it is not too much." "ask me what you want to know." "do you think that the count had any ... any murderous intentions?" "no." "then it concerns your son?" "yes." "he is taking him away, i suppose, because he wants to divorce you and marry another woman, a former friend of yours, whom you have turned out of your house. is that it? oh, i entreat you, answer me frankly! these are facts of public notoriety; and your hesitation, your scruples, must all cease, now that the matter concerns your son. so your husband wished to marry another woman? "yes." "the woman has no money. your husband, on his side, has gambled away all his property and has no means beyond the allowance which he receives from his mother, the comtesse d'origny, and the income of a large fortune which your son inherited from two of your uncles. it is this fortune which your husband covets and which he would appropriate more easily if the child were placed in his hands. there is only one way: divorce. am i right?" "yes." "and what has prevented him until now is your refusal?" "yes, mine and that of my mother-in-law, whose religious feelings are opposed to divorce. the comtesse d'origny would only yield in case ..." "in case ...?" "in case they could prove me guilty of shameful conduct." velmont shrugged his shoulders: "therefore he is powerless to do anything against you or against your son. both from the legal point of view and from that of his own interests, he stumbles against an obstacle which is the most insurmountable of all: the virtue of an honest woman. and yet, in spite of everything, he suddenly shows fight." "what do you mean?" "i mean that, if a man like the count, after so many hesitations and in the face of so many difficulties, risks so doubtful an adventure, it must be because he thinks he has command of weapons ..." "what weapons?" "i don't know. but they exist ... or else he would not have begun by taking away your son." yvonne gave way to her despair: "oh, this is horrible!... how do i know what he may have done, what he may have invented?" "try and think.... recall your memories.... tell me, in this desk which he has broken open, was there any sort of letter which he could possibly turn against you?" "no ... only bills and addresses...." "and, in the words he used to you, in his threats, is there nothing that allows you to guess?" "nothing." "still ... still," velmont insisted, "there must be something." and he continued, "has the count a particularly intimate friend ... in whom he confides?" "no." "did anybody come to see him yesterday?" "no, nobody." "was he alone when he bound you and locked you in?" "at that moment, yes." "but afterward?" "his man, bernard, joined him near the door and i heard them talking about a working jeweller...." "is that all?" "and about something that was to happen the next day, that is, to-day, at twelve o'clock, because the comtesse d'origny could not come earlier." velmont reflected: "has that conversation any meaning that throws a light upon your husband's plans?" "i don't see any." "where are your jewels?" "my husband has sold them all." "you have nothing at all left?" "no." "not even a ring?" "no," she said, showing her hands, "none except this." "which is your wedding-ring?" "which is my ... wedding--..." she stopped, nonplussed. velmont saw her flush as she stammered: "could it be possible?... but no ... no ... he doesn't know...." velmont at once pressed her with questions and yvonne stood silent, motionless, anxious-faced. at last, she replied, in a low voice: "this is not my wedding-ring. one day, long ago, it dropped from the mantelpiece in my bedroom, where i had put it a minute before and, hunt for it as i might, i could not find it again. so i ordered another, without saying anything about it ... and this is the one, on my hand...." "did the real ring bear the date of your wedding?" "yes ... the rd of october." "and the second?" "this one has no date." he perceived a slight hesitation in her and a confusion which, in point of fact, she did not try to conceal. "i implore you," he exclaimed, "don't hide anything from me.... you see how far we have gone in a few minutes, with a little logic and calmness.... let us go on, i ask you as a favour." "are you sure," she said, "that it is necessary?" "i am sure that the least detail is of importance and that we are nearly attaining our object. but we must hurry. this is a crucial moment." "i have nothing to conceal," she said, proudly raising her head. "it was the most wretched and the most dangerous period of my life. while suffering humiliation at home, outside i was surrounded with attentions, with temptations, with pitfalls, like any woman who is seen to be neglected by her husband. then i remembered: before my marriage, a man had been in love with me. i had guessed his unspoken love; and he has died since. i had the name of that man engraved inside the ring; and i wore it as a talisman. there was no love in me, because i was the wife of another. but, in my secret heart, there was a memory, a sad dream, something sweet and gentle that protected me...." she had spoken slowly, without embarrassment, and velmont did not doubt for a second that she was telling the absolute truth. he kept silent; and she, becoming anxious again, asked: "do you suppose ... that my husband ...?" he took her hand and, while examining the plain gold ring, said: "the puzzle lies here. your husband, i don't know how, knows of the substitution of one ring for the other. his mother will be here at twelve o'clock. in the presence of witnesses, he will compel you to take off your ring; and, in this way, he will obtain the approval of his mother and, at the same time, will be able to obtain his divorce, because he will have the proof for which he was seeking." "i am lost!" she moaned. "i am lost!" "on the contrary, you are saved! give me that ring ... and presently he will find another there, another which i will send you, to reach you before twelve, and which will bear the date of the rd of october. so ..." he suddenly broke off. while he was speaking, yvonne's hand had turned ice-cold in his; and, raising his eyes, he saw that the young woman was pale, terribly pale: "what's the matter? i beseech you ..." she yielded to a fit of mad despair: "this is the matter, that i am lost!... this is the matter, that i can't get the ring off! it has grown too small for me!... do you understand?... it made no difference and i did not give it a thought.... but to-day ... this proof ... this accusation.... oh, what torture!... look ... it forms part of my finger ... it has grown into my flesh ... and i can't ... i can't...." she pulled at the ring, vainly, with all her might, at the risk of injuring herself. but the flesh swelled up around the ring; and the ring did not budge. "oh!" she cried, seized with an idea that terrified her. "i remember ... the other night ... a nightmare i had.... it seemed to me that some one entered my room and caught hold of my hand.... and i could not wake up.... it was he! it was he! he had put me to sleep, i was sure of it ... and he was looking at the ring.... and presently he will pull it off before his mother's eyes.... ah, i understand everything: that working jeweller!... he will cut it from my hand to-morrow.... you see, you see.... i am lost!..." she hid her face in her hands and began to weep. but, amid the silence, the clock struck once ... and twice ... and yet once more. and yvonne drew herself up with a jerk: "there he is!" she cried. "he is coming!... it is three o'clock!... let us go!..." she grabbed at her cloak and ran to the door ... velmont barred the way and, in a masterful tone: "you shall not go!" "my son.... i want to see him, to take him back...." "you don't even know where he is!" "i want to go." "you shall not go!... it would be madness...." he took her by the wrists. she tried to release herself; and velmont had to employ a little force to overcome her resistance. in the end, he succeeded in getting her back to the sofa, then in laying her at full length and, at once, without heeding her lamentations, he took the canvas strips and fastened her wrists and ankles: "yes," he said, "it would be madness! who would have set you free? who would have opened that door for you? an accomplice? what an argument against you and what a pretty use your husband would make of it with his mother!... and, besides, what's the good? to run away means accepting divorce ... and what might that not lead to?... you must stay here...." she sobbed: "i'm frightened.... i'm frightened ... this ring burns me.... break it.... take it away.... don't let him find it!" "and if it is not found on your finger, who will have broken it? again an accomplice.... no, you must face the music ... and face it boldly, for i answer for everything.... believe me ... i answer for everything.... if i have to tackle the comtesse d'origny bodily and thus delay the interview.... if i had to come myself before noon ... it is the real wedding-ring that shall be taken from your finger--that i swear!--and your son shall be restored to you." swayed and subdued, yvonne instinctively held out her hands to the bonds. when he stood up, she was bound as she had been before. he looked round the room to make sure that no trace of his visit remained. then he stooped over the countess again and whispered: "think of your son and, whatever happens, fear nothing.... i am watching over you." she heard him open and shut the door of the boudoir and, a few minutes later, the hall-door. at half-past three, a motor-cab drew up. the door downstairs was slammed again; and, almost immediately after, yvonne saw her husband hurry in, with a furious look in his eyes. he ran up to her, felt to see if she was still fastened and, snatching her hand, examined the ring. yvonne fainted.... * * * * * she could not tell, when she woke, how long she had slept. but the broad light of day was filling the boudoir; and she perceived, at the first movement which she made, that her bonds were cut. then she turned her head and saw her husband standing beside her, looking at her: "my son ... my son ..." she moaned. "i want my son...." he replied, in a voice of which she felt the jeering insolence: "our son is in a safe place. and, for the moment, it's a question not of him, but of you. we are face to face with each other, probably for the last time, and the explanation between us will be a very serious one. i must warn you that it will take place before my mother. have you any objection?" yvonne tried to hide her agitation and answered: "none at all." "can i send for her?" "yes. leave me, in the meantime. i shall be ready when she comes." "my mother is here." "your mother is here?" cried yvonne, in dismay, remembering horace velmont's promise. "what is there to astonish you in that?" "and is it now ... is it at once that you want to ...? "yes." "why?... why not this evening?... why not to-morrow?" "to-day and now," declared the count. "a rather curious incident happened in the course of last night, an incident which i cannot account for and which decided me to hasten the explanation. don't you want something to eat first?" "no ... no...." "then i will go and fetch my mother." he turned to yvonne's bedroom. yvonne glanced at the clock. it marked twenty-five minutes to eleven! "ah!" she said, with a shiver of fright. twenty-five minutes to eleven! horace velmont would not save her and nobody in the world and nothing in the world would save her, for there was no miracle that could place the wedding-ring upon her finger. the count, returning with the comtesse d'origny, asked her to sit down. she was a tall, lank, angular woman, who had always displayed a hostile feeling to yvonne. she did not even bid her daughter-in-law good-morning, showing that her mind was made up as regards the accusation: "i don't think," she said, "that we need speak at length. in two words, my son maintains...." "i don't maintain, mother," said the count, "i declare. i declare on my oath that, three months ago, during the holidays, the upholsterer, when laying the carpet in this room and the boudoir, found the wedding-ring which i gave my wife lying in a crack in the floor. here is the ring. the date of the rd of october is engraved inside." "then," said the countess, "the ring which your wife carries...." "that is another ring, which she ordered in exchange for the real one. acting on my instructions, bernard, my man, after long searching, ended by discovering in the outskirts of paris, where he now lives, the little jeweller to whom she went. this man remembers perfectly and is willing to bear witness that his customer did not tell him to engrave a date, but a name. he has forgotten the name, but the man who used to work with him in his shop may be able to remember it. this working jeweller has been informed by letter that i required his services and he replied yesterday, placing himself at my disposal. bernard went to fetch him at nine o'clock this morning. they are both waiting in my study." he turned to his wife: "will you give me that ring of your own free will?" "you know," she said, "from the other night, that it won't come off my finger." "in that case, can i have the man up? he has the necessary implements with him." "yes," she said, in a voice faint as a whisper. she was resigned. she conjured up the future as in a vision: the scandal, the decree of divorce pronounced against herself, the custody of the child awarded to the father; and she accepted this, thinking that she would carry off her son, that she would go with him to the ends of the earth and that the two of them would live alone together and happy.... her mother-in-law said: "you have been very thoughtless, yvonne." yvonne was on the point of confessing to her and asking for her protection. but what was the good? how could the comtesse d'origny possibly believe her innocent? she made no reply. besides, the count at once returned, followed by his servant and by a man carrying a bag of tools under his arm. and the count said to the man: "you know what you have to do?" "yes," said the workman. "it's to cut a ring that's grown too small.... that's easily done.... a touch of the nippers...." "and then you will see," said the count, "if the inscription inside the ring was the one you engraved." yvonne looked at the clock. it was ten minutes to eleven. she seemed to hear, somewhere in the house, a sound of voices raised in argument; and, in spite of herself, she felt a thrill of hope. perhaps velmont has succeeded.... but the sound was renewed; and she perceived that it was produced by some costermongers passing under her window and moving farther on. it was all over. horace velmont had been unable to assist her. and she understood that, to recover her child, she must rely upon her own strength, for the promises of others are vain. she made a movement of recoil. she had felt the workman's heavy hand on her hand; and that hateful touch revolted her. the man apologized, awkwardly. the count said to his wife: "you must make up your mind, you know." then she put out her slim and trembling hand to the workman, who took it, turned it over and rested it on the table, with the palm upward. yvonne felt the cold steel. she longed to die, then and there; and, at once attracted by that idea of death, she thought of the poisons which she would buy and which would send her to sleep almost without her knowing it. the operation did not take long. inserted on the slant, the little steel pliers pushed back the flesh, made room for themselves and bit the ring. a strong effort ... and the ring broke. the two ends had only to be separated to remove the ring from the finger. the workman did so. the count exclaimed, in triumph: "at last! now we shall see!... the proof is there! and we are all witnesses...." he snatched up the ring and looked at the inscription. a cry of amazement escaped him. the ring bore the date of his marriage to yvonne: " rd of october"!... * * * * * we were sitting on the terrace at monte carlo. lupin finished his story, lit a cigarette and calmly puffed the smoke into the blue air. i said: "well?" "well what?" "why, the end of the story...." "the end of the story? but what other end could there be?" "come ... you're joking ..." "not at all. isn't that enough for you? the countess is saved. the count, not possessing the least proof against her, is compelled by his mother to forego the divorce and to give up the child. that is all. since then, he has left his wife, who is living happily with her son, a fine lad of sixteen." "yes ... yes ... but the way in which the countess was saved?" lupin burst out laughing: "my dear old chap"--lupin sometimes condescends to address me in this affectionate manner--"my dear old chap, you may be rather smart at relating my exploits, but, by jove, you do want to have the i's dotted for you! i assure you, the countess did not ask for explanations!" "very likely. but there's no pride about me," i added, laughing. "dot those i's for me, will you?" he took out a five-franc piece and closed his hand over it. "what's in my hand?" "a five-franc piece." he opened his hand. the five-franc piece was gone. "you see how easy it is! a working jeweller, with his nippers, cuts a ring with a date engraved upon it: rd of october. it's a simple little trick of sleight-of-hand, one of many which i have in my bag. by jove, i didn't spend six months with dickson, the conjurer,[c] for nothing!" [c] _the exploits of arsène lupin._ by maurice leblanc. translated by alexander teixeira de mattos (cassell). iv. _the escape of arsène lupin._ "but then ...?" "out with it!" "the working jeweller?" "was horace velmont! was good old lupin! leaving the countess at three o'clock in the morning, i employed the few remaining minutes before the husband's return to have a look round his study. on the table i found the letter from the working jeweller. the letter gave me the address. a bribe of a few louis enabled me to take the workman's place; and i arrived with a wedding-ring ready cut and engraved. hocus-pocus! pass!... the count couldn't make head or tail of it." "splendid!" i cried. and i added, a little chaffingly, in my turn, "but don't you think that you were humbugged a bit yourself, on this occasion?" "oh! and by whom, pray?" "by the countess?" "in what way?" "hang it all, that name engraved as a talisman!... the mysterious adonis who loved her and suffered for her sake!... all that story seems very unlikely; and i wonder whether, lupin though you be, you did not just drop upon a pretty love-story, absolutely genuine and ... none too innocent." lupin looked at me out of the corner of his eye: "no," he said. "how do you know?" "if the countess made a misstatement in telling me that she knew that man before her marriage--and that he was dead--and if she really did love him in her secret heart, i, at least, have a positive proof that it was an ideal love and that he did not suspect it." "and where is the proof?" "it is inscribed inside the ring which i myself broke on the countess's finger ... and which i carry on me. here it is. you can read the name she had engraved on it." he handed me the ring. i read: "horace velmont." there was a moment of silence between lupin and myself; and, noticing it, i also observed on his face a certain emotion, a tinge of melancholy. i resumed: "what made you tell me this story ... to which you have often alluded in my presence?" "what made me ...?" he drew my attention to a woman, still exceedingly handsome, who was passing on a young man's arm. she saw lupin and bowed. "it's she," he whispered. "she and her son." "then she recognized you?" "she always recognizes me, whatever my disguise." "but since the burglary at the château de thibermesnil,[d] the police have identified the two names of arsène lupin and horace velmont." [d] _the exploits of arsène lupin. ix. holmlock shears arrives too late._ "yes." "therefore she knows who you are." "yes." "and she bows to you?" i exclaimed, in spite of myself. he caught me by the arm and, fiercely: "do you think that i am lupin to her? do you think that i am a burglar in her eyes, a rogue, a cheat?... why, i might be the lowest of miscreants, i might be a murderer even ... and still she would bow to me!" "why? because she loved you once?" "rot! that would be an additional reason, on the contrary, why she should now despise me." "what then?" "i am the man who gave her back her son!" iii the sign of the shadow "i received your telegram and here i am," said a gentleman with a grey moustache, who entered my study, dressed in a dark-brown frock-coat and a wide-brimmed hat, with a red ribbon in his buttonhole. "what's the matter?" had i not been expecting arsène lupin, i should certainly never have recognized him in the person of this old half-pay officer: "what's the matter?" i echoed. "oh, nothing much: a rather curious coincidence, that's all. and, as i know that you would just as soon clear up a mystery as plan one...." "well?" "you seem in a great hurry!" "i am ... unless the mystery in question is worth putting myself out for. so let us get to the point." "very well. just begin by casting your eye on this little picture, which i picked up, a week or two ago, in a grimy old shop on the other side of the river. i bought it for the sake of its empire frame, with the palm-leaf ornaments on the mouldings ... for the painting is execrable." "execrable, as you say," said lupin, after he had examined it, "but the subject itself is rather nice. that corner of an old courtyard, with its rotunda of greek columns, its sun-dial and its fish-pond and that ruined well with the renascence roof and those stone steps and stone benches: all very picturesque." "and genuine," i added. "the picture, good or bad, has never been taken out of its empire frame. besides, it is dated.... there, in the left-hand bottom corner: those red figures, . . , which obviously stand for april, ." "i dare say ... i dare say.... but you were speaking of a coincidence and, so far, i fail to see...." i went to a corner of my study, took a telescope, fixed it on its stand and pointed it, through the open window, at the open window of a little room facing my flat, on the other side of the street. and i asked lupin to look through it. he stooped forward. the slanting rays of the morning sun lit up the room opposite, revealing a set of mahogany furniture, all very simple, a large bed and a child's bed hung with cretonne curtains. "ah!" cried lupin, suddenly. "the same picture!" "exactly the same!" i said. "and the date: do you see the date, in red? . . ." "yes, i see.... and who lives in that room?" "a lady ... or, rather, a workwoman, for she has to work for her living ... needlework, hardly enough to keep herself and her child." "what is her name?" "louise d'ernemont.... from what i hear, she is the great-granddaughter of a farmer-general who was guillotined during the terror." "yes, on the same day as andré chénier," said lupin. "according to the memoirs of the time, this d'ernemont was supposed to be a very rich man." he raised his head and said, "it's an interesting story.... why did you wait before telling me?" "because this is the th of april." "well?" "well, i discovered yesterday--i heard them talking about it in the porter's box--that the th of april plays an important part in the life of louise d'ernemont." "nonsense!" "contrary to her usual habits, this woman who works every day of her life, who keeps her two rooms tidy, who cooks the lunch which her little girl eats when she comes home from the parish school ... this woman, on the th of april, goes out with the child at ten o'clock in the morning and does not return until nightfall. and this has happened for years and in all weathers. you must admit that there is something queer about this date which i find on an old picture, which is inscribed on another, similar picture and which controls the annual movements of the descendant of d'ernemont the farmer-general." "yes, it's curious ... you're quite right," said lupin, slowly. "and don't you know where she goes to?" "nobody knows. she does not confide in a soul. as a matter of fact, she talks very little." "are you sure of your information?" "absolutely. and the best proof of its accuracy is that here she comes." a door had opened at the back of the room opposite, admitting a little girl of seven or eight, who came and looked out of the window. a lady appeared behind her, tall, good-looking still and wearing a sad and gentle air. both of them were ready and dressed, in clothes which were simple in themselves, but which pointed to a love of neatness and a certain elegance on the part of the mother. "you see," i whispered, "they are going out." and presently the mother took the child by the hand and they left the room together. lupin caught up his hat: "are you coming?" my curiosity was too great for me to raise the least objection. i went downstairs with lupin. as we stepped into the street, we saw my neighbour enter a baker's shop. she bought two rolls and placed them in a little basket which her daughter was carrying and which seemed already to contain some other provisions. then they went in the direction of the outer boulevards and followed them as far as the place de l'Étoile, where they turned down the avenue kléber to walk toward passy. lupin strolled silently along, evidently obsessed by a train of thought which i was glad to have provoked. from time to time, he uttered a sentence which showed me the thread of his reflections; and i was able to see that the riddle remained as much a mystery to him as to myself. louise d'ernemont, meanwhile, had branched off to the left, along the rue raynouard, a quiet old street in which franklin and balzac once lived, one of those streets which, lined with old-fashioned houses and walled gardens, give you the impression of being in a country-town. the seine flows at the foot of the slope which the street crowns; and a number of lanes run down to the river. my neighbour took one of these narrow, winding, deserted lanes. the first building, on the right, was a house the front of which faced the rue raynouard. next came a moss-grown wall, of a height above the ordinary, supported by buttresses and bristling with broken glass. half-way along the wall was a low, arched door. louise d'ernemont stopped in front of this door and opened it with a key which seemed to us enormous. mother and child entered and closed the door. "in any case," said lupin, "she has nothing to conceal, for she has not looked round once...." he had hardly finished his sentence when we heard the sound of footsteps behind us. it was two old beggars, a man and a woman, tattered, dirty, squalid, covered in rags. they passed us without paying the least attention to our presence. the man took from his wallet a key similar to my neighbour's and put it into the lock. the door closed behind them. and, suddenly, at the top of the lane, came the noise of a motor-car stopping.... lupin dragged me fifty yards lower down, to a corner in which we were able to hide. and we saw coming down the lane, carrying a little dog under her arm, a young and very much over-dressed woman, wearing a quantity of jewellery, a young woman whose eyes were too dark, her lips too red, her hair too fair. in front of the door, the same performance, with the same key.... the lady and the dog disappeared from view. "this promises to be most amusing," said lupin, chuckling. "what earthly connection can there be between those different people?" there hove in sight successively two elderly ladies, lean and rather poverty-stricken in appearance, very much alike, evidently sisters; a footman in livery; an infantry corporal; a fat gentleman in a soiled and patched jacket-suit; and, lastly, a workman's family, father, mother, and four children, all six of them pale and sickly, looking like people who never eat their fill. and each of the newcomers carried a basket or string-bag filled with provisions. "it's a picnic!" i cried. "it grows more and more surprising," said lupin, "and i sha'n't be satisfied till i know what is happening behind that wall." to climb it was out of the question. we also saw that it finished, at the lower as well as at the upper end, at a house none of whose windows overlooked the enclosure which the wall contained. during the next hour, no one else came along. we vainly cast about for a stratagem; and lupin, whose fertile brain had exhausted every possible expedient, was about to go in search of a ladder, when, suddenly, the little door opened and one of the workman's children came out. the boy ran up the lane to the rue raynouard. a few minutes later he returned, carrying two bottles of water, which he set down on the pavement to take the big key from his pocket. by that time lupin had left me and was strolling slowly along the wall. when the child, after entering the enclosure, pushed back the door lupin sprang forward and stuck the point of his knife into the staple of the lock. the bolt failed to catch; and it became an easy matter to push the door ajar. "that's done the trick!" said lupin. he cautiously put his hand through the doorway and then, to my great surprise, entered boldly. but, on following his example, i saw that, ten yards behind the wall, a clump of laurels formed a sort of curtain which allowed us to come up unobserved. lupin took his stand right in the middle of the clump. i joined him and, like him, pushed aside the branches of one of the shrubs. and the sight which presented itself to my eyes was so unexpected that i was unable to suppress an exclamation, while lupin, on his side, muttered, between his teeth: "by jupiter! this is a funny job!" we saw before us, within the confined space that lay between the two windowless houses, the identical scene represented in the old picture which i had bought at a second-hand dealer's! the identical scene! at the back, against the opposite wall, the same greek rotunda displayed its slender columns. in the middle, the same stone benches topped a circle of four steps that ran down to a fish-pond with moss-grown flags. on the left, the same well raised its wrought-iron roof; and, close at hand, the same sun-dial showed its slanting gnomon and its marble face. the identical scene! and what added to the strangeness of the sight was the memory, obsessing lupin and myself, of that date of the th of april, inscribed in a corner of the picture, and the thought that this very day was the th of april and that sixteen or seventeen people, so different in age, condition and manners, had chosen the th of april to come together in this forgotten corner of paris! all of them, at the moment when we caught sight of them, were sitting in separate groups on the benches and steps; and all were eating. not very far from my neighbour and her daughter, the workman's family and the beggar couple were sharing their provisions; while the footman, the gentleman in the soiled suit, the infantry corporal and the two lean sisters were making a common stock of their sliced ham, their tins of sardines and their gruyère cheese. the lady with the little dog alone, who had brought no food with her, sat apart from the others, who made a show of turning their backs upon her. but louise d'ernemont offered her a sandwich, whereupon her example was followed by the two sisters; and the corporal at once began to make himself as agreeable to the young person as he could. it was now half-past one. the beggar-man took out his pipe, as did the fat gentleman; and, when they found that one had no tobacco and the other no matches, their needs soon brought them together. the men went and smoked by the rotunda and the women joined them. for that matter, all these people seemed to know one another quite well. they were at some distance from where we were standing, so that we could not hear what they said. however, we gradually perceived that the conversation was becoming animated. the young person with the dog, in particular, who by this time appeared to be in great request, indulged in much voluble talk, accompanying her words with many gestures, which set the little dog barking furiously. but, suddenly, there was an outcry, promptly followed by shouts of rage; and one and all, men and women alike, rushed in disorder toward the well. one of the workman's brats was at that moment coming out of it, fastened by his belt to the hook at the end of the rope; and the three other urchins were drawing him up by turning the handle. more active than the rest, the corporal flung himself upon him; and forthwith the footman and the fat gentleman seized hold of him also, while the beggars and the lean sisters came to blows with the workman and his family. in a few seconds the little boy had not a stitch left on him beyond his shirt. the footman, who had taken possession of the rest of the clothes, ran away, pursued by the corporal, who snatched away the boy's breeches, which were next torn from the corporal by one of the lean sisters. "they are mad!" i muttered, feeling absolutely at sea. "not at all, not at all," said lupin. "what! do you mean to say that you can make head or tail of what is going on?" he did not reply. the young lady with the little dog, tucking her pet under her arm, had started running after the child in the shirt, who uttered loud yells. the two of them raced round the laurel-clump in which we stood hidden; and the brat flung himself into his mother's arms. at long last, louise d'ernemont, who had played a conciliatory part from the beginning, succeeded in allaying the tumult. everybody sat down again; but there was a reaction in all those exasperated people and they remained motionless and silent, as though worn out with their exertions. and time went by. losing patience and beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, i went to the rue raynouard to fetch something to eat, which we divided while watching the actors in the incomprehensible comedy that was being performed before our eyes. they hardly stirred. each minute that passed seemed to load them with increasing melancholy; and they sank into attitudes of discouragement, bent their backs more and more and sat absorbed in their meditations. the afternoon wore on in this way, under a grey sky that shed a dreary light over the enclosure. "are they going to spend the night here?" i asked, in a bored voice. but, at five o'clock or so, the fat gentleman in the soiled jacket-suit took out his watch. the others did the same and all, watch in hand, seemed to be anxiously awaiting an event of no little importance to themselves. the event did not take place, for, in fifteen or twenty minutes, the fat gentleman gave a gesture of despair, stood up and put on his hat. then lamentations broke forth. the two lean sisters and the workman's wife fell upon their knees and made the sign of the cross. the lady with the little dog and the beggar-woman kissed each other and sobbed; and we saw louise d'ernemont pressing her daughter sadly to her. "let's go," said lupin. "you think it's over?" "yes; and we have only just time to make ourselves scarce." we went out unmolested. at the top of the lane, lupin turned to the left and, leaving me outside, entered the first house in the rue raynouard, the one that backed on to the enclosure. after talking for a few seconds to the porter, he joined me and we stopped a passing taxi-cab: "no. rue de turin," he said to the driver. the ground-floor of no. was occupied by a notary's office; and we were shown in, almost without waiting, to maître valandier, a smiling, pleasant-spoken man of a certain age. lupin introduced himself by the name of captain jeanniot, retired from the army. he said that he wanted to build a house to his own liking and that some one had suggested to him a plot of ground situated near the rue raynouard. "but that plot is not for sale," said maître valandier. "oh, i was told...." "you have been misinformed, i fear." the lawyer rose, went to a cupboard and returned with a picture which he showed us. i was petrified. it was the same picture which i had bought, the same picture that hung in louise d'ernemont's room. "this is a painting," he said, "of the plot of ground to which you refer. it is known as the clos d'ernemont." "precisely." "well, this close," continued the notary, "once formed part of a large garden belonging to d'ernemont, the farmer-general, who was executed during the terror. all that could be sold has been sold, piecemeal, by the heirs. but this last plot has remained and will remain in their joint possession ... unless...." the notary began to laugh. "unless what?" asked lupin. "well, it's quite a romance, a rather curious romance, in fact. i often amuse myself by looking through the voluminous documents of the case." "would it be indiscreet, if i asked ...?" "not at all, not at all," declared maître valandier, who seemed delighted, on the contrary, to have found a listener for his story. and, without waiting to be pressed, he began: "at the outbreak of the revolution, louis agrippa d'ernemont, on the pretence of joining his wife, who was staying at geneva with their daughter pauline, shut up his mansion in the faubourg saint-germain, dismissed his servants and, with his son charles, came and took up his abode in his pleasure-house at passy, where he was known to nobody except an old and devoted serving-woman. he remained there in hiding for three years and he had every reason to hope that his retreat would not be discovered, when, one day, after luncheon, as he was having a nap, the old servant burst into his room. she had seen, at the end of the street, a patrol of armed men who seemed to be making for the house. louis d'ernemont got ready quickly and, at the moment when the men were knocking at the front door, disappeared through the door that led to the garden, shouting to his son, in a scared voice, to keep them talking, if only for five minutes. he may have intended to escape and found the outlets through the garden watched. in any case, he returned in six or seven minutes, replied very calmly to the questions put to him and raised no difficulty about accompanying the men. his son charles, although only eighteen years of age, was arrested also." "when did this happen?" asked lupin. "it happened on the th day of germinal, year ii, that is to say, on the...." maître valandier stopped, with his eyes fixed on a calendar that hung on the wall, and exclaimed: "why, it was on this very day! this is the th of april, the anniversary of the farmer-general's arrest." "what an odd coincidence!" said lupin. "and considering the period at which it took place, the arrest, no doubt, had serious consequences?" "oh, most serious!" said the notary, laughing. "three months later, at the beginning of thermidor, the farmer-general mounted the scaffold. his son charles was forgotten in prison and their property was confiscated." "the property was immense, i suppose?" said lupin. "well, there you are! that's just where the thing becomes complicated. the property, which was, in fact, immense, could never be traced. it was discovered that the faubourg saint-germain mansion had been sold, before the revolution, to an englishman, together with all the country-seats and estates and all the jewels, securities and collections belonging to the farmer-general. the convention instituted minute inquiries, as did the directory afterward. but the inquiries led to no result." "there remained, at any rate, the passy house," said lupin. "the house at passy was bought, for a mere song, by a delegate of the commune, the very man who had arrested d'ernemont, one citizen broquet. citizen broquet shut himself up in the house, barricaded the doors, fortified the walls and, when charles d'ernemont was at last set free and appeared outside, received him by firing a musket at him. charles instituted one law-suit after another, lost them all and then proceeded to offer large sums of money. but citizen broquet proved intractable. he had bought the house and he stuck to the house; and he would have stuck to it until his death, if charles had not obtained the support of bonaparte. citizen broquet cleared out on the th of february, ; but charles d'ernemont's joy was so great and his brain, no doubt, had been so violently unhinged by all that he had gone through, that, on reaching the threshold of the house of which he had at last recovered the ownership, even before opening the door he began to dance and sing in the street. he had gone clean off his head." "by jove!" said lupin. "and what became of him?" "his mother and his sister pauline, who had ended by marrying a cousin of the same name at geneva, were both dead. the old servant-woman took care of him and they lived together in the passy house. years passed without any notable event; but, suddenly, in , an unexpected incident happened. the old servant made a series of strange revelations on her death-bed, in the presence of two witnesses whom she sent for. she declared that the farmer-general had carried to his house at passy a number of bags filled with gold and silver and that those bags had disappeared a few days before the arrest. according to earlier confidences made by charles d'ernemont, who had them from his father, the treasures were hidden in the garden, between the rotunda, the sun-dial and the well. in proof of her statement, she produced three pictures, or rather, for they were not yet framed, three canvases, which the farmer-general had painted during his captivity and which he had succeeded in conveying to her, with instructions to hand them to his wife, his son and his daughter. tempted by the lure of wealth, charles and the old servant had kept silence. then came the law-suits, the recovery of the house, charles's madness, the servant's own useless searches; and the treasures were still there." "and they are there now," chuckled lupin. "and they will be there always," exclaimed maître valandier. "unless ... unless citizen broquet, who no doubt smelt a rat, succeeded in ferreting them out. but this is an unlikely supposition, for citizen broquet died in extreme poverty." "so then ...?" "so then everybody began to hunt. the children of pauline, the sister, hastened from geneva. it was discovered that charles had been secretly married and that he had sons. all these heirs set to work." "but charles himself?" "charles lived in the most absolute retirement. he did not leave his room." "never?" "well, that is the most extraordinary, the most astounding part of the story. once a year, charles d'ernemont, impelled by a sort of subconscious will-power, came downstairs, took the exact road which his father had taken, walked across the garden and sat down either on the steps of the rotunda, which you see here, in the picture, or on the kerb of the well. at twenty-seven minutes past five, he rose and went indoors again; and until his death, which occurred in , he never once failed to perform this incomprehensible pilgrimage. well, the day on which this happened was invariably the th of april, the anniversary of the arrest." maître valandier was no longer smiling and himself seemed impressed by the amazing story which he was telling us. "and, since charles's death?" asked lupin, after a moment's reflection. "since that time," replied the lawyer, with a certain solemnity of manner, "for nearly a hundred years, the heirs of charles and pauline d'ernemont have kept up the pilgrimage of the th of april. during the first few years they made the most thorough excavations. every inch of the garden was searched, every clod of ground dug up. all this is now over. they take hardly any pains. all they do is, from time to time, for no particular reason, to turn over a stone or explore the well. for the most part, they are content to sit down on the steps of the rotunda, like the poor madman; and, like him, they wait. and that, you see, is the sad part of their destiny. in those hundred years, all these people who have succeeded one another, from father to son, have lost--what shall i say?--the energy of life. they have no courage left, no initiative. they wait. they wait for the th of april; and, when the th of april comes, they wait for a miracle to take place. poverty has ended by overtaking every one of them. my predecessors and i have sold first the house, in order to build another which yields a better rent, followed by bits of the garden and further bits. but, as to that corner over there," pointing to the picture, "they would rather die than sell it. on this they are all agreed: louise d'ernemont, who is the direct heiress of pauline, as well as the beggars, the workman, the footman, the circus-rider and so on, who represent the unfortunate charles." there was a fresh pause; and lupin asked: "what is your own opinion, maître valandier?" "my private opinion is that there's nothing in it. what credit can we give to the statements of an old servant enfeebled by age? what importance can we attach to the crotchets of a madman? besides, if the farmer-general had realized his fortune, don't you think that that fortune would have been found? one could manage to hide a paper, a document, in a confined space like that, but not treasures." "still, the pictures?..." "yes, of course. but, after all, are they a sufficient proof?" lupin bent over the copy which the solicitor had taken from the cupboard and, after examining it at length, said: "you spoke of three pictures." "yes, the one which you see was handed to my predecessor by the heirs of charles. louise d'ernemont possesses another. as for the third, no one knows what became of it." lupin looked at me and continued: "and do they all bear the same date?" "yes, the date inscribed by charles d'ernemont when he had them framed, not long before his death.... the same date, that is to say the th of april, year ii, according to the revolutionary calendar, as the arrest took place in april, ." "oh, yes, of course," said lupin. "the figure means...." he thought for a few moments and resumed: "one more question, if i may. did no one ever come forward to solve the problem?" maître valandier threw up his arms: "goodness gracious me!" he cried. "why, it was the plague of the office! one of my predecessors, maître turbon, was summoned to passy no fewer than eighteen times, between and , by the groups of heirs, whom fortune-tellers, clairvoyants, visionaries, impostors of all sorts had promised that they would discover the farmer-general's treasures. at last, we laid down a rule: any outsider applying to institute a search was to begin by depositing a certain sum." "what sum?" "a thousand francs." "and did this have the effect of frightening them off?" "no. four years ago, an hungarian hypnotist tried the experiment and made me waste a whole day. after that, we fixed the deposit at five thousand francs. in case of success, a third of the treasure goes to the finder. in case of failure, the deposit is forfeited to the heirs. since then, i have been left in peace." "here are your five thousand francs." the lawyer gave a start: "eh? what do you say?" "i say," repeated lupin, taking five bank-notes from his pocket and calmly spreading them on the table, "i say that here is the deposit of five thousand francs. please give me a receipt and invite all the d'ernemont heirs to meet me at passy on the th of april next year." the notary could not believe his senses. i myself, although lupin had accustomed me to these surprises, was utterly taken back. "are you serious?" asked maître valandier. "perfectly serious." "but, you know, i told you my opinion. all these improbable stories rest upon no evidence of any kind." "i don't agree with you," said lupin. the notary gave him the look which we give to a person who is not quite right in his head. then, accepting the situation, he took his pen and drew up a contract on stamped paper, acknowledging the payment of the deposit by captain jeanniot and promising him a third of such moneys as he should discover: "if you change your mind," he added, "you might let me know a week before the time comes. i shall not inform the d'ernemont family until the last moment, so as not to give those poor people too long a spell of hope." "you can inform them this very day, maître valandier. it will make them spend a happier year." we said good-bye. outside, in the street, i cried: "so you have hit upon something?" "i?" replied lupin. "not a bit of it! and that's just what amuses me." "but they have been searching for a hundred years!" "it is not so much a matter of searching as of thinking. now i have three hundred and sixty-five days to think in. it is a great deal more than i want; and i am afraid that i shall forget all about the business, interesting though it may be. oblige me by reminding me, will you?" * * * * * i reminded him of it several times during the following months, though he never seemed to attach much importance to the matter. then came a long period during which i had no opportunity of seeing him. it was the period, as i afterward learnt, of his visit to armenia and of the terrible struggle on which he embarked against abdul the damned, a struggle which ended in the tyrant's downfall. i used to write to him, however, at the address which he gave me and i was thus able to send him certain particulars which i had succeeded in gathering, here and there, about my neighbour louise d'ernemont, such as the love which she had conceived, a few years earlier, for a very rich young man, who still loved her, but who had been compelled by his family to throw her over; the young widow's despair, and the plucky life which she led with her little daughter. lupin replied to none of my letters. i did not know whether they reached him; and, meantime, the date was drawing near and i could not help wondering whether his numerous undertakings would not prevent him from keeping the appointment which he himself had fixed. as a matter of fact, the morning of the th of april arrived and lupin was not with me by the time i had finished lunch. it was a quarter-past twelve. i left my flat and took a cab to passy. i had no sooner entered the lane than i saw the workman's four brats standing outside the door in the wall. maître valandier, informed by them of my arrival, hastened in my direction: "well?" he cried. "where's captain jeanniot?" "hasn't he come?" "no; and i can assure you that everybody is very impatient to see him." the different groups began to crowd round the lawyer; and i noticed that all those faces which i recognized had thrown off the gloomy and despondent expression which they wore a year ago. "they are full of hope," said maître valandier, "and it is my fault. but what could i do? your friend made such an impression upon me that i spoke to these good people with a confidence ... which i cannot say i feel. however, he seems a queer sort of fellow, this captain jeanniot of yours...." he asked me many questions and i gave him a number of more or less fanciful details about the captain, to which the heirs listened, nodding their heads in appreciation of my remarks. "of course, the truth was bound to be discovered sooner or later," said the fat gentleman, in a tone of conviction. the infantry corporal, dazzled by the captain's rank, did not entertain a doubt in his mind. the lady with the little dog wanted to know if captain jeanniot was young. but louise d'ernemont said: "and suppose he does not come?" "we shall still have the five thousand francs to divide," said the beggar-man. for all that, louise d'ernemont's words had damped their enthusiasm. their faces began to look sullen and i felt an atmosphere as of anguish weighing upon us. at half-past one, the two lean sisters felt faint and sat down. then the fat gentleman in the soiled suit suddenly rounded on the notary: "it's you, maître valandier, who are to blame.... you ought to have brought the captain here by main force.... he's a humbug, that's quite clear." he gave me a savage look, and the footman, in his turn, flung muttered curses at me. i confess that their reproaches seemed to me well-founded and that lupin's absence annoyed me greatly: "he won't come now," i whispered to the lawyer. and i was thinking of beating a retreat, when the eldest of the brats appeared at the door, yelling: "there's some one coming!... a motor-cycle!..." a motor was throbbing on the other side of the wall. a man on a motor-bicycle came tearing down the lane at the risk of breaking his neck. suddenly, he put on his brakes, outside the door, and sprang from his machine. under the layer of dust which covered him from head to foot, we could see that his navy-blue reefer-suit, his carefully creased trousers, his black felt hat and patent-leather boots were not the clothes in which a man usually goes cycling. "but that's not captain jeanniot!" shouted the notary, who failed to recognize him. "yes, it is," said lupin, shaking hands with us. "i'm captain jeanniot right enough ... only i've shaved off my moustache.... besides, maître valandier, here's your receipt." he caught one of the workman's children by the arm and said: "run to the cab-rank and fetch a taxi to the corner of the rue raynouard. look sharp! i have an urgent appointment to keep at two o'clock, or a quarter-past at the latest." there was a murmur of protest. captain jeanniot took out his watch: "well! it's only twelve minutes to two! i have a good quarter of an hour before me. but, by jingo, how tired i feel! and how hungry into the bargain!" the corporal thrust his ammunition-bread into lupin's hand; and he munched away at it as he sat down and said: "you must forgive me. i was in the marseilles express, which left the rails between dijon and laroche. there were twelve people killed and any number injured, whom i had to help. then i found this motor-cycle in the luggage-van.... maître valandier, you must be good enough to restore it to the owner. you will find the label fastened to the handle-bar. ah, you're back, my boy! is the taxi there? at the corner of the rue raynouard? capital!" he looked at his watch again: "hullo! no time to lose!" i stared at him with eager curiosity. but how great must the excitement of the d'ernemont heirs have been! true, they had not the same faith in captain jeanniot that i had in lupin. nevertheless, their faces were pale and drawn. captain jeanniot turned slowly to the left and walked up to the sun-dial. the pedestal represented the figure of a man with a powerful torso, who bore on his shoulders a marble slab the surface of which had been so much worn by time that we could hardly distinguish the engraved lines that marked the hours. above the slab, a cupid, with outspread wings, held an arrow that served as a gnomon. the captain stood leaning forward for a minute, with attentive eyes. then he said: "somebody lend me a knife, please." a clock in the neighbourhood struck two. at that exact moment, the shadow of the arrow was thrown upon the sunlit dial along the line of a crack in the marble which divided the slab very nearly in half. the captain took the knife handed to him. and with the point, very gently, he began to scratch the mixture of earth and moss that filled the narrow cleft. almost immediately, at a couple of inches from the edge, he stopped, as though his knife had encountered an obstacle, inserted his thumb and forefinger and withdrew a small object which he rubbed between the palms of his hands and gave to the lawyer: "here, maître valandier. something to go on with." it was an enormous diamond, the size of a hazelnut and beautifully cut. the captain resumed his work. the next moment, a fresh stop. a second diamond, magnificent and brilliant as the first, appeared in sight. and then came a third and a fourth. in a minute's time, following the crack from one edge to the other and certainly without digging deeper than half an inch, the captain had taken out eighteen diamonds of the same size. during this minute, there was not a cry, not a movement around the sun-dial. the heirs seemed paralyzed with a sort of stupor. then the fat gentleman muttered: "geminy!" and the corporal moaned: "oh, captain!... oh, captain!..." the two sisters fell in a dead faint. the lady with the little dog dropped on her knees and prayed, while the footman, staggering like a drunken man, held his head in his two hands, and louise d'ernemont wept. when calm was restored and all became eager to thank captain jeanniot, they saw that he was gone. * * * * * some years passed before i had an opportunity of talking to lupin about this business. he was in a confidential vein and answered: "the business of the eighteen diamonds? by jove, when i think that three or four generations of my fellow-men had been hunting for the solution! and the eighteen diamonds were there all the time, under a little mud and dust!" "but how did you guess?..." "i did not guess. i reflected. i doubt if i need even have reflected. i was struck, from the beginning, by the fact that the whole circumstance was governed by one primary question: the question of time. when charles d'ernemont was still in possession of his wits, he wrote a date upon the three pictures. later, in the gloom in which he was struggling, a faint glimmer of intelligence led him every year to the centre of the old garden; and the same faint glimmer led him away from it every year at the same moment, that is to say, at twenty-seven minutes past five. something must have acted on the disordered machinery of his brain in this way. what was the superior force that controlled the poor madman's movements? obviously, the instinctive notion of time represented by the sun-dial in the farmer-general's pictures. it was the annual revolution of the earth around the sun that brought charles d'ernemont back to the garden at a fixed date. and it was the earth's daily revolution upon its own axis that took him from it at a fixed hour, that is to say, at the hour, most likely, when the sun, concealed by objects different from those of to-day, ceased to light the passy garden. now of all this the sun-dial was the symbol. and that is why i at once knew where to look." "but how did you settle the hour at which to begin looking?" "simply by the pictures. a man living at that time, such as charles d'ernemont, would have written either germinal, year ii, or else april, , but not april, year ii. i was astounded that no one had thought of that." "then the figure stood for two o'clock?" "evidently. and what must have happened was this: the farmer-general began by turning his fortune into solid gold and silver money. then, by way of additional precaution, with this gold and silver he bought eighteen wonderful diamonds. when he was surprised by the arrival of the patrol, he fled into his garden. which was the best place to hide the diamonds? chance caused his eyes to light upon the sun-dial. it was two o'clock. the shadow of the arrow was then falling along the crack in the marble. he obeyed this sign of the shadow, rammed his eighteen diamonds into the dust and calmly went back and surrendered to the soldiers." "but the shadow of the arrow coincides with the crack in the marble every day of the year and not only on the th of april." "you forget, my dear chap, that we are dealing with a lunatic and that he remembered only this date of the th of april." "very well; but you, once you had solved the riddle, could easily have made your way into the enclosure and taken the diamonds." "quite true; and i should not have hesitated, if i had had to do with people of another description. but i really felt sorry for those poor wretches. and then you know the sort of idiot that lupin is. the idea of appearing suddenly as a benevolent genius and amazing his kind would be enough to make him commit any sort of folly." "tah!" i cried. "the folly was not so great as all that. six magnificent diamonds! how delighted the d'ernemont heirs must have been to fulfil their part of the contract!" lupin looked at me and burst into uncontrollable laughter: "so you haven't heard? oh, what a joke! the delight of the d'ernemont heirs!.... why, my dear fellow, on the next day, that worthy captain jeanniot had so many mortal enemies! on the very next day, the two lean sisters and the fat gentleman organized an opposition. a contract? not worth the paper it was written on, because, as could easily be proved, there was no such person as captain jeanniot. where did that adventurer spring from? just let him sue them and they'd soon show him what was what!" "louise d'ernemont too?" "no, louise d'ernemont protested against that piece of rascality. but what could she do against so many? besides, now that she was rich, she got back her young man. i haven't heard of her since." "so ...?" "so, my dear fellow, i was caught in a trap, with not a leg to stand on, and i had to compromise and accept one modest diamond as my share, the smallest and the least handsome of the lot. that comes of doing one's best to help people!" and lupin grumbled between his teeth: "oh, gratitude!... all humbug!... where should we honest men be if we had not our conscience and the satisfaction of duty performed to reward us?" iv the infernal trap when the race was over, a crowd of people, streaming toward the exit from the grand stand, pushed against nicolas dugrival. he brought his hand smartly to the inside pocket of his jacket. "what's the matter?" asked his wife. "i still feel nervous ... with that money on me! i'm afraid of some nasty accident." she muttered: "and i can't understand you. how can you think of carrying such a sum about with you? every farthing we possess! lord knows, it cost us trouble enough to earn!" "pooh!" he said. "no one would guess that it is here, in my pocket-book." "yes, yes," she grumbled. "that young man-servant whom we discharged last week knew all about it, didn't he, gabriel?" "yes, aunt," said a youth standing beside her. nicolas dugrival, his wife and his nephew gabriel were well-known figures at the race-meetings, where the regular frequenters saw them almost every day: dugrival, a big, fat, red-faced man, who looked as if he knew how to enjoy life; his wife, also built on heavy lines, with a coarse, vulgar face, and always dressed in a plum-coloured silk much the worse for wear; the nephew, quite young, slender, with pale features, dark eyes and fair and rather curly hair. as a rule, the couple remained seated throughout the afternoon. it was gabriel who betted for his uncle, watching the horses in the paddock, picking up tips to right and left among the jockeys and stable-lads, running backward and forward between the stands and the _pari-mutuel_. luck had favoured them that day, for, three times, dugrival's neighbours saw the young man come back and hand him money. the fifth race was just finishing. dugrival lit a cigar. at that moment, a gentleman in a tight-fitting brown suit, with a face ending in a peaked grey beard, came up to him and asked, in a confidential whisper: "does this happen to belong to you, sir?" and he displayed a gold watch and chain. dugrival gave a start: "why, yes ... it's mine.... look, here are my initials, n. g.: nicolas dugrival!" and he at once, with a movement of terror, clapped his hand to his jacket-pocket. the note-case was still there. "ah," he said, greatly relieved, "that's a piece of luck!... but, all the same, how on earth was it done?... do you know the scoundrel?" "yes, we've got him locked up. pray come with me and we'll soon look into the matter." "whom have i the honour ...?" "m. delangle, detective-inspector. i have sent to let m. marquenne, the magistrate, know." nicolas dugrival went out with the inspector; and the two of them started for the commissary's office, some distance behind the grand stand. they were within fifty yards of it, when the inspector was accosted by a man who said to him, hurriedly: "the fellow with the watch has blabbed; we are on the tracks of a whole gang. m. marquenne wants you to wait for him at the _pari-mutuel_ and to keep a look-out near the fourth booth." there was a crowd outside the betting-booths and inspector delangle muttered: "it's an absurd arrangement.... whom am i to look out for?... that's just like m. marquenne!..." he pushed aside a group of people who were crowding too close upon him: "by jove, one has to use one's elbows here and keep a tight hold on one's purse. that's the way you got your watch pinched, m. dugrival!" "i can't understand...." "oh, if you knew how those gentry go to work! one never guesses what they're up to next. one of them treads on your foot, another gives you a poke in the eye with his stick and the third picks your pocket before you know where you are.... i've been had that way myself." he stopped and then continued, angrily. "but, bother it, what's the use of hanging about here! what a mob! it's unbearable!... ah, there's m. marquenne making signs to us!... one moment, please ... and be sure and wait for me here." he shouldered his way through the crowd. nicolas dugrival followed him for a moment with his eyes. once the inspector was out of sight, he stood a little to one side, to avoid being hustled. a few minutes passed. the sixth race was about to start, when dugrival saw his wife and nephew looking for him. he explained to them that inspector delangle was arranging matters with the magistrate. "have you your money still?" asked his wife. "why, of course i have!" he replied. "the inspector and i took good care, i assure you, not to let the crowd jostle us." he felt his jacket, gave a stifled cry, thrust his hand into his pocket and began to stammer inarticulate syllables, while mme. dugrival gasped, in dismay: "what is it? what's the matter?" "stolen!" he moaned. "the pocket-book ... the fifty notes!..." "it's not true!" she screamed. "it's not true!" "yes, the inspector ... a common sharper ... he's the man...." she uttered absolute yells: "thief! thief! stop thief!... my husband's been robbed!... fifty thousand francs!... we are ruined!... thief! thief ..." in a moment they were surrounded by policemen and taken to the commissary's office. dugrival went like a lamb, absolutely bewildered. his wife continued to shriek at the top of her voice, piling up explanations, railing against the inspector: "have him looked for!... have him found!... a brown suit.... a pointed beard.... oh, the villain, to think what he's robbed us of!... fifty thousand francs!... why ... why, dugrival, what are you doing?" with one bound, she flung herself upon her husband. too late! he had pressed the barrel of a revolver against his temple. a shot rang out. dugrival fell. he was dead. * * * * * the reader cannot have forgotten the commotion made by the newspapers in connection with this case, nor how they jumped at the opportunity once more to accuse the police of carelessness and blundering. was it conceivable that a pick-pocket could play the part of an inspector like that, in broad daylight and in a public place, and rob a respectable man with impunity? nicolas dugrival's widow kept the controversy alive, thanks to her jeremiads and to the interviews which she granted on every hand. a reporter had secured a snapshot of her in front of her husband's body, holding up her hand and swearing to revenge his death. her nephew gabriel was standing beside her, with hatred pictured in his face. he, too, it appeared, in a few words uttered in a whisper, but in a tone of fierce determination, had taken an oath to pursue and catch the murderer. the accounts described the humble apartment which they occupied at the batignolles; and, as they had been robbed of all their means, a sporting-paper opened a subscription on their behalf. as for the mysterious delangle, he remained undiscovered. two men were arrested, but had to be released forthwith. the police took up a number of clues, which were at once abandoned; more than one name was mentioned; and, lastly, they accused arsène lupin, an action which provoked the famous burglar's celebrated cable, dispatched from new york six days after the incident: "protest indignantly against calumny invented by baffled police. send my condolences to unhappy victims. instructing my bankers to remit them fifty thousand francs. "lupin." true enough, on the day after the publication of the cable, a stranger rang at mme. dugrival's door and handed her an envelope. the envelope contained fifty thousand-franc notes. this theatrical stroke was not at all calculated to allay the universal comment. but an event soon occurred which provided any amount of additional excitement. two days later, the people living in the same house as mme. dugrival and her nephew were awakened, at four o'clock in the morning, by horrible cries and shrill calls for help. they rushed to the flat. the porter succeeded in opening the door. by the light of a lantern carried by one of the neighbours, he found gabriel stretched at full-length in his bedroom, with his wrists and ankles bound and a gag forced into his mouth, while, in the next room, mme. dugrival lay with her life's blood ebbing away through a great gash in her breast. she whispered: "the money.... i've been robbed.... all the notes gone...." and she fainted away. what had happened? gabriel said--and, as soon as she was able to speak, mme. dugrival completed her nephew's story--that he was startled from his sleep by finding himself attacked by two men, one of whom gagged him, while the other fastened him down. he was unable to see the men in the dark, but he heard the noise of the struggle between them and his aunt. it was a terrible struggle, mme. dugrival declared. the ruffians, who obviously knew their way about, guided by some intuition, made straight for the little cupboard containing the money and, in spite of her resistance and outcries, laid hands upon the bundle of bank-notes. as they left, one of them, whom she had bitten in the arm, stabbed her with a knife, whereupon the men had both fled. "which way?" she was asked. "through the door of my bedroom and afterward, i suppose, through the hall-door." "impossible! the porter would have noticed them." for the whole mystery lay in this: how had the ruffians entered the house and how did they manage to leave it? there was no outlet open to them. was it one of the tenants? a careful inquiry proved the absurdity of such a supposition. what then? chief-inspector ganimard, who was placed in special charge of the case, confessed that he had never known anything more bewildering: "it's very like lupin," he said, "and yet it's not lupin.... no, there's more in it than meets the eye, something very doubtful and suspicious.... besides, if it were lupin, why should he take back the fifty thousand francs which he sent? there's another question that puzzles me: what is the connection between the second robbery and the first, the one on the race-course? the whole thing is incomprehensible and i have a sort of feeling--which is very rare with me--that it is no use hunting. for my part, i give it up." the examining-magistrate threw himself into the case with heart and soul. the reporters united their efforts with those of the police. a famous english sleuth-hound crossed the channel. a wealthy american, whose head had been turned by detective-stories, offered a big reward to whosoever should supply the first information leading to the discovery of the truth. six weeks later, no one was any the wiser. the public adopted ganimard's view; and the examining-magistrate himself grew tired of struggling in a darkness which only became denser as time went on. and life continued as usual with dugrival's widow. nursed by her nephew, she soon recovered from her wound. in the mornings, gabriel settled her in an easy-chair at the dining-room window, did the rooms and then went out marketing. he cooked their lunch without even accepting the proffered assistance of the porter's wife. worried by the police investigations and especially by the requests for interviews, the aunt and nephew refused to see anybody. not even the portress, whose chatter disturbed and wearied mme. dugrival, was admitted. she fell back upon gabriel, whom she accosted each time that he passed her room: "take care, m. gabriel, you're both of you being spied upon. there are men watching you. why, only last night, my husband caught a fellow staring up at your windows." "nonsense!" said gabriel. "it's all right. that's the police, protecting us." one afternoon, at about four o'clock, there was a violent altercation between two costermongers at the bottom of the street. the porter's wife at once left her room to listen to the invectives which the adversaries were hurling at each other's heads. her back was no sooner turned than a man, young, of medium height and dressed in a grey suit of irreproachable cut, slipped into the house and ran up the staircase. when he came to the third floor, he rang the bell. receiving no answer, he rang again. at the third summons, the door opened. "mme. dugrival?" he asked, taking off his hat. "mme. dugrival is still an invalid and unable to see any one," said gabriel, who stood in the hall. "it's most important that i should speak to her." "i am her nephew and perhaps i could take her a message...." "very well," said the man. "please tell mme. dugrival that an accident has supplied me with valuable information concerning the robbery from which she has suffered and that i should like to go over the flat and ascertain certain particulars for myself. i am accustomed to this sort of inquiry; and my call is sure to be of use to her." gabriel examined the visitor for a moment, reflected and said: "in that case, i suppose my aunt will consent ... pray come in." he opened the door of the dining-room and stepped back to allow the other to pass. the stranger walked to the threshold, but, at the moment when he was crossing it, gabriel raised his arm and, with a swift movement, struck him with a dagger over the right shoulder. a burst of laughter rang through the room: "got him!" cried mme. dugrival, darting up from her chair. "well done, gabriel! but, i say, you haven't killed the scoundrel, have you?" "i don't think so, aunt. it's a small blade and i didn't strike him too hard." the man was staggering, with his hands stretched in front of him and his face deathly pale. "you fool!" sneered the widow. "so you've fallen into the trap ... and a good job too! we've been looking out for you a long time. come, my fine fellow, down with you! you don't care about it, do you? but you can't help yourself, you see. that's right: one knee on the ground, before the missus ... now the other knee.... how well we've been brought up!... crash, there we go on the floor! lord, if my poor dugrival could only see him like that!... and now, gabriel, to work!" she went to her bedroom and opened one of the doors of a hanging wardrobe filled with dresses. pulling these aside, she pushed open another door which formed the back of the wardrobe and led to a room in the next house: "help me carry him, gabriel. and you'll nurse him as well as you can, won't you? for the present, he's worth his weight in gold to us, the artist!..." * * * * * the hours succeeded one another. days passed. one morning, the wounded man regained a moment's consciousness. he raised his eyelids and looked around him. he was lying in a room larger than that in which he had been stabbed, a room sparsely furnished, with thick curtains hanging before the windows from top to bottom. there was light enough, however, to enable him to see young gabriel dugrival seated on a chair beside him and watching him. "ah, it's you, youngster!" he murmured. "i congratulate you, my lad. you have a sure and pretty touch with the dagger." and he fell asleep again. that day and the following days, he woke up several times and, each time, he saw the stripling's pale face, his thin lips and his dark eyes, with the hard look in them: "you frighten me," he said. "if you have sworn to do for me, don't stand on ceremony. but cheer up, for goodness' sake. the thought of death has always struck me as the most humorous thing in the world. whereas, with you, old chap, it simply becomes lugubrious. i prefer to go to sleep. good-night!" still, gabriel, in obedience to mme. dugrival's orders, continued to nurse him with the utmost care and attention. the patient was almost free from fever and was beginning to take beef-tea and milk. he gained a little strength and jested: "when will the convalescent be allowed his first drive? is the bath-chair there? why, cheer up, stupid! you look like a weeping-willow contemplating a crime. come, just one little smile for daddy!" one day, on waking, he had a very unpleasant feeling of constraint. after a few efforts, he perceived that, during his sleep, his legs, chest and arms had been fastened to the bedstead with thin wire strands that cut into his flesh at the least movements. "ah," he said to his keeper, "this time it's the great performance! the chicken's going to be bled. are you operating, angel gabriel? if so, see that your razor's nice and clean, old chap! the antiseptic treatment, _if_ you please!" but he was interrupted by the sound of a key grating in the lock. the door opposite opened and mme. dugrival appeared. she approached slowly, took a chair and, producing a revolver from her pocket, cocked it and laid it on the table by the bedside. "brrrrr!" said the prisoner. "we might be at the ambigu!... fourth act: the traitor's doom. and the fair sex to do the deed.... the hand of the graces.... what an honour!... mme. dugrival, i rely on you not to disfigure me." "hold your tongue, lupin." "ah, so you know?... by jove, how clever we are!" "hold your tongue, lupin." there was a solemn note in her voice that impressed the captive and compelled him to silence. he watched his two gaolers in turns. the bloated features and red complexion of mme. dugrival formed a striking contrast with her nephew's refined face; but they both wore the same air of implacable resolve. the widow leant forward and said: "are you prepared to answer my questions?" "why not?" "then listen to me. how did you know that dugrival carried all his money in his pocket?" "servants' gossip...." "a young man-servant whom we had in our employ: was that it?" "yes." "and did you steal dugrival's watch in order to give it back to him and inspire him with confidence?" "yes." she suppressed a movement of fury: "you fool! you fool!... what! you rob my man, you drive him to kill himself and, instead of making tracks to the uttermost ends of the earth and hiding yourself, you go on playing lupin in the heart of paris!... did you forget that i swore, on my dead husband's head, to find his murderer?" "that's what staggers me," said lupin. "how did you come to suspect me?" "how? why, you gave yourself away!" "i did?..." "of course.... the fifty thousand francs...." "well, what about it? a present...." "yes, a present which you gave cabled instructions to have sent to me, so as to make believe that you were in america on the day of the races. a present, indeed! what humbug! the fact is, you didn't like to think of the poor fellow whom you had murdered. so you restored the money to the widow, publicly, of course, because you love playing to the gallery and ranting and posing, like the mountebank that you are. that was all very nicely thought out. only, my fine fellow, you ought not to have sent me the selfsame notes that were stolen from dugrival! yes, you silly fool, the selfsame notes and no others! we knew the numbers, dugrival and i did. and you were stupid enough to send the bundle to me. now do you understand your folly?" lupin began to laugh: "it was a pretty blunder, i confess. i'm not responsible; i gave different orders. but, all the same i can't blame any one except myself." "ah, so you admit it! you signed your theft and you signed your ruin at the same time. there was nothing left to be done but to find you. find you? no, better than that. sensible people don't find lupin: they make him come to them! that was a masterly notion. it belongs to my young nephew, who loathes you as much as i do, if possible, and who knows you thoroughly, through reading all the books that have been written about you. he knows your prying nature, your need to be always plotting, your mania for hunting in the dark and unravelling what others have failed to unravel. he also knows that sort of sham kindness of yours, the drivelling sentimentality that makes you shed crocodile tears over the people you victimize; and he planned the whole farce! he invented the story of the two burglars, the second theft of fifty thousand francs! oh, i swear to you, before heaven, that the stab which i gave myself with my own hands never hurt me! and i swear to you, before heaven, that we spent a glorious time waiting for you, the boy and i, peeping out at your confederates who prowled under our windows, taking their bearings! and there was no mistake about it: you were bound to come! seeing that you had restored the widow dugrival's fifty thousand francs, it was out of the question that you should allow the widow dugrival to be robbed of her fifty thousand francs! you were bound to come, attracted by the scent of the mystery. you were bound to come, for swagger, out of vanity! and you come!" the widow gave a strident laugh: "well played, wasn't it? the lupin of lupins, the master of masters, inaccessible and invisible, caught in a trap by a woman and a boy!... here he is in flesh and bone ... here he is with hands and feet tied, no more dangerous than a sparrow ... here is he ... here he is!..." she shook with joy and began to pace the room, throwing sidelong glances at the bed, like a wild beast that does not for a moment take its eyes from its victim. and never had lupin beheld greater hatred and savagery in any human being. "enough of this prattle," she said. suddenly restraining herself, she stalked back to him and, in a quite different tone, in a hollow voice, laying stress on every syllable: "thanks to the papers in your pocket, lupin, i have made good use of the last twelve days. i know all your affairs, all your schemes, all your assumed names, all the organization of your band, all the lodgings which you possess in paris and elsewhere. i have even visited one of them, the most secret, the one where you hide your papers, your ledgers and the whole story of your financial operations. the result of my investigations is very satisfactory. here are four cheques, taken from four cheque-books and corresponding with four accounts which you keep at four different banks under four different names. i have filled in each of them for ten thousand francs. a larger figure would have been too risky. and, now, sign." "by jove!" said lupin, sarcastically. "this is blackmail, my worthy mme. dugrival." "that takes your breath away, what?" "it takes my breath away, as you say." "and you find an adversary who is a match for you?" "the adversary is far beyond me. so the trap--let us call it infernal--the infernal trap into which i have fallen was laid not merely by a widow thirsting for revenge, but also by a first-rate business woman anxious to increase her capital?" "just so." "my congratulations. and, while i think of it, used m. dugrival perhaps to ...?" "you have hit it, lupin. after all, why conceal the fact? it will relieve your conscience. yes, lupin, dugrival used to work on the same lines as yourself. oh, not on the same scale!... we were modest people: a louis here, a louis there ... a purse or two which we trained gabriel to pick up at the races.... and, in this way, we had made our little pile ... just enough to buy a small place in the country." "i prefer it that way," said lupin. "that's all right! i'm only telling you, so that you may know that i am not a beginner and that you have nothing to hope for. a rescue? no. the room in which we now are communicates with my bedroom. it has a private outlet of which nobody knows. it was dugrival's special apartment. he used to see his friends here. he kept his implements and tools here, his disguises ... his telephone even, as you perceive. so there's no hope, you see. your accomplices have given up looking for you here. i have sent them off on another track. your goose is cooked. do you begin to realize the position?" "yes." "then sign the cheques." "and, when i have signed them, shall i be free?" "i must cash them first." "and after that?" "after that, on my soul, as i hope to be saved, you will be free." "i don't trust you." "have you any choice?" "that's true. hand me the cheques." she unfastened lupin's right hand, gave him a pen and said: "don't forget that the four cheques require four different signatures and that the handwriting has to be altered in each case." "never fear." he signed the cheques. "gabriel," said the widow, "it is ten o'clock. if i am not back by twelve, it will mean that this scoundrel has played me one of his tricks. at twelve o'clock, blow out his brains. i am leaving you the revolver with which your uncle shot himself. there are five bullets left out of the six. that will be ample." she left the room, humming a tune as she went. lupin mumbled: "i wouldn't give twopence for my life." he shut his eyes for an instant and then, suddenly, said to gabriel: "how much?" and, when the other did not appear to understand, he grew irritated: "i mean what i say. how much? answer me, can't you? we drive the same trade, you and i. i steal, thou stealest, we steal. so we ought to come to terms: that's what we are here for. well? is it a bargain? shall we clear out together. i will give you a post in my gang, an easy, well-paid post. how much do you want for yourself? ten thousand? twenty thousand? fix your own price; don't be shy. there's plenty to be had for the asking." an angry shiver passed through his frame as he saw the impassive face of his keeper: "oh, the beggar won't even answer! why, you can't have been so fond of old dugrival as all that! listen to me: if you consent to release me...." but he interrupted himself. the young man's eyes wore the cruel expression which he knew so well. what was the use of trying to move him? "hang it all!" he snarled. "i'm not going to croak here, like a dog! oh, if i could only...." stiffening all his muscles, he tried to burst his bonds, making a violent effort that drew a cry of pain from him; and he fell back upon his bed, exhausted. "well, well," he muttered, after a moment, "it's as the widow said: my goose is cooked. nothing to be done. _de profundis_, lupin." a quarter of an hour passed, half an hour.... gabriel, moving closer to lupin, saw that his eyes were shut and that his breath came evenly, like that of a man sleeping. but lupin said: "don't imagine that i'm asleep, youngster. no, people don't sleep at a moment like this. only i am consoling myself. needs must, eh?... and then i am thinking of what is to come after.... exactly. i have a little theory of my own about that. you wouldn't think it, to look at me, but i believe in metempsychosis, in the transmigration of souls. it would take too long to explain, however.... i say, boy ... suppose we shook hands before we part? you won't? then good-bye. good health and a long life to you, gabriel!..." he closed his eyelids and did not stir again before mme. dugrival's return. the widow entered with a lively step, at a few minutes before twelve. she seemed greatly excited: "i have the money," she said to her nephew. "run away. i'll join you in the motor down below." "but...." "i don't want your help to finish him off. i can do that alone. still, if you feel like seeing the sort of a face a rogue can pull.... pass me the weapon." gabriel handed her the revolver and the widow continued: "have you burnt our papers?" "yes." "then to work. and, as soon as he's done for, be off. the shots may bring the neighbours. they must find both the flats empty." she went up to the bed: "are you ready, lupin?" "ready's not the word: i'm burning with impatience." "have you any request to make of me?" "none." "then...." "one word, though." "what is it?" "if i meet dugrival in the next world, what message am i to give him from you?" she shrugged her shoulders and put the barrel of the revolver to lupin's temple. "that's it," he said, "and be sure your hand doesn't shake, my dear lady. it won't hurt you, i swear. are you ready? at the word of command, eh? one ... two ... three...." the widow pulled the trigger. a shot rang out. "is this death?" said lupin. "that's funny! i should have thought it was something much more different from life!" there was a second shot. gabriel snatched the weapon from his aunt's hands and examined it: "ah," he exclaimed, "the bullets have been removed!... there are only the percussion-caps left!..." his aunt and he stood motionless, for a moment, and confused: "impossible!" she blurted out. "who could have done it?... an inspector?... the examining-magistrate?..." she stopped and, in a low voice: "hark.... i hear a noise...." they listened and the widow went into the hall. she returned, furious, exasperated by her failure and by the scare which she had received: "there's nobody there.... it must have been the neighbours going out.... we have plenty of time.... ah, lupin, you were beginning to make merry!... the knife, gabriel." "it's in my room." "go and fetch it." gabriel hurried away. the widow stamped with rage: "i've sworn to do it!... you've got to suffer, my fine fellow!... i swore to dugrival that i would do it and i have repeated my oath every morning and evening since.... i have taken it on my knees, yes, on my knees, before heaven that listens to me! it's my duty and my right to revenge my dead husband!... by the way, lupin, you don't look quite as merry as you did!... lord, one would almost think you were afraid!... he's afraid! he's afraid! i can see it in his eyes!... come along, gabriel, my boy!... look at his eyes!... look at his lips!... he's trembling!... give me the knife, so that i may dig it into his heart while he's shivering.... oh, you coward!... quick, quick, gabriel, the knife!..." "i can't find it anywhere," said the young man, running back in dismay. "it has gone from my room! i can't make it out!" "never mind!" cried the widow dugrival, half demented. "all the better! i will do the business myself." she seized lupin by the throat, clutched him with her ten fingers, digging her nails into his flesh, and began to squeeze with all her might. lupin uttered a hoarse rattle and gave himself up for lost. suddenly, there was a crash at the window. one of the panes was smashed to pieces. "what's that? what is it?" stammered the widow, drawing herself erect, in alarm. gabriel, who had turned even paler than usual, murmured: "i don't know.... i can't think...." "who can have done it?" said the widow. she dared not move, waiting for what would come next. and one thing above all terrified her, the fact that there was no missile on the floor around them, although the pane of glass, as was clearly visible, had given way before the crash of a heavy and fairly large object, a stone, probably. after a while, she looked under the bed, under the chest of drawers: "nothing," she said. "no," said her nephew, who was also looking. and, resuming her seat, she said: "i feel frightened ... my arms fail me ... you finish him off...." gabriel confessed: "i'm frightened also." "still ... still," she stammered, "it's got to be done.... i swore it...." making one last effort, she returned to lupin and gasped his neck with her stiff fingers. but lupin, who was watching her pallid face, received a very clear sensation that she would not have the courage to kill him. to her he was becoming something sacred, invulnerable. a mysterious power was protecting him against every attack, a power which had already saved him three times by inexplicable means and which would find other means to protect him against the wiles of death. she said to him, in a hoarse voice: "how you must be laughing at me!" "not at all, upon my word. i should feel frightened myself, in your place." "nonsense, you scum of the earth! you imagine that you will be rescued ... that your friends are waiting outside? it's out of the question, my fine fellow." "i know. it's not they defending me ... nobody's defending me...." "well, then?..." "well, all the same, there's something strange at the bottom of it, something fantastic and miraculous that makes your flesh creep, my fine lady." "you villain!... you'll be laughing on the other side of your mouth before long." "i doubt it." "you wait and see." she reflected once more and said to her nephew: "what would you do?" "fasten his arm again and let's be off," he replied. a hideous suggestion! it meant condemning lupin to the most horrible of all deaths, death by starvation. "no," said the widow. "he might still find a means of escape. i know something better than that." she took down the receiver of the telephone, waited and asked: "number , please." and, after a second or two: "hullo!... is that the criminal investigation department?... is chief-inspector ganimard there?... in twenty minutes, you say?... i'm sorry!... however!... when he comes, give him this message from mme. dugrival.... yes, mme. nicolas dugrival.... ask him to come to my flat. tell him to open the looking-glass door of my wardrobe; and, when he has done so, he will see that the wardrobe hides an outlet which makes my bedroom communicate with two other rooms. in one of these, he will find a man bound hand and foot. it is the thief, dugrival's murderer.... you don't believe me?... tell m. ganimard; he'll believe me right enough.... oh, i was almost forgetting to give you the man's name: arsène lupin!" and, without another word, she replaced the receiver. "there, lupin, that's done. after all, i would just as soon have my revenge this way. how i shall hold my sides when i read the reports of the lupin trial!... are you coming, gabriel?" "yes, aunt." "good-bye, lupin. you and i sha'n't see each other again, i expect, for we are going abroad. but i promise to send you some sweets while you're in prison." "chocolates, mother! we'll eat them together!" "good-bye." "_au revoir._" the widow went out with her nephew, leaving lupin fastened down to the bed. he at once moved his free arm and tried to release himself; but he realized, at the first attempt, that he would never have the strength to break the wire strands that bound him. exhausted with fever and pain, what could he do in the twenty minutes or so that were left to him before ganimard's arrival? nor did he count upon his friends. true, he had been thrice saved from death; but this was evidently due to an astounding series of accidents and not to any interference on the part of his allies. otherwise they would not have contented themselves with these extraordinary manifestations, but would have rescued him for good and all. no, he must abandon all hope. ganimard was coming. ganimard would find him there. it was inevitable. there was no getting away from the fact. and the prospect of what was coming irritated him singularly. he already heard his old enemy's gibes ringing in his ears. he foresaw the roars of laughter with which the incredible news would be greeted on the morrow. to be arrested in action, so to speak, on the battlefield, by an imposing detachment of adversaries, was one thing: but to be arrested, or rather picked up, scraped up, gathered up, in such condition, was really too silly. and lupin, who had so often scoffed at others, felt all the ridicule that was falling to his share in this ending of the dugrival business, all the bathos of allowing himself to be caught in the widow's infernal trap and finally of being "served up" to the police like a dish of game, roasted to a turn and nicely seasoned. "blow the widow!" he growled. "i had rather she had cut my throat and done with it." he pricked up his ears. some one was moving in the next room. ganimard! no. great as his eagerness would be, he could not be there yet. besides, ganimard would not have acted like that, would not have opened the door as gently as that other person was doing. what other person? lupin remembered the three miraculous interventions to which he owed his life. was it possible that there was really somebody who had protected him against the widow, and that that somebody was now attempting to rescue him? but, if so, who? unseen by lupin, the stranger stooped behind the bed. lupin heard the sound of the pliers attacking the wire strands and releasing him little by little. first his chest was freed, then his arms, then his legs. and a voice said to him: "you must get up and dress." feeling very weak, he half-raised himself in bed at the moment when the stranger rose from her stooping posture. "who are you?" he whispered. "who are you?" and a great surprise over came him. by his side stood a woman, a woman dressed in black, with a lace shawl over her head, covering part of her face. and the woman, as far as he could judge, was young and of a graceful and slender stature. "who are you?" he repeated. "you must come now," said the woman. "there's no time to lose." "can i?" asked lupin, making a desperate effort. "i doubt if i have the strength." "drink this." she poured some milk into a cup; and, as she handed it to him, her lace opened, leaving the face uncovered. "you!" he stammered. "it's you!... it's you who ... it was you who were...." he stared in amazement at this woman whose features presented so striking a resemblance to gabriel's, whose delicate, regular face had the same pallor, whose mouth wore the same hard and forbidding expression. no sister could have borne so great a likeness to her brother. there was not a doubt possible: it was the identical person. and, without believing for a moment that gabriel had concealed himself in a woman's clothes, lupin, on the contrary, received the distinct impression that it was a woman standing beside him and that the stripling who had pursued him with his hatred and struck him with the dagger was in very deed a woman. in order to follow their trade with greater ease, the dugrival pair had accustomed her to disguise herself as a boy. "you ... you ...!" he repeated. "who would have suspected ...?" she emptied the contents of a phial into the cup: "drink this cordial," she said. he hesitated, thinking of poison. she added: "it was i who saved you." "of course, of course," he said. "it was you who removed the bullets from the revolver?" "yes." "and you who hid the knife?" "here it is, in my pocket." "and you who smashed the window-pane while your aunt was throttling me?" "yes, it was i, with the paper-weight on the table: i threw it into the street." "but why? why?" he asked, in utter amazement. "drink the cordial." "didn't you want me to die? but then why did you stab me to begin with?" "drink the cordial." he emptied the cup at a draught, without quite knowing the reason of his sudden confidence. "dress yourself ... quickly," she commanded, retiring to the window. he obeyed and she came back to him, for he had dropped into a chair, exhausted. "we must go now, we must, we have only just time.... collect your strength." she bent forward a little, so that he might lean on her shoulder, and turned toward the door and the staircase. and lupin walked as one walks in a dream, one of those queer dreams in which the most inconsequent things occur, a dream that was the happy sequel of the terrible nightmare in which he had lived for the past fortnight. a thought struck him, however. he began to laugh: "poor ganimard! upon my word, the fellow has no luck, i would give twopence to see him coming to arrest me." after descending the staircase with the aid of his companion, who supported him with incredible vigour, he found himself in the street, opposite a motor-car into which she helped him to mount. "right away," she said to the driver. lupin, dazed by the open air and the speed at which they were travelling, hardly took stock of the drive and of the incidents on the road. he recovered all his consciousness when he found himself at home in one of the flats which he occupied, looked after by his servant, to whom the girl gave a few rapid instructions. "you can go," he said to the man. but, when the girl turned to go as well, he held her back by a fold of her dress. "no ... no ... you must first explain.... why did you save me? did you return unknown to your aunt? but why did you save me? was it from pity?" she did not answer. with her figure drawn up and her head flung back a little, she retained her hard and impenetrable air. nevertheless, he thought he noticed that the lines of her mouth showed not so much cruelty as bitterness. her eyes, her beautiful dark eyes, revealed melancholy. and lupin, without as yet understanding, received a vague intuition of what was passing within her. he seized her hand. she pushed him away, with a start of revolt in which he felt hatred, almost repulsion. and, when he insisted, she cried: "let me be, will you?... let me be!... can't you see that i detest you?" they looked at each other for a moment, lupin disconcerted, she quivering and full of uneasiness, her pale face all flushed with unwonted colour. he said to her, gently: "if you detested me, you should have let me die.... it was simple enough.... why didn't you?" "why?... why?... how do i know?..." her face contracted. with a sudden movement, she hid it in her two hands; and he saw tears trickle between her fingers. greatly touched, he thought of addressing her in fond words, such as one would use to a little girl whom one wished to console, and of giving her good advice and saving her, in his turn, and snatching her from the bad life which she was leading, perhaps against her better nature. but such words would have sounded ridiculous, coming from his lips, and he did not know what to say, now that he understood the whole story and was able to picture the young woman sitting beside his sick-bed, nursing the man whom she had wounded, admiring his pluck and gaiety, becoming attached to him, falling in love with him and thrice over, probably in spite of herself, under a sort of instinctive impulse, amid fits of spite and rage, saving him from death. and all this was so strange, so unforeseen; lupin was so much unmanned by his astonishment, that, this time, he did not try to retain her when she made for the door, backward, without taking her eyes from him. she lowered her head, smiled for an instant and disappeared. he rang the bell, quickly: "follow that woman," he said to his man. "or no, stay where you are.... after all, it is better so...." he sat brooding for a while, possessed by the girl's image. then he revolved in his mind all that curious, stirring and tragic adventure, in which he had been so very near succumbing; and, taking a hand-glass from the table, he gazed for a long time and with a certain self-complacency at his features, which illness and pain had not succeeded in impairing to any great extent: "good looks count for something, after all!" he muttered. v the red silk scarf on leaving his house one morning, at his usual early hour for going to the law courts, chief-inspector ganimard noticed the curious behaviour of an individual who was walking along the rue pergolèse in front of him. shabbily dressed and wearing a straw hat, though the day was the first of december, the man stooped at every thirty or forty yards to fasten his boot-lace, or pick up his stick, or for some other reason. and, each time, he took a little piece of orange-peel from his pocket and laid it stealthily on the kerb of the pavement. it was probably a mere display of eccentricity, a childish amusement to which no one else would have paid attention; but ganimard was one of those shrewd observers who are indifferent to nothing that strikes their eyes and who are never satisfied until they know the secret cause of things. he therefore began to follow the man. now, at the moment when the fellow was turning to the right, into the avenue de la grande-armée, the inspector caught him exchanging signals with a boy of twelve or thirteen, who was walking along the houses on the left-hand side. twenty yards farther, the man stooped and turned up the bottom of his trousers legs. a bit of orange-peel marked the place. at the same moment, the boy stopped and, with a piece of chalk, drew a white cross, surrounded by a circle, on the wall of the house next to him. the two continued on their way. a minute later, a fresh halt. the strange individual picked up a pin and dropped a piece of orange-peel; and the boy at once made a second cross on the wall and again drew a white circle round it. "by jove!" thought the chief-inspector, with a grunt of satisfaction. "this is rather promising.... what on earth can those two merchants be plotting?" the two "merchants" went down the avenue friedland and the rue du faubourg-saint-honoré, but nothing occurred that was worthy of special mention. the double performance was repeated at almost regular intervals and, so to speak, mechanically. nevertheless, it was obvious, on the one hand, that the man with the orange-peel did not do his part of the business until after he had picked out with a glance the house that was to be marked and, on the other hand, that the boy did not mark that particular house until after he had observed his companion's signal. it was certain, therefore, that there was an agreement between the two; and the proceedings presented no small interest in the chief-inspector's eyes. at the place beauveau the man hesitated. then, apparently making up his mind, he twice turned up and twice turned down the bottom of his trousers legs. hereupon, the boy sat down on the kerb, opposite the sentry who was mounting guard outside the ministry of the interior, and marked the flagstone with two little crosses contained within two circles. the same ceremony was gone through a little further on, when they reached the elysée. only, on the pavement where the president's sentry was marching up and down, there were three signs instead of two. "hang it all!" muttered ganimard, pale with excitement and thinking, in spite of himself, of his inveterate enemy, lupin, whose name came to his mind whenever a mysterious circumstance presented itself. "hang it all, what does it mean?" he was nearly collaring and questioning the two "merchants." but he was too clever to commit so gross a blunder. the man with the orange-peel had now lit a cigarette; and the boy, also placing a cigarette-end between his lips, had gone up to him, apparently with the object of asking for a light. they exchanged a few words. quick as thought, the boy handed his companion an object which looked--at least, so the inspector believed--like a revolver. they both bent over this object; and the man, standing with his face to the wall, put his hand six times in his pocket and made a movement as though he were loading a weapon. as soon as this was done, they walked briskly to the rue de surène; and the inspector, who followed them as closely as he was able to do without attracting their attention, saw them enter the gateway of an old house of which all the shutters were closed, with the exception of those on the third or top floor. he hurried in after them. at the end of the carriage-entrance he saw a large courtyard, with a house-painter's sign at the back and a staircase on the left. he went up the stairs and, as soon as he reached the first floor, ran still faster, because he heard, right up at the top, a din as of a free-fight. when he came to the last landing he found the door open. he entered, listened for a second, caught the sound of a struggle, rushed to the room from which the sound appeared to proceed and remained standing on the threshold, very much out of breath and greatly surprised to see the man of the orange-peel and the boy banging the floor with chairs. at that moment a third person walked out of an adjoining room. it was a young man of twenty-eight or thirty, wearing a pair of short whiskers in addition to his moustache, spectacles, and a smoking-jacket with an astrakhan collar and looking like a foreigner, a russian. "good morning, ganimard," he said. and turning to the two companions, "thank you, my friends, and all my congratulations on the successful result. here's the reward i promised you." he gave them a hundred-franc note, pushed them outside and shut both doors. "i am sorry, old chap," he said to ganimard. "i wanted to talk to you ... wanted to talk to you badly." he offered him his hand and, seeing that the inspector remained flabbergasted and that his face was still distorted with anger, he exclaimed: "why, you don't seem to understand!... and yet it's clear enough.... i wanted to see you particularly.... so what could i do?" and, pretending to reply to an objection, "no, no, old chap," he continued. "you're quite wrong. if i had written or telephoned, you would not have come ... or else you would have come with a regiment. now i wanted to see you all alone; and i thought the best thing was to send those two decent fellows to meet you, with orders to scatter bits of orange-peel and draw crosses and circles, in short, to mark out your road to this place.... why, you look quite bewildered! what is it? perhaps you don't recognize me? lupin.... arsène lupin.... ransack your memory.... doesn't the name remind you of anything?" "you dirty scoundrel!" ganimard snarled between his teeth. lupin seemed greatly distressed and, in an affectionate voice: "are you vexed? yes, i can see it in your eyes.... the dugrival business, i suppose? i ought to have waited for you to come and take me in charge?... there now, the thought never occurred to me! i promise you, next time...." "you scum of the earth!" growled ganimard. "and i thinking i was giving you a treat! upon my word, i did. i said to myself, 'that dear old ganimard! we haven't met for an age. he'll simply rush at me when he sees me!'" ganimard, who had not yet stirred a limb, seemed to be waking from his stupor. he looked around him, looked at lupin, visibly asked himself whether he would not do well to rush at him in reality and then, controlling himself, took hold of a chair and settled himself in it, as though he had suddenly made up his mind to listen to his enemy: "speak," he said. "and don't waste my time with any nonsense. i'm in a hurry." "that's it," said lupin, "let's talk. you can't imagine a quieter place than this. it's an old manor-house, which once stood in the open country, and it belongs to the duc de rochelaure. the duke, who has never lived in it, lets this floor to me and the outhouses to a painter and decorator. i always keep up a few establishments of this kind: it's a sound, practical plan. here, in spite of my looking like a russian nobleman, i am m. daubreuil, an ex-cabinet-minister.... you understand, i had to select a rather overstocked profession, so as not to attract attention...." "do you think i care a hang about all this?" said ganimard, interrupting him. "quite right, i'm wasting words and you're in a hurry. forgive me. i sha'n't be long now.... five minutes, that's all.... i'll start at once.... have a cigar? no? very well, no more will i." he sat down also, drummed his fingers on the table, while thinking, and began in this fashion: "on the th of october, , on a warm and sunny autumn day ... do you follow me?... but, now that i come to think of it, is it really necessary to go back to the reign of henry iv, and tell you all about the building of the pont-neuf? no, i don't suppose you are very well up in french history; and i should only end by muddling you. suffice it, then, for you to know that, last night, at one o'clock in the morning, a boatman passing under the last arch of the pont-neuf aforesaid, along the left bank of the river, heard something drop into the front part of his barge. the thing had been flung from the bridge and its evident destination was the bottom of the seine. the bargee's dog rushed forward, barking, and, when the man reached the end of his craft, he saw the animal worrying a piece of newspaper that had served to wrap up a number of objects. he took from the dog such of the contents as had not fallen into the water, went to his cabin and examined them carefully. the result struck him as interesting; and, as the man is connected with one of my friends, he sent to let me know. this morning i was waked up and placed in possession of the facts and of the objects which the man had collected. here they are." he pointed to them, spread out on a table. there were, first of all, the torn pieces of a newspaper. next came a large cut-glass inkstand, with a long piece of string fastened to the lid. there was a bit of broken glass and a sort of flexible cardboard, reduced to shreds. lastly, there was a piece of bright scarlet silk, ending in a tassel of the same material and colour. "you see our exhibits, friend of my youth," said lupin. "no doubt, the problem would be more easily solved if we had the other objects which went overboard owing to the stupidity of the dog. but it seems to me, all the same, that we ought to be able to manage, with a little reflection and intelligence. and those are just your great qualities. how does the business strike you?" ganimard did not move a muscle. he was willing to stand lupin's chaff, but his dignity commanded him not to speak a single word in answer nor even to give a nod or shake of the head that might have been taken to express approval or or criticism. "i see that we are entirely of one mind," continued lupin, without appearing to remark the chief-inspector's silence. "and i can sum up the matter briefly, as told us by these exhibits. yesterday evening, between nine and twelve o'clock, a showily dressed young woman was wounded with a knife and then caught round the throat and choked to death by a well-dressed gentleman, wearing a single eyeglass and interested in racing, with whom the aforesaid showily dressed young lady had been eating three meringues and a coffee éclair." lupin lit a cigarette and, taking ganimard by the sleeve: "aha, that's up against you, chief-inspector! you thought that, in the domain of police deductions, such feats as those were prohibited to outsiders! wrong, sir! lupin juggles with inferences and deductions for all the world like a detective in a novel. my proofs are dazzling and absolutely simple." and, pointing to the objects one by one, as he demonstrated his statement, he resumed: "i said, after nine o'clock yesterday evening. this scrap of newspaper bears yesterday's date, with the words, 'evening edition.' also, you will see here, pasted to the paper, a bit of one of those yellow wrappers in which the subscribers' copies are sent out. these copies are always delivered by the nine o'clock post. therefore, it was after nine o'clock. i said, a well-dressed man. please observe that this tiny piece of glass has the round hole of a single eyeglass at one of the edges and that the single eyeglass is an essentially aristocratic article of wear. this well-dressed man walked into a pastry-cook's shop. here is the very thin cardboard, shaped like a box, and still showing a little of the cream of the meringues and éclairs which were packed in it in the usual way. having got his parcel, the gentleman with the eyeglass joined a young person whose eccentricity in the matter of dress is pretty clearly indicated by this bright-red silk scarf. having joined her, for some reason as yet unknown he first stabbed her with a knife and then strangled her with the help of this same scarf. take your magnifying glass, chief-inspector, and you will see, on the silk, stains of a darker red which are, here, the marks of a knife wiped on the scarf and, there, the marks of a hand, covered with blood, clutching the material. having committed the murder, his next business is to leave no trace behind him. so he takes from his pocket, first, the newspaper to which he subscribes--a racing-paper, as you will see by glancing at the contents of this scrap; and you will have no difficulty in discovering the title--and, secondly, a cord, which, on inspection, turns out to be a length of whip-cord. these two details prove--do they not?--that our man is interested in racing and that he himself rides. next, he picks up the fragments of his eyeglass, the cord of which has been broken in the struggle. he takes a pair of scissors--observe the hacking of the scissors--and cuts off the stained part of the scarf, leaving the other end, no doubt, in his victim's clenched hands. he makes a ball of the confectioner's cardboard box. he also puts in certain things that would have betrayed him, such as the knife, which must have slipped into the seine. he wraps everything in the newspaper, ties it with the cord and fastens this cut-glass inkstand to it, as a make-weight. then he makes himself scarce. a little later, the parcel falls into the waterman's barge. and there you are. oof, it's hot work!... what do you say to the story?" he looked at ganimard to see what impression his speech had produced on the inspector. ganimard did not depart from his attitude of silence. lupin began to laugh: "as a matter of fact, you're annoyed and surprised. but you're suspicious as well: 'why should that confounded lupin hand the business over to me,' say you, 'instead of keeping it for himself, hunting down the murderer and rifling his pockets, if there was a robbery?' the question is quite logical, of course. but--there is a 'but'--i have no time, you see. i am full up with work at the present moment: a burglary in london, another at lausanne, an exchange of children at marseilles, to say nothing of having to save a young girl who is at this moment shadowed by death. that's always the way: it never rains but it pours. so i said to myself, 'suppose i handed the business over to my dear old ganimard? now that it is half-solved for him, he is quite capable of succeeding. and what a service i shall be doing him! how magnificently he will be able to distinguish himself!' no sooner said than done. at eight o'clock in the morning, i sent the joker with the orange-peel to meet you. you swallowed the bait; and you were here by nine, all on edge and eager for the fray." lupin rose from his chair. he went over to the inspector and, with his eyes in ganimard's, said: "that's all. you now know the whole story. presently, you will know the victim: some ballet-dancer, probably, some singer at a music-hall. on the other hand, the chances are that the criminal lives near the pont-neuf, most likely on the left bank. lastly, here are all the exhibits. i make you a present of them. set to work. i shall only keep this end of the scarf. if ever you want to piece the scarf together, bring me the other end, the one which the police will find round the victim's neck. bring it me in four weeks from now to the day, that is to say, on the th of december, at ten o'clock in the morning. you can be sure of finding me here. and don't be afraid: this is all perfectly serious, friend of my youth; i swear it is. no humbug, honour bright. you can go straight ahead. oh, by the way, when you arrest the fellow with the eyeglass, be a bit careful: he is left-handed! good-bye, old dear, and good luck to you!" lupin spun round on his heel, went to the door, opened it and disappeared before ganimard had even thought of taking a decision. the inspector rushed after him, but at once found that the handle of the door, by some trick of mechanism which he did not know, refused to turn. it took him ten minutes to unscrew the lock and ten minutes more to unscrew the lock of the hall-door. by the time that he had scrambled down the three flights of stairs, ganimard had given up all hope of catching arsène lupin. besides, he was not thinking of it. lupin inspired him with a queer, complex feeling, made up of fear, hatred, involuntary admiration and also the vague instinct that he, ganimard, in spite of all his efforts, in spite of the persistency of his endeavours, would never get the better of this particular adversary. he pursued him from a sense of duty and pride, but with the continual dread of being taken in by that formidable hoaxer and scouted and fooled in the face of a public that was always only too willing to laugh at the chief-inspector's mishaps. this business of the red scarf, in particular, struck him as most suspicious. it was interesting, certainly, in more ways than one, but so very improbable! and lupin's explanation, apparently so logical, would never stand the test of a severe examination! "no," said ganimard, "this is all swank: a parcel of suppositions and guesswork based upon nothing at all. i'm not to be caught with chaff." * * * * * when he reached the headquarters of police, at quai des orfèvres, he had quite made up his mind to treat the incident as though it had never happened. he went up to the criminal investigation department. here, one of his fellow-inspectors said: "seen the chief?" "no." "he was asking for you just now." "oh, was he?" "yes, you had better go after him." "where?" "to the rue de berne ... there was a murder there last night." "oh! who's the victim?" "i don't know exactly ... a music-hall singer, i believe." ganimard simply muttered: "by jove!" twenty minutes later he stepped out of the underground railway-station and made for the rue de berne. the victim, who was known in the theatrical world by her stage-name of jenny saphir, occupied a small flat on the second floor of one of the houses. a policeman took the chief-inspector upstairs and showed him the way, through two sitting-rooms, to a bedroom, where he found the magistrates in charge of the inquiry, together with the divisional surgeon and m. dudouis, the head of the detective-service. ganimard started at the first glance which he gave into the room. he saw, lying on a sofa, the corpse of a young woman whose hands clutched a strip of red silk! one of the shoulders, which appeared above the low-cut bodice, bore the marks of two wounds surrounded with clotted blood. the distorted and almost blackened features still bore an expression of frenzied terror. the divisional surgeon, who had just finished his examination, said: "my first conclusions are very clear. the victim was twice stabbed with a dagger and afterward strangled. the immediate cause of death was asphyxia." "by jove!" thought ganimard again, remembering lupin's words and the picture which he had drawn of the crime. the examining-magistrate objected: "but the neck shows no discoloration." "she may have been strangled with a napkin or a handkerchief," said the doctor. "most probably," said the chief detective, "with this silk scarf, which the victim was wearing and a piece of which remains, as though she had clung to it with her two hands to protect herself." "but why does only that piece remain?" asked the magistrate. "what has become of the other?" "the other may have been stained with blood and carried off by the murderer. you can plainly distinguish the hurried slashing of the scissors." "by jove!" said ganimard, between his teeth, for the third time. "that brute of a lupin saw everything without seeing a thing!" "and what about the motive of the murder?" asked the magistrate. "the locks have been forced, the cupboards turned upside down. have you anything to tell me, m. dudouis?" the chief of the detective-service replied: "i can at least suggest a supposition, derived from the statements made by the servant. the victim, who enjoyed a greater reputation on account of her looks than through her talent as a singer, went to russia, two years ago, and brought back with her a magnificent sapphire, which she appears to have received from some person of importance at the court. since then, she went by the name of jenny saphir and seems generally to have been very proud of that present, although, for prudence sake, she never wore it. i daresay that we shall not be far out if we presume the theft of the sapphire to have been the cause of the crime." "but did the maid know where the stone was?" "no, nobody did. and the disorder of the room would tend to prove that the murderer did not know either." "we will question the maid," said the examining-magistrate. m. dudouis took the chief-inspector aside and said: "you're looking very old-fashioned, ganimard. what's the matter? do you suspect anything?" "nothing at all, chief." "that's a pity. we could do with a bit of showy work in the department. this is one of a number of crimes, all of the same class, of which we have failed to discover the perpetrator. this time we want the criminal ... and quickly!" "a difficult job, chief." "it's got to be done. listen to me, ganimard. according to what the maid says, jenny saphir led a very regular life. for a month past she was in the habit of frequently receiving visits, on her return from the music-hall, that is to say, at about half-past ten, from a man who would stay until midnight or so. 'he's a society man,' jenny saphir used to say, 'and he wants to marry me.' this society man took every precaution to avoid being seen, such as turning up his coat-collar and lowering the brim of his hat when he passed the porter's box. and jenny saphir always made a point of sending away her maid, even before he came. this is the man whom we have to find." "has he left no traces?" "none at all. it is obvious that we have to deal with a very clever scoundrel, who prepared his crime beforehand and committed it with every possible chance of escaping unpunished. his arrest would be a great feather in our cap. i rely on you, ganimard." "ah, you rely on me, chief?" replied the inspector. "well, we shall see ... we shall see.... i don't say no.... only...." he seemed in a very nervous condition, and his agitation struck m. dudouis. "only," continued ganimard, "only i swear ... do you hear, chief? i swear...." "what do you swear?" "nothing.... we shall see, chief ... we shall see...." ganimard did not finish his sentence until he was outside, alone. and he finished it aloud, stamping his foot, in a tone of the most violent anger: "only, i swear to heaven that the arrest shall be effected by my own means, without my employing a single one of the clues with which that villain has supplied me. ah, no! ah, no!..." railing against lupin, furious at being mixed up in this business and resolved, nevertheless, to get to the bottom of it, he wandered aimlessly about the streets. his brain was seething with irritation; and he tried to adjust his ideas a little and to discover, among the chaotic facts, some trifling detail, unperceived by all, unsuspected by lupin himself, that might lead him to success. he lunched hurriedly at a bar, resumed his stroll and suddenly stopped, petrified, astounded and confused. he was walking under the gateway of the very house in the rue de surène to which lupin had enticed him a few hours earlier! a force stronger than his own will was drawing him there once more. the solution of the problem lay there. there and there alone were all the elements of the truth. do and say what he would, lupin's assertions were so precise, his calculations so accurate, that, worried to the innermost recesses of his being by so prodigious a display of perspicacity, he could not do other than take up the work at the point where his enemy had left it. abandoning all further resistance, he climbed the three flights of stairs. the door of the flat was open. no one had touched the exhibits. he put them in his pocket and walked away. from that moment, he reasoned and acted, so to speak, mechanically, under the influence of the master whom he could not choose but obey. admitting that the unknown person whom he was seeking lived in the neighbourhood of the pont-neuf, it became necessary to discover, somewhere between that bridge and the rue de berne, the first-class confectioner's shop, open in the evenings, at which the cakes were bought. this did not take long to find. a pastry-cook near the gare saint-lazare showed him some little cardboard boxes, identical in material and shape with the one in ganimard's possession. moreover, one of the shop-girls remembered having served, on the previous evening, a gentleman whose face was almost concealed in the collar of his fur coat, but whose eyeglass she had happened to notice. "that's one clue checked," thought the inspector. "our man wears an eyeglass." he next collected the pieces of the racing-paper and showed them to a newsvendor, who easily recognized the _turf illustré_. ganimard at once went to the offices of the _turf_ and asked to see the list of subscribers. going through the list, he jotted down the names and addresses of all those who lived anywhere near the pont-neuf and principally--because lupin had said so--those on the left bank of the river. he then went back to the criminal investigation department, took half a dozen men and packed them off with the necessary instructions. at seven o'clock in the evening, the last of these men returned and brought good news with him. a certain m. prévailles, a subscriber to the _turf_, occupied an entresol flat on the quai des augustins. on the previous evening, he left his place, wearing a fur coat, took his letters and his paper, the _turf illustré_, from the porter's wife, walked away and returned home at midnight. this m. prévailles wore a single eyeglass. he was a regular race-goer and himself owned several hacks which he either rode himself or jobbed out. the inquiry had taken so short a time and the results obtained were so exactly in accordance with lupin's predictions that ganimard felt quite overcome on hearing the detective's report. once more he was measuring the prodigious extent of the resources at lupin's disposal. never in the course of his life--and ganimard was already well-advanced in years--had he come across such perspicacity, such a quick and far-seeing mind. he went in search of m. dudouis. "everything's ready, chief. have you a warrant?" "eh?" "i said, everything is ready for the arrest, chief." "you know the name of jenny saphir's murderer?" "yes." "but how? explain yourself." ganimard had a sort of scruple of conscience, blushed a little and nevertheless replied: "an accident, chief. the murderer threw everything that was likely to compromise him into the seine. part of the parcel was picked up and handed to me." "by whom?" "a boatman who refused to give his name, for fear of getting into trouble. but i had all the clues i wanted. it was not so difficult as i expected." and the inspector described how he had gone to work. "and you call that an accident!" cried m. dudouis. "and you say that it was not difficult! why, it's one of your finest performances! finish it yourself, ganimard, and be prudent." ganimard was eager to get the business done. he went to the quai des augustins with his men and distributed them around the house. he questioned the portress, who said that her tenant took his meals out of doors, but made a point of looking in after dinner. a little before nine o'clock, in fact, leaning out of her window, she warned ganimard, who at once gave a low whistle. a gentleman in a tall hat and a fur coat was coming along the pavement beside the seine. he crossed the road and walked up to the house. ganimard stepped forward: "m. prévailles, i believe?" "yes, but who are you?" "i have a commission to...." he had not time to finish his sentence. at the sight of the men appearing out of the shadow, prévailles quickly retreated to the wall and faced his adversaries, with his back to the door of a shop on the ground-floor, the shutters of which were closed. "stand back!" he cried. "i don't know you!" his right hand brandished a heavy stick, while his left was slipped behind him and seemed to be trying to open the door. ganimard had an impression that the man might escape through this way and through some secret outlet: "none of this nonsense," he said, moving closer to him. "you're caught.... you had better come quietly." but, just as he was laying hold of prévailles' stick, ganimard remembered the warning which lupin gave him: prévailles was left-handed; and it was his revolver for which he was feeling behind his back. the inspector ducked his head. he had noticed the man's sudden movement. two reports rang out. no one was hit. a second later, prévailles received a blow under the chin from the butt-end of a revolver, which brought him down where he stood. he was entered at the dépôt soon after nine o'clock. * * * * * ganimard enjoyed a great reputation even at that time. but this capture, so quickly effected, by such very simple means, and at once made public by the police, won him a sudden celebrity. prévailles was forthwith saddled with all the murders that had remained unpunished; and the newspapers vied with one another in extolling ganimard's prowess. the case was conducted briskly at the start. it was first of all ascertained that prévailles, whose real name was thomas derocq, had already been in trouble. moreover, the search instituted in his rooms, while not supplying any fresh proofs, at least led to the discovery of a ball of whip-cord similar to the cord used for doing up the parcel and also to the discovery of daggers which would have produced a wound similar to the wounds on the victim. but, on the eighth day, everything was changed. until then prévailles had refused to reply to the questions put to him; but now, assisted by his counsel, he pleaded a circumstantial alibi and maintained that he was at the folies-bergère on the night of the murder. as a matter of fact, the pockets of his dinner-jacket contained the counterfoil of a stall-ticket and a programme of the performance, both bearing the date of that evening. "an alibi prepared in advance," objected the examining-magistrate. "prove it," said prévailles. the prisoner was confronted with the witnesses for the prosecution. the young lady from the confectioner's "thought she knew" the gentleman with the eyeglass. the hall-porter in the rue de berne "thought he knew" the gentleman who used to come to see jenny saphir. but nobody dared to make a more definite statement. the examination, therefore, led to nothing of a precise character, provided no solid basis whereon to found a serious accusation. the judge sent for ganimard and told him of his difficulty. "i can't possibly persist, at this rate. there is no evidence to support the charge." "but surely you are convinced in your own mind, monsieur le juge d'instruction! prévailles would never have resisted his arrest unless he was guilty." "he says that he thought he was being assaulted. he also says that he never set eyes on jenny saphir; and, as a matter of fact, we can find no one to contradict his assertion. then again, admitting that the sapphire has been stolen, we have not been able to find it at his flat." "nor anywhere else," suggested ganimard. "quite true, but that is no evidence against him. i'll tell you what we shall want, m. ganimard, and that very soon: the other end of this red scarf." "the other end?" "yes, for it is obvious that, if the murderer took it away with him, the reason was that the stuff is stained with the marks of the blood on his fingers." ganimard made no reply. for several days he had felt that the whole business was tending to this conclusion. there was no other proof possible. given the silk scarf--and in no other circumstances--prévailles' guilt was certain. now ganimard's position required that prévailles' guilt should be established. he was responsible for the arrest, it had cast a glamour around him, he had been praised to the skies as the most formidable adversary of criminals; and he would look absolutely ridiculous if prévailles were released. unfortunately, the one and only indispensable proof was in lupin's pocket. how was he to get hold of it? ganimard cast about, exhausted himself with fresh investigations, went over the inquiry from start to finish, spent sleepless nights in turning over the mystery of the rue de berne, studied the records of prévailles' life, sent ten men hunting after the invisible sapphire. everything was useless. on the th of december, the examining-magistrate stopped him in one of the passages of the law courts: "well, m. ganimard, any news?" "no, monsieur le juge d'instruction." "then i shall dismiss the case." "wait one day longer." "what's the use? we want the other end of the scarf; have you got it?" "i shall have it to-morrow." "to-morrow!" "yes, but please lend me the piece in your possession." "what if i do?" "if you do, i promise to let you have the whole scarf complete." "very well, that's understood." ganimard followed the examining-magistrate to his room and came out with the piece of silk: "hang it all!" he growled. "yes, i will go and fetch the proof and i shall have it too ... always presuming that master lupin has the courage to keep the appointment." in point of fact, he did not doubt for a moment that master lupin would have this courage, and that was just what exasperated him. why had lupin insisted on this meeting? what was his object, in the circumstances? anxious, furious and full of hatred, he resolved to take every precaution necessary not only to prevent his falling into a trap himself, but to make his enemy fall into one, now that the opportunity offered. and, on the next day, which was the th of december, the date fixed by lupin, after spending the night in studying the old manor-house in the rue de surène and convincing himself that there was no other outlet than the front door, he warned his men that he was going on a dangerous expedition and arrived with them on the field of battle. he posted them in a café and gave them formal instructions: if he showed himself at one of the third-floor windows, or if he failed to return within an hour, the detectives were to enter the house and arrest any one who tried to leave it. the chief-inspector made sure that his revolver was in working order and that he could take it from his pocket easily. then he went upstairs. he was surprised to find things as he had left them, the doors open and the locks broken. after ascertaining that the windows of the principal room looked out on the street, he visited the three other rooms that made up the flat. there was no one there. "master lupin was afraid," he muttered, not without a certain satisfaction. "don't be silly," said a voice behind him. turning round, he saw an old workman, wearing a house-painter's long smock, standing in the doorway. "you needn't bother your head," said the man. "it's i, lupin. i have been working in the painter's shop since early morning. this is when we knock off for breakfast. so i came upstairs." he looked at ganimard with a quizzing smile and cried: "'pon my word, this is a gorgeous moment i owe you, old chap! i wouldn't sell it for ten years of your life; and yet you know how i love you! what do you think of it, artist? wasn't it well thought out and well foreseen? foreseen from alpha to omega? did i understand the business? did i penetrate the mystery of the scarf? i'm not saying that there were no holes in my argument, no links missing in the chain.... but what a masterpiece of intelligence! ganimard, what a reconstruction of events! what an intuition of everything that had taken place and of everything that was going to take place, from the discovery of the crime to your arrival here in search of a proof! what really marvellous divination! have you the scarf?" "yes, half of it. have you the other?" "here it is. let's compare." they spread the two pieces of silk on the table. the cuts made by the scissors corresponded exactly. moreover, the colours were identical. "but i presume," said lupin, "that this was not the only thing you came for. what you are interested in seeing is the marks of the blood. come with me, ganimard: it's rather dark in here." they moved into the next room, which, though it overlooked the courtyard, was lighter; and lupin held his piece of silk against the window-pane: "look," he said, making room for ganimard. the inspector gave a start of delight. the marks of the five fingers and the print of the palm were distinctly visible. the evidence was undeniable. the murderer had seized the stuff in his bloodstained hand, in the same hand that had stabbed jenny saphir, and tied the scarf round her neck. "and it is the print of a left hand," observed lupin. "hence my warning, which had nothing miraculous about it, you see. for, though i admit, friend of my youth, that you may look upon me as a superior intelligence, i won't have you treat me as a wizard." ganimard had quickly pocketed the piece of silk. lupin nodded his head in approval: "quite right, old boy, it's for you. i'm so glad you're glad! and, you see, there was no trap about all this ... only the wish to oblige ... a service between friends, between pals.... and also, i confess, a little curiosity.... yes, i wanted to examine this other piece of silk, the one the police had.... don't be afraid: i'll give it back to you.... just a second...." lupin, with a careless movement, played with the tassel at the end of this half of the scarf, while ganimard listened to him in spite of himself: "how ingenious these little bits of women's work are! did you notice one detail in the maid's evidence? jenny saphir was very handy with her needle and used to make all her own hats and frocks. it is obvious that she made this scarf herself.... besides, i noticed that from the first. i am naturally curious, as i have already told you, and i made a thorough examination of the piece of silk which you have just put in your pocket. inside the tassel, i found a little sacred medal, which the poor girl had stitched into it to bring her luck. touching, isn't it, ganimard? a little medal of our lady of good succour." the inspector felt greatly puzzled and did not take his eyes off the other. and lupin continued: "then i said to myself, 'how interesting it would be to explore the other half of the scarf, the one which the police will find round the victim's neck!' for this other half, which i hold in my hands at last, is finished off in the same way ... so i shall be able to see if it has a hiding-place too and what's inside it.... but look, my friend, isn't it cleverly made? and so simple! all you have to do is to take a skein of red cord and braid it round a wooden cup, leaving a little recess, a little empty space in the middle, very small, of course, but large enough to hold a medal of a saint ... or anything.... a precious stone, for instance.... such as a sapphire...." at that moment he finished pushing back the silk cord and, from the hollow of a cup he took between his thumb and forefinger a wonderful blue stone, perfect in respect of size and purity. "ha! what did i tell you, friend of my youth?" he raised his head. the inspector had turned livid and was staring wild-eyed, as though fascinated by the stone that sparkled before him. he at last realized the whole plot: "you dirty scoundrel!" he muttered, repeating the insults which he had used at the first interview. "you scum of the earth!" the two men were standing one against the other. "give me back that," said the inspector. lupin held out the piece of silk. "and the sapphire," said ganimard, in a peremptory tone. "don't be silly." "give it back, or...." "or what, you idiot!" cried lupin. "look here, do you think i put you on to this soft thing for nothing?" "give it back!" "you haven't noticed what i've been about, that's plain! what! for four weeks i've kept you on the move like a deer; and you want to ...! come, ganimard, old chap, pull yourself together!... don't you see that you've been playing the good dog for four weeks on end?... fetch it, rover!... there's a nice blue pebble over there, which master can't get at. hunt it, ganimard, fetch it ... bring it to master.... ah, he's his master's own good little dog!... sit up! beg!... does'ms want a bit of sugar, then?..." ganimard, containing the anger that seethed within him, thought only of one thing, summoning his detectives. and, as the room in which he now was looked out on the courtyard, he tried gradually to work his way round to the communicating door. he would then run to the window and break one of the panes. "all the same," continued lupin, "what a pack of dunderheads you and the rest must be! you've had the silk all this time and not one of you ever thought of feeling it, not one of you ever asked himself the reason why the poor girl hung on to her scarf. not one of you! you just acted at haphazard, without reflecting, without foreseeing anything...." the inspector had attained his object. taking advantage of a second when lupin had turned away from him, he suddenly wheeled round and grasped the door-handle. but an oath escaped him: the handle did not budge. lupin burst into a fit of laughing: "not even that! you did not even foresee that! you lay a trap for me and you won't admit that i may perhaps smell the thing out beforehand.... and you allow yourself to be brought into this room without asking whether i am not bringing you here for a particular reason and without remembering that the locks are fitted with a special mechanism. come now, speaking frankly, what do you think of it yourself?" "what do i think of it?" roared ganimard, beside himself with rage. he had drawn his revolver and was pointing it straight at lupin's face. "hands up!" he cried. "that's what i think of it!" lupin placed himself in front of him and shrugged his shoulders: "sold again!" he said. "hands up, i say, once more!" "and sold again, say i. your deadly weapon won't go off." "what?" "old catherine, your housekeeper, is in my service. she damped the charges this morning while you were having your breakfast coffee." ganimard made a furious gesture, pocketed the revolver and rushed at lupin. "well?" said lupin, stopping him short with a well-aimed kick on the shin. their clothes were almost touching. they exchanged defiant glances, the glances of two adversaries who mean to come to blows. nevertheless, there was no fight. the recollection of the earlier struggles made any present struggle useless. and ganimard, who remembered all his past failures, his vain attacks, lupin's crushing reprisals, did not lift a limb. there was nothing to be done. he felt it. lupin had forces at his command against which any individual force simply broke to pieces. so what was the good? "i agree," said lupin, in a friendly voice, as though answering ganimard's unspoken thought, "you would do better to let things be as they are. besides, friend of my youth, think of all that this incident has brought you: fame, the certainty of quick promotion and, thanks to that, the prospect of a happy and comfortable old age! surely, you don't want the discovery of the sapphire and the head of poor arsène lupin in addition! it wouldn't be fair. to say nothing of the fact that poor arsène lupin saved your life.... yes, sir! who warned you, at this very spot, that prévailles was left-handed?... and is this the way you thank me? it's not pretty of you, ganimard. upon my word, you make me blush for you!" while chattering, lupin had gone through the same performance as ganimard and was now near the door. ganimard saw that his foe was about to escape him. forgetting all prudence, he tried to block his way and received a tremendous butt in the stomach, which sent him rolling to the opposite wall. lupin dexterously touched a spring, turned the handle, opened the door and slipped away, roaring with laughter as he went. * * * * * twenty minutes later, when ganimard at last succeeded in joining his men, one of them said to him: "a house-painter left the house, as his mates were coming back from breakfast, and put a letter in my hand. 'give that to your governor,' he said. 'which governor?' i asked; but he was gone. i suppose it's meant for you." "let's have it." ganimard opened the letter. it was hurriedly scribbled in pencil and contained these words: "this is to warn you, friend of my youth, against excessive credulity. when a fellow tells you that the cartridges in your revolver are damp, however great your confidence in that fellow may be, even though his name be arsène lupin, never allow yourself to be taken in. fire first; and, if the fellow hops the twig, you will have acquired the proof ( ) that the cartridges are not damp; and ( ) that old catherine is the most honest and respectable of housekeepers. "one of these days, i hope to have the pleasure of making her acquaintance. "meanwhile, friend of my youth, believe me always affectionately and sincerely yours, "arsÈne lupin." vi shadowed by death after he had been round the walls of the property, arsène lupin returned to the spot from which he started. it was perfectly clear to him that there was no breach in the walls; and the only way of entering the extensive grounds of the château de maupertuis was through a little low door, firmly bolted on the inside, or through the principal gate, which was overlooked by the lodge. "very well," he said. "we must employ heroic methods." pushing his way into the copsewood where he had hidden his motor-bicycle, he unwound a length of twine from under the saddle and went to a place which he had noticed in the course of his exploration. at this place, which was situated far from the road, on the edge of a wood, a number of large trees, standing inside the park, overlapped the wall. lupin fastened a stone to the end of the string, threw it up and caught a thick branch, which he drew down to him and bestraddled. the branch, in recovering its position, raised him from the ground. he climbed over the wall, slipped down the tree, and sprang lightly on the grass. it was winter; and, through the leafless boughs, across the undulating lawns, he could see the little château de maupertuis in the distance. fearing lest he should be perceived, he concealed himself behind a clump of fir-trees. from there, with the aid of a field-glass, he studied the dark and melancholy front of the manor-house. all the windows were closed and, as it were, barricaded with solid shutters. the house might easily have been uninhabited. "by jove!" muttered lupin. "it's not the liveliest of residences. i shall certainly not come here to end my days!" but the clock struck three; one of the doors on the ground-floor opened; and the figure of a woman appeared, a very slender figure wrapped in a brown cloak. the woman walked up and down for a few minutes and was at once surrounded by birds, to which she scattered crumbs of bread. then she went down the stone steps that led to the middle lawn and skirted it, taking the path on the right. with his field-glass, lupin could distinctly see her coming in his direction. she was tall, fair-haired, graceful in appearance, and seemed to be quite a young girl. she walked with a sprightly step, looking at the pale december sun and amusing herself by breaking the little dead twigs on the shrubs along the road. she had gone nearly two thirds of the distance that separated her from lupin when there came a furious sound of barking and a huge dog, a colossal danish boarhound, sprang from a neighbouring kennel and stood erect at the end of the chain by which it was fastened. the girl moved a little to one side, without paying further attention to what was doubtless a daily incident. the dog grew angrier than ever, standing on its legs and dragging at its collar, at the risk of strangling itself. thirty or forty steps farther, yielding probably to an impulse of impatience, the girl turned round and made a gesture with her hand. the great dane gave a start of rage, retreated to the back of its kennel and rushed out again, this time unfettered. the girl uttered a cry of mad terror. the dog was covering the space between them, trailing its broken chain behind it. she began to run, to run with all her might, and screamed out desperately for help. but the dog came up with her in a few bounds. she fell, at once exhausted, giving herself up for lost. the animal was already upon her, almost touching her. at that exact moment a shot rang out. the dog turned a complete somersault, recovered its feet, tore the ground and then lay down, giving a number of hoarse, breathless howls, which ended in a dull moan and an indistinct gurgling. and that was all. "dead," said lupin, who had hastened up at once, prepared, if necessary, to fire his revolver a second time. the girl had risen and stood pale, still staggering. she looked in great surprise at this man whom she did not know and who had saved her life; and she whispered: "thank you.... i have had a great fright.... you were in the nick of time.... i thank you, monsieur." lupin took off his hat: "allow me to introduce myself, mademoiselle.... my name is paul daubreuil.... but before entering into any explanations, i must ask for one moment...." he stooped over the dog's dead body and examined the chain at the part where the brute's effort had snapped it: "that's it," he said, between his teeth. "it's just as i suspected. by jupiter, things are moving rapidly!... i ought to have come earlier." returning to the girl's side, he said to her, speaking very quickly: "mademoiselle, we have not a minute to lose. my presence in these grounds is quite irregular. i do not wish to be surprised here; and this for reasons that concern yourself alone. do you think that the report can have been heard at the house?" the girl seemed already to have recovered from her emotion; and she replied, with a calmness that revealed all her pluck: "i don't think so." "is your father in the house to-day?" "my father is ill and has been in bed for months. besides, his room looks out on the other front." "and the servants?" "their quarters and the kitchen are also on the other side. no one ever comes to this part. i walk here myself, but nobody else does." "it is probable, therefore, that i have not been seen either, especially as the trees hide us?" "it is most probable." "then i can speak to you freely?" "certainly, but i don't understand...." "you will, presently. permit me to be brief. the point is this: four days ago, mlle. jeanne darcieux...." "that is my name," she said, smiling. "mlle. jeanne darcieux," continued lupin, "wrote a letter to one of her friends, called marceline, who lives at versailles...." "how do you know all that?" asked the girl, in astonishment. "i tore up the letter before i had finished it." "and you flung the pieces on the edge of the road that runs from the house to vendôme." "that's true.... i had gone out walking...." "the pieces were picked up and they came into my hands next day." "then ... you must have read them," said jeanne darcieux, betraying a certain annoyance by her manner. "yes, i committed that indiscretion; and i do not regret it, because i can save you." "save me? from what?" "from death." lupin spoke this little sentence in a very distinct voice. the girl gave a shudder. then she said: "i am not threatened with death." "yes, you are, mademoiselle. at the end of october, you were reading on a bench on the terrace where you were accustomed to sit at the same hour every day, when a block of stone fell from the cornice above your head and you were within a few inches of being crushed." "an accident...." "one fine evening in november, you were walking in the kitchen-garden, by moonlight. a shot was fired, the bullet whizzed past your ear." "at least, i thought so." "lastly, less than a week ago, the little wooden bridge that crosses the river in the park, two yards from the waterfall, gave way while you were on it. you were just able, by a miracle, to catch hold of the root of a tree." jeanne darcieux tried to smile. "very well. but, as i wrote to marceline, these are only a series of coincidences, of accidents...." "no, mademoiselle, no. one accident of this sort is allowable.... so are two ... and even then!... but we have no right to suppose that the chapter of accidents, repeating the same act three times in such different and extraordinary circumstances, is a mere amusing coincidence. that is why i thought that i might presume to come to your assistance. and, as my intervention can be of no use unless it remains secret, i did not hesitate to make my way in here ... without walking through the gate. i came in the nick of time, as you said. your enemy was attacking you once more." "what!... do you think?... no, it is impossible.... i refuse to believe...." lupin picked up the chain and, showing it to her: "look at the last link. there is no question but that it has been filed. otherwise, so powerful a chain as this would never have yielded. besides, you can see the mark of the file here." jeanne turned pale and her pretty features were distorted with terror: "but who can bear me such a grudge?" she gasped. "it is terrible.... i have never done any one harm.... and yet you are certainly right.... worse still...." she finished her sentence in a lower voice: "worse still, i am wondering whether the same danger does not threaten my father." "has he been attacked also?" "no, for he never stirs from his room. but his is such a mysterious illness!... he has no strength ... he cannot walk at all.... in addition to that, he is subject to fits of suffocation, as though his heart stopped beating.... oh, what an awful thing!" lupin realized all the authority which he was able to assert at such a moment, and he said: "have no fear, mademoiselle. if you obey me blindly, i shall be sure to succeed." "yes ... yes ... i am quite willing ... but all this is so terrible...." "trust me, i beg of you. and please listen to me, i shall want a few particulars." he rapped out a number of questions, which jeanne darcieux answered hurriedly: "that animal was never let loose, was he?" "never." "who used to feed him?" "the lodge-keeper. he brought him his food every evening." "consequently, he could go near him without being bitten?" "yes; and he only, for the dog was very savage." "you don't suspect the man?" "oh, no!... baptiste?... never!" "and you can't think of anybody?" "no. our servants are quite devoted to us. they are very fond of me." "you have no friends staying in the house?" "no." "no brother?" "no." "then your father is your only protector?" "yes; and i have told you the condition he is in." "have you told him of the different attempts?" "yes; and it was wrong of me to do so. our doctor, old dr. guéroult, forbade me to cause him the least excitement." "your mother?..." "i don't remember her. she died sixteen years ago ... just sixteen years ago." "how old were you then?" "i was not quite five years old." "and were you living here?" "we were living in paris. my father only bought this place the year after." lupin was silent for a few moments. then he concluded: "very well, mademoiselle, i am obliged to you. those particulars are all i need for the present. besides, it would not be wise for us to remain together longer." "but," she said, "the lodge-keeper will find the dog soon.... who will have killed him?" "you, mademoiselle, to defend yourself against an attack." "i never carry firearms." "i am afraid you do," said lupin, smiling, "because you killed the dog and there is no one but you who could have killed him. for that matter, let them think what they please. the great thing is that i shall not be suspected when i come to the house." "to the house? do you intend to?" "yes. i don't yet know how ... but i shall come.... this very evening.... so, once more, be easy in your mind. i will answer for everything." jeanne looked at him and, dominated by him, conquered by his air of assurance and good faith, she said, simply: "i am quite easy." "then all will go well. till this evening, mademoiselle." "till this evening." she walked away; and lupin, following her with his eyes until the moment when she disappeared round the corner of the house, murmured: "what a pretty creature! it would be a pity if any harm were to come to her. luckily, arsène lupin is keeping his weather-eye open." taking care not to be seen, with eyes and ears attentive to the least sight or sound, he inspected every nook and corner of the grounds, looked for the little low door which he had noticed outside and which was the door of the kitchen garden, drew the bolt, took the key and then skirted the walls and found himself once more near the tree which he had climbed. two minutes later, he was mounting his motor-cycle. * * * * * the village of maupertuis lay quite close to the estate. lupin inquired and learnt that dr. guéroult lived next door to the church. he rang, was shown into the consulting-room and introduced himself by his name of paul daubreuil, of the rue de surène, paris, adding that he had official relations with the detective-service, a fact which he requested might be kept secret. he had become acquainted, by means of a torn letter, with the incidents that had endangered mlle. darcieux's life; and he had come to that young lady's assistance. dr. guéroult, an old country practitioner, who idolized jeanne, on hearing lupin's explanations at once admitted that those incidents constituted undeniable proofs of a plot. he showed great concern, offered his visitor hospitality and kept him to dinner. the two men talked at length. in the evening, they walked round to the manor-house together. the doctor went to the sick man's room, which was on the first floor, and asked leave to bring up a young colleague, to whom he intended soon to make over his practice, when he retired. lupin, on entering, saw jeanne darcieux seated by her father's bedside. she suppressed a movement of surprise and, at a sign from the doctor, left the room. the consultation thereupon took place in lupin's presence. m. darcieux's face was worn, with much suffering and his eyes were bright with fever. he complained particularly, that day, of his heart. after the auscultation, he questioned the doctor with obvious anxiety; and each reply seemed to give him relief. he also spoke of jeanne and expressed his conviction that they were deceiving him and that his daughter had escaped yet more accidents. he continued perturbed, in spite of the doctor's denials. he wanted to have the police informed and inquiries set on foot. but his excitement tired him and he gradually dropped off to sleep. lupin stopped the doctor in the passage: "come, doctor, give me your exact opinion. do you think that m. darcieux's illness can be attributed to an outside cause?" "how do you mean?" "well, suppose that the same enemy should be interested in removing both father and daughter." the doctor seemed struck by the suggestion. "upon my word, there is something in what you say.... the father's illness at times adopts such a very unusual character!... for instance, the paralysis of the legs, which is almost complete, ought to be accompanied by...." the doctor reflected for a moment and then said in a low voice: "you think it's poison, of course ... but what poison?... besides, i see no toxic symptoms.... it would have to be.... but what are you doing? what's the matter?..." the two men were talking outside a little sitting-room on the first floor, where jeanne, seizing the opportunity while the doctor was with her father, had begun her evening meal. lupin, who was watching her through the open door, saw her lift a cup to her lips and take a few sups. suddenly, he rushed at her and caught her by the arm: "what are you drinking there?" "why," she said, taken aback, "only tea!" "you pulled a face of disgust ... what made you do that?" "i don't know ... i thought...." "you thought what?" "that ... that it tasted rather bitter.... but i expect that comes from the medicine i mixed with it." "what medicine?" "some drops which i take at dinner ... the drops which you prescribed for me, you know, doctor." "yes," said dr. guéroult, "but that medicine has no taste of any kind.... you know it hasn't, jeanne, for you have been taking it for a fortnight and this is the first time...." "quite right," said the girl, "and this does have a taste.... there--oh!--my mouth is still burning." dr. guéroult now took a sip from the cup; "faugh!" he exclaimed, spitting it out again. "there's no mistake about it...." lupin, on his side, was examining the bottle containing the medicine; and he asked: "where is this bottle kept in the daytime?" but jeanne was unable to answer. she had put her hand to her heart and, wan-faced, with staring eyes, seemed to be suffering great pain: "it hurts ... it hurts," she stammered. the two men quickly carried her to her room and laid her on the bed: "she ought to have an emetic," said lupin. "open the cupboard," said the doctor. "you'll see a medicine-case.... have you got it?... take out one of those little tubes.... yes, that one.... and now some hot water.... you'll find some on the tea-tray in the other room." jeanne's own maid came running up in answer to the bell. lupin told her that mlle. darcieux had been taken unwell, for some unknown reason. he next returned to the little dining-room, inspected the sideboard and the cupboards, went down to the kitchen and pretended that the doctor had sent him to ask about m. darcieux's diet. without appearing to do so, he catechized the cook, the butler, and baptiste, the lodge-keeper, who had his meals at the manor-house with the servants. then he went back to the doctor: "well?" "she's asleep." "any danger?" "no. fortunately, she had only taken two or three sips. but this is the second time to-day that you have saved her life, as the analysis of this bottle will show." "quite superfluous to make an analysis, doctor. there is no doubt about the fact that there has been an attempt at poisoning." "by whom?" "i can't say. but the demon who is engineering all this business clearly knows the ways of the house. he comes and goes as he pleases, walks about in the park, files the dog's chain, mixes poison with the food and, in short, moves and acts precisely as though he were living the very life of her--or rather of those--whom he wants to put away." "ah! you really believe that m. darcieux is threatened with the same danger?" "i have not a doubt of it." "then it must be one of the servants? but that is most unlikely! do you think ...?" "i think nothing, doctor. i know nothing. all i can say is that the situation is most tragic and that we must be prepared for the worst. death is here, doctor, shadowing the people in this house; and it will soon strike at those whom it is pursuing." "what's to be done?" "watch, doctor. let us pretend that we are alarmed about m. darcieux's health and spend the night in here. the bedrooms of both the father and daughter are close by. if anything happens, we are sure to hear." there was an easy-chair in the room. they arranged to sleep in it turn and turn about. in reality, lupin slept for only two or three hours. in the middle of the night he left the room, without disturbing his companion, carefully looked round the whole of the house and walked out through the principal gate. * * * * * he reached paris on his motor-cycle at nine o'clock in the morning. two of his friends, to whom he telephoned on the road, met him there. they all three spent the day in making searches which lupin had planned out beforehand. he set out again hurriedly at six o'clock; and never, perhaps, as he told me subsequently, did he risk his life with greater temerity than in his breakneck ride, at a mad rate of speed, on a foggy december evening, with the light of his lamp hardly able to pierce through the darkness. he sprang from his bicycle outside the gate, which was still open, ran to the house and reached the first floor in a few bounds. there was no one in the little dining-room. without hesitating, without knocking, he walked into jeanne's bedroom: "ah, here you are!" he said, with a sigh of relief, seeing jeanne and the doctor sitting side by side, talking. "what? any news?" asked the doctor, alarmed at seeing such a state of agitation in a man whose coolness he had had occasion to observe. "no," said lupin. "no news. and here?" "none here, either. we have just left m. darcieux. he has had an excellent day and he ate his dinner with a good appetite. as for jeanne, you can see for yourself, she has all her pretty colour back again." "then she must go." "go? but it's out of the question!" protested the girl. "you must go, you must!" cried lupin, with real violence, stamping his foot on the floor. he at once mastered himself, spoke a few words of apology and then, for three or four minutes, preserved a complete silence, which the doctor and jeanne were careful not to disturb. at last, he said to the young girl: "you shall go to-morrow morning, mademoiselle. it will be only for one or two weeks. i will take you to your friend at versailles, the one to whom you were writing. i entreat you to get everything ready to-night ... without concealment of any kind. let the servants know that you are going.... on the other hand, the doctor will be good enough to tell m. darcieux and give him to understand, with every possible precaution, that this journey is essential to your safety. besides, he can join you as soon as his strength permits.... that's settled, is it not?" "yes," she said, absolutely dominated by lupin's gentle and imperious voice. "in that case," he said, "be as quick as you can ... and do not stir from your room...." "but," said the girl, with a shudder, "am i to stay alone to-night?" "fear nothing. should there be the least danger, the doctor and i will come back. do not open your door unless you hear three very light taps." jeanne at once rang for her maid. the doctor went to m. darcieux, while lupin had some supper brought to him in the little dining-room. "that's done," said the doctor, returning to him in twenty minutes' time. "m. darcieux did not raise any great difficulty. as a matter of fact, he himself thinks it just as well that we should send jeanne away." they then went downstairs together and left the house. on reaching the lodge, lupin called the keeper. "you can shut the gate, my man. if m. darcieux should want us, send for us at once." the clock of maupertuis church struck ten. the sky was overcast with black clouds, through which the moon broke at moments. the two men walked on for sixty or seventy yards. they were nearing the village, when lupin gripped his companion by the arm: "stop!" "what on earth's the matter?" exclaimed the doctor. "the matter is this," lupin jerked out, "that, if my calculations turn out right, if i have not misjudged the business from start to finish, mlle. darcieux will be murdered before the night is out." "eh? what's that?" gasped the doctor, in dismay. "but then why did we go?" "with the precise object that the miscreant, who is watching all our movements in the dark, may not postpone his crime and may perpetrate it, not at the hour chosen by himself, but at the hour which i have decided upon." "then we are returning to the manor-house?" "yes, of course we are, but separately." "in that case, let us go at once." "listen to me, doctor," said lupin, in a steady voice, "and let us waste no time in useless words. above all, we must defeat any attempt to watch us. you will therefore go straight home and not come out again until you are quite certain that you have not been followed. you will then make for the walls of the property, keeping to the left, till you come to the little door of the kitchen-garden. here is the key. when the church clock strikes eleven, open the door very gently and walk right up to the terrace at the back of the house. the fifth window is badly fastened. you have only to climb over the balcony. as soon as you are inside mlle. darcieux's room, bolt the door and don't budge. you quite understand, don't budge, either of you, whatever happens. i have noticed that mlle. darcieux leaves her dressing-room window ajar, isn't that so?" "yes, it's a habit which i taught her." "that's the way they'll come." "and you?" "that's the way i shall come also." "and do you know who the villain is?" lupin hesitated and then replied: "no, i don't know.... and that is just how we shall find out. but, i implore you, keep cool. not a word, not a movement, _whatever happens_!" "i promise you." "i want more than that, doctor. you must give me your word of honour." "i give you my word of honour." the doctor went away. lupin at once climbed a neighbouring mound from which he could see the windows of the first and second floor. several of them were lighted. he waited for some little time. the lights went out one by one. then, taking a direction opposite to that in which the doctor had gone, he branched off to the right and skirted the wall until he came to the clump of trees near which he had hidden his motor-cycle on the day before. eleven o'clock struck. he calculated the time which it would take the doctor to cross the kitchen-garden and make his way into the house. "that's one point scored!" he muttered. "everything's all right on that side. and now, lupin to the rescue? the enemy won't be long before he plays his last trump ... and, by all the gods, i must be there!..." he went through the same performance as on the first occasion, pulled down the branch and hoisted himself to the top of the wall, from which he was able to reach the bigger boughs of the tree. just then he pricked up his ears. he seemed to hear a rustling of dead leaves. and he actually perceived a dark form moving on the level thirty yards away: "hang it all!" he said to himself. "i'm done: the scoundrel has smelt a rat." a moonbeam pierced through the clouds. lupin distinctly saw the man take aim. he tried to jump to the ground and turned his head. but he felt something hit him in the chest, heard the sound of a report, uttered an angry oath and came crashing down from branch to branch, like a corpse. * * * * * meanwhile, doctor guéroult, following arsène lupin's instructions, had climbed the ledge of the fifth window and groped his way to the first floor. on reaching jeanne's room, he tapped lightly, three times, at the door and, immediately on entering, pushed the bolt: "lie down at once," he whispered to the girl, who had not taken off her things. "you must appear to have gone to bed. brrrr, it's cold in here! is the window open in your dressing-room?" "yes ... would you like me to ...?" "no, leave it as it is. they are coming." "they are coming!" spluttered jeanne, in affright. "yes, beyond a doubt." "but who? do you suspect any one?" "i don't know who.... i expect that there is some one hidden in the house ... or in the park." "oh, i feel so frightened!" "don't be frightened. the sportsman who's looking after you seems jolly clever and makes a point of playing a safe game. i expect he's on the look-out in the court." the doctor put out the night-light, went to the window and raised the blind. a narrow cornice, running along the first story, prevented him from seeing more than a distant part of the courtyard; and he came back and sat down by the bed. some very painful minutes passed, minutes that appeared to them interminably long. the clock in the village struck; but, taken up as they were with all the little noises of the night, they hardly noticed the sound. they listened, listened, with all their nerves on edge: "did you hear?" whispered the doctor. "yes ... yes," said jeanne, sitting up in bed. "lie down ... lie down," he said, presently. "there's some one coming." there was a little tapping sound outside, against the cornice. next came a series of indistinct noises, the nature of which they could not make out for certain. but they had a feeling that the window in the dressing-room was being opened wider, for they were buffeted by gusts of cold air. suddenly, it became quite clear: there was some one next door. the doctor, whose hand was trembling a little, seized his revolver. nevertheless, he did not move, remembering the formal orders which he had received and fearing to act against them. the room was in absolute darkness; and they were unable to see where the adversary was. but they felt his presence. they followed his invisible movements, the sound of his footsteps deadened by the carpet; and they did not doubt but that he had already crossed the threshold of the room. and the adversary stopped. of that they were certain. he was standing six steps away from the bed, motionless, undecided perhaps, seeking to pierce the darkness with his keen eyes. jeanne's hand, icy-cold and clammy, trembled in the doctor's grasp. with his other hand, the doctor clutched his revolver, with his finger on the trigger. in spite of his pledged word, he did not hesitate. if the adversary touched the end of the bed, the shot would be fired at a venture. the adversary took another step and then stopped again. and there was something awful about that silence, that impassive silence, that darkness in which those human beings were peering at one another, wildly. who was it looming in the murky darkness? who was the man? what horrible enmity was it that turned his hand against the girl and what abominable aim was he pursuing? terrified though they were, jeanne and the doctor thought only of that one thing: to see, to learn the truth, to gaze upon the adversary's face. he took one more step and did not move again. it seemed to them that his figure stood out, darker, against the dark space and that his arm rose slowly, slowly.... a minute passed and then another minute.... and, suddenly, beyond the man, on the right a sharp click.... a bright light flashed, was flung upon the man, lit him full in the face, remorselessly. jeanne gave a cry of affright. she had seen--standing over her, with a dagger in his hand--she had seen ... her father! almost at the same time, though the light was already turned off, there came a report: the doctor had fired. "dash it all, don't shoot!" roared lupin. he threw his arms round the doctor, who choked out: "didn't you see?... didn't you see?... listen!... he's escaping!..." "let him escape: it's the best thing that could happen." he pressed the spring of his electric lantern again, ran to the dressing-room, made certain that the man had disappeared and, returning quietly to the table, lit the lamp. jeanne lay on her bed, pallid, in a dead faint. the doctor, huddled in his chair, emitted inarticulate sounds. "come," said lupin, laughing, "pull yourself together. there is nothing to excite ourselves about: it's all over." "her father!... her father!" moaned the old doctor. "if you please, doctor, mlle. darcieux is ill. look after her." without more words, lupin went back to the dressing-room and stepped out on the window-ledge. a ladder stood against the ledge. he ran down it. skirting the wall of the house, twenty steps farther, he tripped over the rungs of a rope-ladder, which he climbed and found himself in m. darcieux's bedroom. the room was empty. "just so," he said. "my gentleman did not like the position and has cleared out. here's wishing him a good journey.... and, of course, the door is bolted?... exactly!... that is how our sick man, tricking his worthy medical attendant, used to get up at night in full security, fasten his rope-ladder to the balcony and prepare his little games. he's no fool, is friend darcieux!" he drew the bolts and returned to jeanne's room. the doctor, who was just coming out of the doorway, drew him to the little dining-room: "she's asleep, don't let us disturb her. she has had a bad shock and will take some time to recover." lupin poured himself out a glass of water and drank it down. then he took a chair and, calmly: "pooh! she'll be all right by to-morrow." "what do you say?" "i say that she'll be all right by to-morrow." "why?" "in the first place, because it did not strike me that mlle. darcieux felt any very great affection for her father." "never mind! think of it: a father who tries to kill his daughter! a father who, for months on end, repeats his monstrous attempt four, five, six times over again!... well, isn't that enough to blight a less sensitive soul than jeanne's for good and all? what a hateful memory!" "she will forget." "one does not forget such a thing as that." "she will forget, doctor, and for a very simple reason...." "explain yourself!" "she is not m. darcieux's daughter!" "eh?" "i repeat, she is not that villain's daughter." "what do you mean? m. darcieux...." "m. darcieux is only her step-father. she had just been born when her father, her real father, died. jeanne's mother then married a cousin of her husband's, a man bearing the same name, and she died within a year of her second wedding. she left jeanne in m. darcieux's charge. he first took her abroad and then bought this country-house; and, as nobody knew him in the neighbourhood, he represented the child as being his daughter. she herself did not know the truth about her birth." the doctor sat confounded. he asked: "are you sure of your facts?" "i spent my day in the town-halls of the paris municipalities. i searched the registers, i interviewed two solicitors, i have seen all the documents. there is no doubt possible." "but that does not explain the crime, or rather the series of crimes." "yes, it does," declared lupin. "and, from the start, from the first hour when i meddled in this business, some words which mlle. darcieux used made me suspect that direction which my investigations must take. 'i was not quite five years old when my mother died,' she said. 'that was sixteen years ago.' mlle. darcieux, therefore, was nearly twenty-one, that is to say, she was on the verge of attaining her majority. i at once saw that this was an important detail. the day on which you reach your majority is the day on which your accounts are rendered. what was the financial position of mlle. darcieux, who was her mother's natural heiress? of course, i did not think of the father for a second. to begin with, one can't imagine a thing like that; and then the farce which m. darcieux was playing ... helpless, bedridden, ill...." "really ill," interrupted the doctor. "all this diverted suspicion from him ... the more so as i believe that he himself was exposed to criminal attacks. but was there not in the family some person who would be interested in their removal? my journey to paris revealed the truth to me: mlle. darcieux inherits a large fortune from her mother, of which her step-father draws the income. the solicitor was to have called a meeting of the family in paris next month. the truth would have been out. it meant ruin to m. darcieux." "then he had put no money by?" "yes, but he had lost a great deal as the result of unfortunate speculations." "but, after all, jeanne would not have taken the management of her fortune out of his hands!" "there is one detail which you do not know, doctor, and which i learnt from reading the torn letter. mlle. darcieux is in love with the brother of marceline, her versailles friend; m. darcieux was opposed to the marriage; and--you now see the reason--she was waiting until she came of age to be married." "you're right," said the doctor, "you're right.... it meant his ruin." "his absolute ruin. one chance of saving himself remained, the death of his step-daughter, of whom he is the next heir." "certainly, but on condition that no one suspected him." "of course; and that is why he contrived the series of accidents, so that the death might appear to be due to misadventure. and that is why i, on my side, wishing to bring things to a head, asked you to tell him of mlle. darcieux's impending departure. from that moment, it was no longer enough for the would-be sick man to wander about the grounds and the passages, in the dark, and execute some leisurely thought-out plan. no, he had to act, to act at once, without preparation, violently, dagger in hand. i had no doubt that he would decide to do it. and he did." "then he had no suspicions?" "of me, yes. he felt that i would return to-night, and he kept a watch at the place where i had already climbed the wall." "well?" "well," said lupin, laughing, "i received a bullet full in the chest ... or rather my pocket-book received a bullet.... here, you can see the hole.... so i tumbled from the tree, like a dead man. thinking that he was rid of his only adversary, he went back to the house. i saw him prowl about for two hours. then, making up his mind, he went to the coach-house, took a ladder and set it against the window. i had only to follow him." the doctor reflected and said: "you could have collared him earlier. why did you let him come up? it was a sore trial for jeanne ... and unnecessary." "on the contrary, it was indispensable! mlle. darcieux would never have accepted the truth. it was essential that she should see the murderer's very face. you must tell her all the circumstances when she wakes. she will soon be well again." "but ... m. darcieux?" "you can explain his disappearance as you think best ... a sudden journey ... a fit of madness.... there will be a few inquiries.... and you may be sure that he will never be heard of again." the doctor nodded his head: "yes ... that is so ... that is so ... you are right. you have managed all this business with extraordinary skill; and jeanne owes you her life. she will thank you in person.... but now, can i be of use to you in any way? you told me that you were connected with the detective-service.... will you allow me to write and praise your conduct, your courage?" lupin began to laugh: "certainly! a letter of that kind will do me a world of good. you might write to my immediate superior, chief-inspector ganimard. he will be glad to hear that his favourite officer, paul daubreuil, of the rue de surène, has once again distinguished himself by a brilliant action. as it happens, i have an appointment to meet him about a case of which you may have heard: the case of the red scarf.... how pleased my dear m. ganimard will be!" vii a tragedy in the forest of morgues the village was terror-stricken. it was on a sunday morning. the peasants of saint-nicolas and the neighbourhood were coming out of church and spreading across the square, when, suddenly, the women who were walking ahead and who had already turned into the high-road fell back with loud cries of dismay. at the same moment, an enormous motor-car, looking like some appalling monster, came tearing into sight at a headlong rate of speed. amid the shouts of the madly scattering people, it made straight for the church, swerved, just as it seemed about to dash itself to pieces against the steps, grazed the wall of the presbytery, regained the continuation of the national road, dashed along, turned the corner and disappeared, without, by some incomprehensible miracle, having so much as brushed against any of the persons crowding the square. but they had seen! they had seen a man in the driver's seat, wrapped in a goat-skin coat, with a fur cap on his head and his face disguised in a pair of large goggles, and, with him, on the front of that seat, flung back, bent in two, a woman whose head, all covered with blood, hung down over the bonnet.... and they had heard! they had heard the woman's screams, screams of horror, screams of agony.... and it was all such a vision of hell and carnage that the people stood, for some seconds, motionless, stupefied. "blood!" roared somebody. there was blood everywhere, on the cobblestones of the square, on the ground hardened by the first frosts of autumn; and, when a number of men and boys rushed off in pursuit of the motor, they had but to take those sinister marks for their guide. the marks, on their part, followed the high-road, but in a very strange manner, going from one side to the other and leaving a zigzag track, in the wake of the tires, that made those who saw it shudder. how was it that the car had not bumped against that tree? how had it been righted, instead of smashing into that bank? what novice, what madman, what drunkard, what frightened criminal was driving that motor-car with such astounding bounds and swerves? one of the peasants declared: "they will never do the turn in the forest." and another said: "of course they won't! she's bound to upset!" the forest of morgues began at half a mile beyond saint-nicolas; and the road, which was straight up to that point, except for a slight bend where it left the village, started climbing, immediately after entering the forest, and made an abrupt turn among the rocks and trees. no motor-car was able to take this turn without first slackening speed. there were posts to give notice of the danger. the breathless peasants reached the quincunx of beeches that formed the edge of the forest. and one of them at once cried: "there you are!" "what?" "upset!" the car, a limousine, had turned turtle and lay smashed, twisted and shapeless. beside it, the woman's dead body. but the most horrible, sordid, stupefying thing was the woman's head, crushed, flattened, invisible under a block of stone, a huge block of stone lodged there by some unknown and prodigious agency. as for the man in the goat-skin coat he was nowhere to be found. * * * * * he was not found on the scene of the accident. he was not found either in the neighbourhood. moreover, some workmen coming down the côte de morgues declared that they had not seen anybody. the man, therefore, had taken refuge in the woods. the gendarmes, who were at once sent for, made a minute search, assisted by the peasants, but discovered nothing. in the same way, the examining-magistrates, after a close inquiry lasting for several days, found no clue capable of throwing the least light upon this inscrutable tragedy. on the contrary, the investigations only led to further mysteries and further improbabilities. thus it was ascertained that the block of stone came from where there had been a landslip, at least forty yards away. and the murderer, in a few minutes, had carried it all that distance and flung it on his victim's head. on the other hand, the murderer, who was most certainly not hiding in the forest--for, if so, he must inevitably have been discovered, the forest being of limited extent--had the audacity, eight days after the crime, to come back to the turn on the hill and leave his goat-skin coat there. why? with what object? there was nothing in the pockets of the coat, except a corkscrew and a napkin. what did it all mean? inquiries were made of the builder of the motor-car, who recognized the limousine as one which he had sold, three years ago, to a russian. the said russian, declared the manufacturer, had sold it again at once. to whom? no one knew. the car bore no number. then again, it was impossible to identify the dead woman's body. her clothes and underclothing were not marked in any way. and the face was quite unknown. meanwhile, detectives were going along the national road in the direction opposite to that taken by the actors in this mysterious tragedy. but who was to prove that the car had followed that particular road on the previous night? they examined every yard of the ground, they questioned everybody. at last, they succeeded in learning that, on the saturday evening, a limousine had stopped outside a grocer's shop in a small town situated about two hundred miles from saint-nicolas, on a highway branching out of the national road. the driver had first filled his tank, bought some spare cans of petrol and lastly taken away a small stock of provisions: a ham, fruit, biscuits, wine and a half-bottle of three star brandy. there was a lady on the driver's seat. she did not get down. the blinds of the limousine were drawn. one of these blinds was seen to move several times. the shopman was positive that there was somebody inside. presuming the shopman's evidence to be correct, then the problem became even more complicated, for, so far, no clue had revealed the presence of a third person. meanwhile, as the travellers had supplied themselves with provisions, it remained to be discovered what they had done with them and what had become of the remains. the detectives retraced their steps. it was not until they came to the fork of the two roads, at a spot eleven or twelve miles from saint-nicolas, that they met a shepherd who, in answer to their questions, directed them to a neighbouring field, hidden from view behind the screen of bushes, where he had seen an empty bottle and other things. the detectives were convinced at the first examination. the motor-car had stopped there; and the unknown travellers, probably after a night's rest in their car, had breakfasted and resumed their journey in the course of the morning. one unmistakable proof was the half-bottle of three star brandy sold by the grocer. this bottle had its neck broken clean off with a stone. the stone employed for the purpose was picked up, as was the neck of the bottle, with its cork, covered with a tin-foil seal. the seal showed marks of attempts that had been made to uncork the bottle in the ordinary manner. the detectives continued their search and followed a ditch that ran along the field at right angles to the road. it ended in a little spring, hidden under brambles, which seemed to emit an offensive smell. on lifting the brambles, they perceived a corpse, the corpse of a man whose head had been smashed in, so that it formed little more than a sort of pulp, swarming with vermin. the body was dressed in jacket and trousers of dark-brown leather. the pockets were empty: no papers, no pocket-book, no watch. the grocer and his shopman were summoned and, two days later, formally identified, by his dress and figure, the traveller who had bought the petrol and provisions on the saturday evening. the whole case, therefore, had to be reopened on a fresh basis. the authorities were confronted with a tragedy no longer enacted by two persons, a man and a woman, of whom one had killed the other, but by three persons, including two victims, of whom one was the very man who was accused of killing his companion. as to the murderer, there was no doubt: he was the person who travelled inside the motor-car and who took the precaution to remain concealed behind the curtains. he had first got rid of the driver and rifled his pockets and then, after wounding the woman, carried her off in a mad dash for death. * * * * * given a fresh case, unexpected discoveries, unforeseen evidence, one might have hoped that the mystery would be cleared up, or, at least, that the inquiry would point a few steps along the road to the truth. but not at all. the corpse was simply placed beside the first corpse. new problems were added to the old. the accusation of murder was shifted from the one to the other. and there it ended. outside those tangible, obvious facts there was nothing but darkness. the name of the woman, the name of the man, the name of the murderer were so many riddles. and then what had become of the murderer? if he had disappeared from one moment to the other, that in itself would have been a tolerably curious phenomenon. but the phenomenon was actually something very like a miracle, inasmuch as the murderer had not absolutely disappeared. he was there! he made a practice of returning to the scene of the catastrophe! in addition to the goat-skin coat, a fur cap was picked up one day; and, by way of an unparalleled prodigy, one morning, after a whole night spent on guard in the rock, beside the famous turning, the detectives found, on the grass of the turning itself, a pair of motor-goggles, broken, rusty, dirty, done for. how had the murderer managed to bring back those goggles unseen by the detectives? and, above all, why had he brought them back? men's brains reeled in the presence of such abnormalities. they were almost afraid to pursue the ambiguous adventure. they received the impression of a heavy, stifling, breathless atmosphere, which dimmed the eyes and baffled the most clear-sighted. the magistrate in charge of the case fell ill. four days later, his successor confessed that the matter was beyond him. two tramps were arrested and at once released. another was pursued, but not caught; moreover, there was no evidence of any sort or kind against him. in short, it was nothing but one helpless muddle of mist and contradiction. an accident, the merest accident led to the solution, or rather produced a series of circumstances that ended by leading to the solution. a reporter on the staff of an important paris paper, who had been sent to make investigations on the spot, concluded his article with the following words: "i repeat, therefore, that we must wait for fresh events, fresh facts; we must wait for some lucky accident. as things stand, we are simply wasting our time. the elements of truth are not even sufficient to suggest a plausible theory. we are in the midst of the most absolute, painful, impenetrable darkness. there is nothing to be done. all the sherlock holmeses in the world would not know what to make of the mystery, and arsène lupin himself, if he will allow me to say so, would have to pay forfeit here." * * * * * on the day after the appearance of that article, the newspaper in question printed this telegram: "have sometimes paid forfeit, but never over such a silly thing as this. the saint-nicolas tragedy is a mystery for babies. "arsÈne lupin." and the editor added: "we insert this telegram as a matter of curiosity, for it is obviously the work of a wag. arsène lupin, past-master though he be in the art of practical joking, would be the last man to display such childish flippancy." two days elapsed; and then the paper published the famous letter, so precise and categorical in its conclusions, in which arsène lupin furnished the solution of the problem. i quote it in full: "sir: "you have taken me on my weak side by defying me. you challenge me, and i accept the challenge. and i will begin by declaring once more that the saint-nicolas tragedy is a mystery for babies. i know nothing so simple, so natural; and the proof of the simplicity shall lie in the succinctness of my demonstration. it is contained in these few words: when a crime seems to go beyond the ordinary scope of things, when it seems unusual and stupid, then there are many chances that its explanation is to be found in superordinary, supernatural, superhuman motives. "i say that there are many chances, for we must always allow for the part played by absurdity in the most logical and commonplace events. but, of course, it is impossible to see things as they are and not to take account of the absurd and the disproportionate. "i was struck from the very beginning by that very evident character of unusualness. we have, first of all, the awkward, zigzag course of the motor-car, which would give one the impression that the car was driven by a novice. people have spoken of a drunkard or a madman, a justifiable supposition in itself. but neither madness nor drunkenness would account for the incredible strength required to transport, especially in so short a space of time, the stone with which the unfortunate woman's head was crushed. that proceeding called for a muscular power so great that i do not hesitate to look upon it as a second sign of the unusualness that marks the whole tragedy. and why move that enormous stone, to finish off the victim, when a mere pebble would have done the work? why again was the murderer not killed, or at least reduced to a temporary state of helplessness, in the terrible somersault turned by the car? how did he disappear? and why, having disappeared, did he return to the scene of the accident? why did he throw his fur coat there; then, on another day, his cap; then, on another day, his goggles? "unusual, useless, stupid acts. "why, besides, convey that wounded, dying woman on the driver's seat of the car, where everybody could see her? why do that, instead of putting her inside, or flinging her into some corner, dead, just as the man was flung under the brambles in the ditch? "unusualness, stupidity. "everything in the whole story is absurd. everything points to hesitation, incoherency, awkwardness, the silliness of a child or rather of a mad, blundering savage, of a brute. "look at the bottle of brandy. there was a corkscrew: it was found in the pocket of the great coat. did the murderer use it? yes, the marks of the corkscrew can be seen on the seal. but the operation was too complicated for him. he broke the neck with a stone. always stones: observe that detail. they are the only weapon, the only implement which the creature employs. it is his customary weapon, his familiar implement. he kills the man with a stone, he kills the woman with a stone and he opens bottles with a stone! "a brute, i repeat, a savage; disordered, unhinged, suddenly driven mad. by what? why, of course, by that same brandy, which he swallowed at a draught while the driver and his companion were having breakfast in the field. he got out of the limousine, in which he was travelling, in his goat-skin coat and his fur cap, took the bottle, broke off the neck and drank. there is the whole story. having drunk, he went raving mad and hit out at random, without reason. then, seized with instinctive fear, dreading the inevitable punishment, he hid the body of the man. then, like an idiot, he took up the wounded woman and ran away. he ran away in that motor-car which he did not know how to work, but which to him represented safety, escape from capture. "but the money, you will ask, the stolen pocket-book? why, who says that he was the thief? who says that it was not some passing tramp, some labourer, guided by the stench of the corpse? "very well, you object, but the brute would have been found, as he is hiding somewhere near the turn, and as, after all, he must eat and drink. "well, well, i see that you have not yet understood. the simplest way, i suppose, to have done and to answer your objections is to make straight for the mark. then let the gentlemen of the police and the gendarmerie themselves make straight for the mark. let them take firearms. let them explore the forest within a radius of two or three hundred yards from the turn, no more. but, instead of exploring with their heads down and their eyes fixed on the ground, let them look up into the air, yes, into the air, among the leaves and branches of the tallest oaks and the most unlikely beeches. and, believe me, they will see him. for he is there. he is there, bewildered, piteously at a loss, seeking for the man and woman whom he has killed, looking for them and waiting for them and not daring to go away and quite unable to understand. "i myself am exceedingly sorry that i am kept in town by urgent private affairs and by some complicated matters of business which i have to set going, for i should much have liked to see the end of this rather curious adventure. "pray, therefore excuse me to my kind friends in the police and permit me to be, sir, "your obedient servant, "arsÈne lupin." * * * * * the upshot will be remembered. the "gentlemen of the police and the gendarmerie" shrugged their shoulders and paid no attention to this lucubration. but four of the local country gentry took their rifles and went shooting, with their eyes fixed skyward, as though they meant to pot a few rooks. in half an hour they had caught sight of the murderer. two shots, and he came tumbling from bough to bough. he was only wounded, and they took him alive. that evening, a paris paper, which did not yet know of the capture, printed the following paragraphs: "enquiries are being made after a m. and mme. bragoff, who landed at marseilles six weeks ago and there hired a motor-car. they had been living in australia for many years, during which time they had not visited europe; and they wrote to the director of the jardin d'acclimatation, with whom they were in the habit of corresponding, that they were bringing with them a curious creature, of an entirely unknown species, of which it was difficult to say whether it was a man or a monkey. "according to m. bragoff, who is an eminent archæologist, the specimen in question is the anthropoid ape, or rather the ape-man, the existence of which had not hitherto been definitely proved. the structure is said to be exactly similar to that of _pithecanthropus erectus_, discovered by dr. dubois in java in . "this curious, intelligent and observant animal acted as its owner's servant on their property in australia and used to clean their motor-car and even attempt to drive it. "the question that is being asked is where are m. and mme. bragoff? where is the strange primate that landed with them at marseilles?" the answer to this question was now made easy. thanks to the hints supplied by arsène lupin, all the elements of the tragedy were known. thanks to him, the culprit was in the hands of the law. you can see him at the jardin d'acclimatation, where he is locked up under the name of "three stars." he is, in point of fact, a monkey; but he is also a man. he has the gentleness and the wisdom of the domestic animals and the sadness which they feel when their master dies. but he has many other qualities that bring him much closer to humanity: he is treacherous, cruel, idle, greedy and quarrelsome; and, above all, he is immoderately fond of brandy. apart from that, he is a monkey. unless indeed ...! * * * * * a few days after three stars' arrest, i saw arsène lupin standing in front of his cage. lupin was manifestly trying to solve this interesting problem for himself. i at once said, for i had set my heart upon having the matter out with him: "you know, lupin, that intervention of yours, your argument, your letter, in short, did not surprise me so much as you might think!" "oh, really?" he said, calmly. "and why?" "why? because the incident has occurred before, seventy or eighty years ago. edgar allan poe made it the subject of one of his finest tales. in those circumstances, the key to the riddle was easy enough to find." arsène lupin took my arm, and walking away with me, said: "when did you guess it, yourself?" "on reading your letter," i confessed. "and at what part of my letter?" "at the end." "at the end, eh? after i had dotted all the i's. so here is a crime which accident causes to be repeated, under quite different conditions, it is true, but still with the same sort of hero; and your eyes had to be opened, as well as other people's. it needed the assistance of my letter, the letter in which i amused myself--apart from the exigencies of the facts--by employing the argument and sometimes the identical words used by the american poet in a story which everybody has read. so you see that my letter was not absolutely useless and that one may safely venture to repeat to people things which they have learnt only to forget them." wherewith lupin turned on his heel and burst out laughing in the face of an old monkey, who sat with the air of a philosopher, gravely meditating. viii lupin's marriage "monsieur arsène lupin has the honour to inform you of his approaching marriage with mademoiselle angélique de sarzeau-vendôme, princesse de bourbon-condé, and to request the pleasure of your company at the wedding, which will take place at the church of sainte-clotilde...." "the duc de sarzeau-vendôme has the honour to inform you of the approaching marriage of his daughter angélique, princesse de bourbon-condé, with monsieur arsène lupin, and to request...." jean duc de sarzeau-vendôme could not finish reading the invitations which he held in his trembling hand. pale with anger, his long, lean body shaking with tremors: "there!" he gasped, handing the two communications to his daughter. "this is what our friends have received! this has been the talk of paris since yesterday! what do you say to that dastardly insult, angélique? what would your poor mother say to it, if she were alive?" angélique was tall and thin like her father, skinny and angular like him. she was thirty-three years of age, always dressed in black stuff, shy and retiring in manner, with a head too small in proportion to her height and narrowed on either side until the nose seemed to jut forth in protest against such parsimony. and yet it would be impossible to say that she was ugly, for her eyes were extremely beautiful, soft and grave, proud and a little sad: pathetic eyes which to see once was to remember. she flushed with shame at hearing her father's words, which told her the scandal of which she was the victim. but, as she loved him, notwithstanding his harshness to her, his injustice and despotism, she said: "oh, i think it must be meant for a joke, father, to which we need pay no attention!" "a joke? why, every one is gossiping about it! a dozen papers have printed the confounded notice this morning, with satirical comments. they quote our pedigree, our ancestors, our illustrious dead. they pretend to take the thing seriously...." "still, no one could believe...." "of course not. but that doesn't prevent us from being the by-word of paris." "it will all be forgotten by to-morrow." "to-morrow, my girl, people will remember that the name of angélique de sarzeau-vendôme has been bandied about as it should not be. oh, if i could find out the name of the scoundrel who has dared...." at that moment, hyacinthe, the duke's valet, came in and said that monsieur le duc was wanted on the telephone. still fuming, he took down the receiver and growled: "well? who is it? yes, it's the duc de sarzeau-vendôme speaking." a voice replied: "i want to apologize to you, monsieur le duc, and to mlle. angélique. it's my secretary's fault." "your secretary?" "yes, the invitations were only a rough draft which i meant to submit to you. unfortunately my secretary thought...." "but, tell me, monsieur, who are you?" "what, monsieur le duc, don't you know my voice? the voice of your future son-in-law?" "what!" "arsène lupin." the duke dropped into a chair. his face was livid. "arsène lupin ... it's he ... arsène lupin...." angélique gave a smile: "you see, father, it's only a joke, a hoax." but the duke's rage broke out afresh and he began to walk up and down, moving his arms: "i shall go to the police!... the fellow can't be allowed to make a fool of me in this way!... if there's any law left in the land, it must be stopped!" hyacinthe entered the room again. he brought two visiting-cards. "chotois? lepetit? don't know them." "they are both journalists, monsieur le duc." "what do they want?" "they would like to speak to monsieur le duc with regard to ... the marriage...." "turn them out!" exclaimed the duke. "kick them out! and tell the porter not to admit scum of that sort to my house in future." "please, father ..." angélique ventured to say. "as for you, shut up! if you had consented to marry one of your cousins when i wanted you to this wouldn't have happened." the same evening, one of the two reporters printed, on the front page of his paper, a somewhat fanciful story of his expedition to the family mansion of the sarzeau-vendômes, in the rue de varennes, and expatiated pleasantly upon the old nobleman's wrathful protests. the next morning, another newspaper published an interview with arsène lupin which was supposed to have taken place in a lobby at the opera. arsène lupin retorted in a letter to the editor: "i share my prospective father-in-law's indignation to the full. the sending out of the invitations was a gross breach of etiquette for which i am not responsible, but for which i wish to make a public apology. why, sir, the date of the marriage is not yet fixed. my bride's father suggests early in may. she and i think that six weeks is really too long to wait!..." that which gave a special piquancy to the affair and added immensely to the enjoyment of the friends of the family was the duke's well-known character: his pride and the uncompromising nature of his ideas and principles. duc jean was the last descendant of the barons de sarzeau, the most ancient family in brittany; he was the lineal descendant of that sarzeau who, upon marrying a vendôme, refused to bear the new title which louis xv forced upon him until after he had been imprisoned for ten years in the bastille; and he had abandoned none of the prejudices of the old régime. in his youth, he followed the comte de chambord into exile. in his old age, he refused a seat in the chamber on the pretext that a sarzeau could only sit with his peers. the incident stung him to the quick. nothing could pacify him. he cursed lupin in good round terms, threatened him with every sort of punishment and rounded on his daughter: "there, if you had only married!... after all you had plenty of chances. your three cousins, mussy, d'emboise and caorches, are noblemen of good descent, allied to the best families, fairly well-off; and they are still anxious to marry you. why do you refuse them? ah, because miss is a dreamer, a sentimentalist; and because her cousins are too fat, or too thin, or too coarse for her...." she was, in fact, a dreamer. left to her own devices from childhood, she had read all the books of chivalry, all the colourless romances of olden-time that littered the ancestral presses; and she looked upon life as a fairy-tale in which the beauteous maidens are always happy, while the others wait till death for the bridegroom who does not come. why should she marry one of her cousins when they were only after her money, the millions which she had inherited from her mother? she might as well remain an old maid and go on dreaming.... she answered, gently: "you will end by making yourself ill, father. forget this silly business." but how could he forget it? every morning, some pin-prick renewed his wound. three days running, angélique received a wonderful sheaf of flowers, with arsène lupin's card peeping from it. the duke could not go to his club but a friend accosted him: "that was a good one to-day!" "what was?" "why, your son-in-law's latest! haven't you seen it? here, read it for yourself: 'm. arsène lupin is petitioning the council of state for permission to add his wife's name to his own and to be known henceforth as lupin de sarzeau-vendôme.'" and, the next day, he read: "as the young bride, by virtue of an unrepealed decree of charles x, bears the title and arms of the bourbon-condés, of whom she is the heiress-of-line, the eldest son of the lupins de sarzeau-vendôme will be styled prince de bourbon-condé." and, the day after, an advertisement. "exhibition of mlle. de sarzeau-vendôme's trousseau at messrs. ----'s great linen warehouse. each article marked with initials l. s. v." then an illustrated paper published a photographic scene: the duke, his daughter and his son-in-law sitting at a table playing three-handed auction-bridge. and the date also was announced with a great flourish of trumpets: the th of may. and particulars were given of the marriage-settlement. lupin showed himself wonderfully disinterested. he was prepared to sign, the newspapers said, with his eyes closed, without knowing the figure of the dowry. all these things drove the old duke crazy. his hatred of lupin assumed morbid proportions. much as it went against the grain, he called on the prefect of police, who advised him to be on his guard: "we know the gentleman's ways; he is employing one of his favourite dodges. forgive the expression, monsieur le duc, but he is 'nursing' you. don't fall into the trap." "what dodge? what trap?" asked the duke, anxiously. "he is trying to make you lose your head and to lead you, by intimidation, to do something which you would refuse to do in cold blood." "still, m. arsène lupin can hardly hope that i will offer him my daughter's hand!" "no, but he hopes that you will commit, to put it mildly, a blunder." "what blunder?" "exactly that blunder which he wants you to commit." "then you think, monsieur le préfet ...?" "i think the best thing you can do, monsieur le duc, is to go home, or, if all this excitement worries you, to run down to the country and stay there quietly, without upsetting yourself." this conversation only increased the old duke's fears. lupin appeared to him in the light of a terrible person, who employed diabolical methods and kept accomplices in every sphere of society. prudence was the watchword. and life, from that moment, became intolerable. the duke grew more crabbed and silent than ever and denied his door to all his old friends and even to angélique's three suitors, her cousins de mussy, d'emboise and de caorches, who were none of them on speaking terms with the others, in consequence of their rivalry, and who were in the habit of calling, turn and turn about, every week. for no earthly reason, he dismissed his butler and his coachman. but he dared not fill their places, for fear of engaging creatures of arsène lupin's; and his own man, hyacinthe, in whom he had every confidence, having had him in his service for over forty years, had to take upon himself the laborious duties of the stables and the pantry. "come, father," said angélique, trying to make him listen to common-sense. "i really can't see what you are afraid of. no one can force me into this ridiculous marriage." "well, of course, that's not what i'm afraid of." "what then, father?" "how can i tell? an abduction! a burglary! an act of violence! there is no doubt that the villain is scheming something; and there is also no doubt that we are surrounded by spies." one afternoon, he received a newspaper in which the following paragraph was marked in red pencil: "the signing of the marriage-contract is fixed for this evening, at the sarzeau-vendôme town-house. it will be quite a private ceremony and only a few privileged friends will be present to congratulate the happy pair. the witnesses to the contract on behalf of mlle. de sarzeau-vendôme, the prince de la rochefoucauld-limours and the comte de chartres, will be introduced by m. arsène lupin to the two gentlemen who have claimed the honour of acting as his groomsmen, namely, the prefect of police and the governor of the santé prison." ten minutes later, the duke sent his servant hyacinthe to the post with three express messages. at four o'clock, in angélique's presence, he saw the three cousins: mussy, fat, heavy, pasty-faced; d'emboise, slender, fresh-coloured and shy: caorches, short, thin and unhealthy-looking: all three, old bachelors by this time, lacking distinction in dress or appearance. the meeting was a short one. the duke had worked out his whole plan of campaign, a defensive campaign, of which he set forth the first stage in explicit terms: "angélique and i will leave paris to-night for our place in brittany. i rely on you, my three nephews, to help us get away. you, d'emboise, will come and fetch us in your car, with the hood up. you, mussy, will bring your big motor and kindly see to the luggage with hyacinthe, my man. you, caorches, will go to the gare d'orléans and book our berths in the sleeping-car for vannes by the . train. is that settled?" the rest of the day passed without incident. the duke, to avoid any accidental indiscretion, waited until after dinner to tell hyacinthe to pack a trunk and a portmanteau. hyacinthe was to accompany them, as well as angélique's maid. at nine o'clock, all the other servants went to bed, by their master's order. at ten minutes to ten, the duke, who was completing his preparations, heard the sound of a motor-horn. the porter opened the gates of the courtyard. the duke, standing at the window, recognized d'emboise's landaulette: "tell him i shall be down presently," he said to hyacinthe, "and let mademoiselle know." in a few minutes, as hyacinthe did not return, he left his room. but he was attacked on the landing by two masked men, who gagged and bound him before he could utter a cry. and one of the men said to him, in a low voice: "take this as a first warning, monsieur le duc. if you persist in leaving paris and refusing your consent, it will be a more serious matter." and the same man said to his companion: "keep an eye on him. i will see to the young lady." by that time, two other confederates had secured the lady's maid; and angélique, herself gagged, lay fainting on a couch in her boudoir. she came to almost immediately, under the stimulus of a bottle of salts held to her nostrils; and, when she opened her eyes, she saw bending over her a young man, in evening-clothes, with a smiling and friendly face, who said: "i implore your forgiveness, mademoiselle. all these happenings are a trifle sudden and this behaviour rather out of the way. but circumstances often compel us to deeds of which our conscience does not approve. pray pardon me." he took her hand very gently and slipped a broad gold ring on the girl's finger, saying: "there, now we are engaged. never forget the man who gave you this ring. he entreats you not to run away from him ... and to stay in paris and await the proofs of his devotion. have faith in him." he said all this in so serious and respectful a voice, with so much authority and deference, that she had not the strength to resist. their eyes met. he whispered: "the exquisite purity of your eyes! it would be heavenly to live with those eyes upon one. now close them...." he withdrew. his accomplices followed suit. the car drove off, and the house in the rue de varennes remained still and silent until the moment when angélique, regaining complete consciousness, called out for the servants. they found the duke, hyacinthe, the lady's maid and the porter and his wife all tightly bound. a few priceless ornaments had disappeared, as well as the duke's pocket-book and all his jewellery; tie pins, pearl studs, watch and so on. the police were advised without delay. in the morning it appeared that, on the evening before, d'emboise, when leaving his house in the motor-car, was stabbed by his own chauffeur and thrown, half-dead, into a deserted street. mussy and caorches had each received a telephone-message, purporting to come from the duke, countermanding their attendance. next week, without troubling further about the police investigation, without obeying the summons of the examining-magistrate, without even reading arsène lupin's letters to the papers on "the varennes flight," the duke, his daughter and his valet stealthily took a slow train for vannes and arrived one evening, at the old feudal castle that towers over the headland of sarzeau. the duke at once organized a defence with the aid of the breton peasants, true mediæval vassals to a man. on the fourth day, mussy arrived; on the fifth, caorches; and, on the seventh, d'emboise, whose wound was not as severe as had been feared. the duke waited two days longer before communicating to those about him what, now that his escape had succeeded in spite of lupin, he called the second part of his plan. he did so, in the presence of the three cousins, by a dictatorial order to angélique, expressed in these peremptory terms: "all this bother is upsetting me terribly. i have entered on a struggle with this man whose daring you have seen for yourself; and the struggle is killing me. i want to end it at all costs. there is only one way of doing so, angélique, and that is for you to release me from all responsibility by accepting the hand of one of your cousins. before a month is out, you must be the wife of mussy, caorches or d'emboise. you have a free choice. make your decision." for four whole days angélique wept and entreated her father, but in vain. she felt that he would be inflexible and that she must end by submitting to his wishes. she accepted: "whichever you please, father. i love none of them. so i may as well be unhappy with one as with the other." thereupon a fresh discussion ensued, as the duke wanted to compel her to make her own choice. she stood firm. reluctantly and for financial considerations, he named d'emboise. the banns were published without delay. from that moment, the watch in and around the castle was increased twofold, all the more inasmuch as lupin's silence and the sudden cessation of the campaign which he had been conducting in the press could not but alarm the duc de sarzeau-vendôme. it was obvious that the enemy was getting ready to strike and would endeavour to oppose the marriage by one of his characteristic moves. nevertheless, nothing happened: nothing two days before the ceremony, nothing on the day before, nothing on the morning itself. the marriage took place in the mayor's office, followed by the religious celebration in church; and the thing was done. then and not till then, the duke breathed freely. notwithstanding his daughter's sadness, notwithstanding the embarrassed silence of his son-in-law, who found the situation a little trying, he rubbed his hands with an air of pleasure, as though he had achieved a brilliant victory: "tell them to lower the drawbridge," he said to hyacinthe, "and to admit everybody. we have nothing more to fear from that scoundrel." after the wedding-breakfast, he had wine served out to the peasants and clinked glasses with them. they danced and sang. at three o'clock, he returned to the ground-floor rooms. it was the hour for his afternoon nap. he walked to the guard-room at the end of the suite. but he had no sooner placed his foot on the threshold than he stopped suddenly and exclaimed: "what are you doing here, d'emboise? is this a joke?" d'emboise was standing before him, dressed as a breton fisherman, in a dirty jacket and breeches, torn, patched and many sizes too large for him. the duke seemed dumbfounded. he stared with eyes of amazement at that face which he knew and which, at the same time, roused memories of a very distant past within his brain. then he strode abruptly to one of the windows overlooking the castle-terrace and called: "angélique!" "what is it, father?" she asked, coming forward. "where's your husband?" "over there, father," said angélique, pointing to d'emboise, who was smoking a cigarette and reading, some way off. the duke stumbled and fell into a chair, with a great shudder of fright: "oh, i shall go mad!" but the man in the fisherman's garb knelt down before him and said: "look at me, uncle. you know me, don't you? i'm your nephew, the one who used to play here in the old days, the one whom you called jacquot.... just think a minute.... here, look at this scar...." "yes, yes," stammered the duke, "i recognize you. it's jacques. but the other one...." he put his hands to his head: "and yet, no, it can't be ... explain yourself.... i don't understand.... i don't want to understand...." there was a pause, during which the newcomer shut the window and closed the door leading to the next room. then he came up to the old duke, touched him gently on the shoulder, to wake him from his torpor, and without further preface, as though to cut short any explanation that was not absolutely necessary, spoke as follows: "four years ago, that is to say, in the eleventh year of my voluntary exile, when i settled in the extreme south of algeria, i made the acquaintance, in the course of a hunting-expedition arranged by a big arab chief, of a man whose geniality, whose charm of manner, whose consummate prowess, whose indomitable pluck, whose combined humour and depth of mind fascinated me in the highest degree. the comte d'andrésy spent six weeks as my guest. after he left, we kept up a correspondence at regular intervals. i also often saw his name in the papers, in the society and sporting columns. he was to come back and i was preparing to receive him, three months ago, when, one evening as i was out riding, my two arab attendants flung themselves upon me, bound me, blindfolded me and took me, travelling day and night, for a week, along deserted roads, to a bay on the coast, where five men awaited them. i was at once carried on board a small steam-yacht, which weighed anchor without delay. there was nothing to tell me who the men were nor what their object was in kidnapping me. they had locked me into a narrow cabin, secured by a massive door and lighted by a port-hole protected by two iron cross-bars. every morning, a hand was inserted through a hatch between the next cabin and my own and placed on my bunk two or three pounds of bread, a good helping of food and a flagon of wine and removed the remains of yesterday's meals, which i put there for the purpose. from time to time, at night, the yacht stopped and i heard the sound of the boat rowing to some harbour and then returning, doubtless with provisions. then we set out once more, without hurrying, as though on a cruise of people of our class, who travel for pleasure and are not pressed for time. sometimes, standing on a chair, i would see the coastline, through my port-hole, too indistinctly, however, to locate it. and this lasted for weeks. one morning, in the ninth week, i perceived that the hatch had been left unfastened and i pushed it open. the cabin was empty at the time. with an effort, i was able to take a nail-file from a dressing-table. two weeks after that, by dint of patient perseverance, i had succeeded in filing through the bars of my port-hole and i could have escaped that way, only, though i am a good swimmer, i soon grow tired. i had therefore to choose a moment when the yacht was not too far from the land. it was not until yesterday that, perched on my chair, i caught sight of the coast; and, in the evening, at sunset, i recognized, to my astonishment, the outlines of the château de sarzeau, with its pointed turrets and its square keep. i wondered if this was the goal of my mysterious voyage. all night long, we cruised in the offing. the same all day yesterday. at last, this morning, we put in at a distance which i considered favourable, all the more so as we were steaming through rocks under cover of which i could swim unobserved. but, just as i was about to make my escape, i noticed that the shutter of the hatch, which they thought they had closed, had once more opened of itself and was flapping against the partition. i again pushed it ajar from curiosity. within arm's length was a little cupboard which i managed to open and in which my hand, groping at random, laid hold of a bundle of papers. this consisted of letters, letters containing instructions addressed to the pirates who held me prisoner. an hour later, when i wriggled through the port-hole and slipped into the sea, i knew all: the reasons for my abduction, the means employed, the object in view and the infamous scheme plotted during the last three months against the duc de sarzeau-vendôme and his daughter. unfortunately, it was too late. i was obliged, in order not to be seen from the yacht, to crouch in the cleft of a rock and did not reach land until mid-day. by the time that i had been to a fisherman's cabin, exchanged my clothes for his and come on here, it was three o'clock. on my arrival. i learnt that angélique's marriage was celebrated this morning." the old duke had not spoken a word. with his eyes riveted on the stranger's, he was listening in ever-increasing dismay. at times, the thought of the warnings given him by the prefect of police returned to his mind: "they're nursing you, monsieur le duc, they are nursing you." he said, in a hollow voice: "speak on ... finish your story.... all this is ghastly.... i don't understand it yet ... and i feel nervous...." the stranger resumed: "i am sorry to say, the story is easily pieced together and is summed up in a few sentences. it is like this: the comte d'andrésy remembered several things from his stay with me and from the confidences which i was foolish enough to make to him. first of all, i was your nephew and yet you had seen comparatively little of me, because i left sarzeau when i was quite a child, and since then our intercourse was limited to the few weeks which i spent here, fifteen years ago, when i proposed for the hand of my cousin angélique; secondly, having broken with the past, i received no letters; lastly, there was a certain physical resemblance between d'andrésy and myself which could be accentuated to such an extent as to become striking. his scheme was built up on those three points. he bribed my arab servants to give him warning in case i left algeria. then he went back to paris, bearing my name and made up to look exactly like me, came to see you, was invited to your house once a fortnight and lived under my name, which thus became one of the many aliases beneath which he conceals his real identity. three months ago, when 'the apple was ripe,' as he says in his letters, he began the attack by a series of communications to the press; and, at the same time, fearing no doubt that some newspaper would tell me in algeria the part that was being played under my name in paris, he had me assaulted by my servants and kidnapped by his confederates. i need not explain any more in so far as you are concerned, uncle." the duc de sarzeau-vendôme was shaken with a fit of nervous trembling. the awful truth to which he refused to open his eyes appeared to him in its nakedness and assumed the hateful countenance of the enemy. he clutched his nephew's hands and said to him, fiercely, despairingly: "it's lupin, is it not?" "yes, uncle." "and it's to him ... it's to him that i have given my daughter!" "yes, uncle, to him, who has stolen my name of jacques d'emboise from me and stolen your daughter from you. angélique is the wedded wife of arsène lupin; and that in accordance with your orders. this letter in his handwriting bears witness to it. he has upset your whole life, thrown you off your balance, besieging your hours of waking and your nights of dreaming, rifling your town-house, until the moment when, seized with terror, you took refuge here, where, thinking that you would escape his artifices and his rapacity, you told your daughter to choose one of her three cousins, mussy, d'emboise or caorches, as her husband. "but why did she select that one rather than the others?" "it was you who selected him, uncle." "at random ... because he had the biggest income...." "no, not at random, but on the insidious, persistent and very clever advice of your servant hyacinthe." the duke gave a start: "what! is hyacinthe an accomplice?" "no, not of arsène lupin, but of the man whom he believes to be d'emboise and who promised to give him a hundred thousand francs within a week after the marriage." "oh, the villain!... he planned everything, foresaw everything...." "foresaw everything, uncle, down to shamming an attempt upon his life so as to avert suspicion, down to shamming a wound received in your service." "but with what object? why all these dastardly tricks?" "angélique has a fortune of eleven million francs. your solicitor in paris was to hand the securities next week to the counterfeit d'emboise, who had only to realize them forthwith and disappear. but, this very morning, you yourself were to hand your son-in-law, as a personal wedding-present, five hundred thousand francs' worth of bearer-stock, which he has arranged to deliver to one of his accomplices at nine o'clock this evening, outside the castle, near the great oak, so that they may be negotiated to-morrow morning in brussels." the duc de sarzeau-vendôme had risen from his seat and was stamping furiously up and down the room: "at nine o'clock this evening?" he said. "we'll see about that.... we'll see about that.... i'll have the gendarmes here before then...." "arsène lupin laughs at gendarmes." "let's telegraph to paris." "yes, but how about the five hundred thousand francs?... and, still worse, uncle, the scandal?... think of this: your daughter, angélique de sarzeau-vendôme, married to that swindler, that thief.... no, no, it would never do...." "what then?" "what?..." the nephew now rose and, stepping to a gun-rack, took down a rifle and laid it on the table, in front of the duke: "away in algeria, uncle, on the verge of the desert, when we find ourselves face to face with a wild beast, we do not send for the gendarmes. we take our rifle and we shoot the wild beast. otherwise, the beast would tear us to pieces with its claws." "what do you mean?" "i mean that, over there, i acquired the habit of dispensing with the gendarmes. it is a rather summary way of doing justice, but it is the best way, believe me, and to-day, in the present case, it is the only way. once the beast is killed, you and i will bury it in some corner, unseen and unknown." "and angélique?" "we will tell her later." "what will become of her?" "she will be my wife, the wife of the real d'emboise. i desert her to-morrow and return to algeria. the divorce will be granted in two months' time." the duke listened, pale and staring, with set jaws. he whispered: "are you sure that his accomplices on the yacht will not inform him of your escape?" "not before to-morrow." "so that ...?" "so that inevitably, at nine o'clock this evening, arsène lupin, on his way to the great oak, will take the patrol-path that follows the old ramparts and skirts the ruins of the chapel. i shall be there, in the ruins." "i shall be there too," said the duc de sarzeau-vendôme, quietly, taking down a gun. it was now five o'clock. the duke talked some time longer to his nephew, examined the weapons, loaded them with fresh cartridges. then, when night came, he took d'emboise through the dark passages to his bedroom and hid him in an adjoining closet. nothing further happened until dinner. the duke forced himself to keep calm during the meal. from time to time, he stole a glance at his son-in-law and was surprised at the likeness between him and the real d'emboise. it was the same complexion, the same cast of features, the same cut of hair. nevertheless, the look of the eye was different, keener in this case and brighter; and gradually the duke discovered minor details which had passed unperceived till then and which proved the fellow's imposture. the party broke up after dinner. it was eight o'clock. the duke went to his room and released his nephew. ten minutes later, under cover of the darkness, they slipped into the ruins, gun in hand. meanwhile, angélique, accompanied by her husband, had gone to the suite of rooms which she occupied on the ground-floor of a tower that flanked the left wing. her husband stopped at the entrance to the rooms and said: "i am going for a short stroll, angélique. may i come to you here, when i return?" "yes," she replied. he left her and went up to the first floor, which had been assigned to him as his quarters. the moment he was alone, he locked the door, noiselessly opened a window that looked over the landscape and leant out. he saw a shadow at the foot of the tower, some hundred feet or more below him. he whistled and received a faint whistle in reply. he then took from a cupboard a thick leather satchel, crammed with papers, wrapped it in a piece of black cloth and tied it up. then he sat down at the table and wrote: "glad you got my message, for i think it unsafe to walk out of the castle with that large bundle of securities. here they are. you will be in paris, on your motor-cycle, in time to catch the morning train to brussels, where you will hand over the bonds to z.; and he will negotiate them at once. "a. l. "p. s.--as you pass by the great oak, tell our chaps that i'm coming. i have some instructions to give them. but everything is going well. no one here has the least suspicion." he fastened the letter to the parcel and lowered both through the window with a length of string: "good," he said. "that's all right. it's a weight off my mind." he waited a few minutes longer, stalking up and down the room and smiling at the portraits of two gallant gentlemen hanging on the wall: "horace de sarzeau-vendôme, marshal of france.... and you, the great condé ... i salute you, my ancestors both. lupin de sarzeau-vendôme will show himself worthy of you." at last, when the time came, he took his hat and went down. but, when he reached the ground-floor, angélique burst from her rooms and exclaimed, with a distraught air: "i say ... if you don't mind ... i think you had better...." and then, without saying more, she went in again, leaving a vision of irresponsible terror in her husband's mind. "she's out of sorts," he said to himself. "marriage doesn't suit her." he lit a cigarette and went out, without attaching importance to an incident that ought to have impressed him: "poor angélique! this will all end in a divorce...." the night outside was dark, with a cloudy sky. the servants were closing the shutters of the castle. there was no light in the windows, it being the duke's habit to go to bed soon after dinner. lupin passed the gate-keeper's lodge and, as he put his foot on the drawbridge, said: "leave the gate open. i am going for a breath of air; i shall be back soon." the patrol-path was on the right and ran along one of the old ramparts, which used to surround the castle with a second and much larger enclosure, until it ended at an almost demolished postern-gate. the park, which skirted a hillock and afterward followed the side of a deep valley, was bordered on the left by thick coppices. "what a wonderful place for an ambush!" he said. "a regular cut-throat spot!" he stopped, thinking that he heard a noise. but no, it was a rustling of the leaves. and yet a stone went rattling down the slopes, bounding against the rugged projections of the rock. but, strange to say, nothing seemed to disquiet him. the crisp sea-breeze came blowing over the plains of the headland; and he eagerly filled his lungs with it: "what a thing it is to be alive!" he thought. "still young, a member of the old nobility, a multi-millionaire: what could a man want more?" at a short distance, he saw against the darkness the yet darker outline of the chapel, the ruins of which towered above the path. a few drops of rain began to fall; and he heard a clock strike nine. he quickened his pace. there was a short descent; then the path rose again. and suddenly, he stopped once more. a hand had seized his. he drew back, tried to release himself. but some one stepped from the clump of trees against which he was brushing; and a voice said; "ssh!... not a word!..." he recognized his wife, angélique: "what's the matter?" he asked. she whispered, so low that he could hardly catch the words: "they are lying in wait for you ... they are in there, in the ruins, with their guns...." "who?" "keep quiet.... listen...." they stood for a moment without stirring; then she said: "they are not moving.... perhaps they never heard me.... let's go back...." "but...." "come with me." her accent was so imperious that he obeyed without further question. but suddenly she took fright: "run!... they are coming!... i am sure of it!..." true enough, they heard a sound of footsteps. then, swiftly, still holding him by the hand, she dragged him, with irresistible energy, along a shortcut, following its turns without hesitation in spite of the darkness and the brambles. and they very soon arrived at the drawbridge. she put her arm in his. the gate-keeper touched his cap. they crossed the courtyard and entered the castle; and she led him to the corner tower in which both of them had their apartments: "come in here," she said. "to your rooms?" "yes." two maids were sitting up for her. their mistress ordered them to retire to their bedrooms, on the third floor. almost immediately after, there was a knock at the door of the outer room; and a voice called: "angélique!" "is that you, father?" she asked, suppressing her agitation. "yes. is your husband here?" "we have just come in." "tell him i want to speak to him. ask him to come to my room. it's important." "very well, father, i'll send him to you." she listened for a few seconds, then returned to the boudoir where her husband was and said: "i am sure my father is still there." he moved as though to go out: "in that case, if he wants to speak to me...." "my father is not alone," she said, quickly, blocking his way. "who is with him?" "his nephew, jacques d'emboise." there was a moment's silence. he looked at her with a certain astonishment, failing quite to understand his wife's attitude. but, without pausing to go into the matter: "ah, so that dear old d'emboise is there?" he chuckled. "then the fat's in the fire? unless, indeed...." "my father knows everything," she said. "i overheard a conversation between them just now. his nephew has read certain letters.... i hesitated at first about telling you.... then i thought that my duty...." he studied her afresh. but, at once conquered by the queerness of the situation, he burst out laughing: "what? don't my friends on board ship burn my letters? and they have let their prisoner escape? the idiots! oh, when you don't see to everything yourself!... no matter, its distinctly humorous.... d'emboise versus d'emboise.... oh, but suppose i were no longer recognized? suppose d'emboise himself were to confuse me with himself?" he turned to a wash-hand-stand, took a towel, dipped it in the basin and soaped it and, in the twinkling of an eye, wiped the make-up from his face and altered the set of his hair: "that's it," he said, showing himself to angélique under the aspect in which she had seen him on the night of the burglary in paris. "i feel more comfortable like this for a discussion with my father-in-law." "where are you going?" she cried, flinging herself in front of the door. "why, to join the gentlemen." "you shall not pass!" "why not?" "suppose they kill you?" "kill me?" "that's what they mean to do, to kill you ... to hide your body somewhere.... who would know of it?" "very well," he said, "from their point of view, they are quite right. but, if i don't go to them, they will come here. that door won't stop them.... nor you, i'm thinking. therefore, it's better to have done with it." "follow me," commanded angélique. she took up the lamp that lit the room, went into her bedroom, pushed aside the wardrobe, which slid easily on hidden castors, pulled back an old tapestry-hanging, and said: "here is a door that has not been used for years. my father believes the key to be lost. i have it here. unlock the door with it. a staircase in the wall will take you to the bottom of the tower. you need only draw the bolts of another door and you will be free." he could hardly believe his ears. suddenly, he grasped the meaning of angélique's whole behaviour. in front of that sad, plain, but wonderfully gentle face, he stood for a moment discountenanced, almost abashed. he no longer thought of laughing. a feeling of respect, mingled with remorse and kindness, overcame him. "why are you saving me?" he whispered. "you are my husband." he protested: "no, no ... i have stolen that title. the law will never recognize my marriage." "my father does not want a scandal," she said. "just so," he replied, sharply, "just so. i foresaw that; and that was why i had your cousin d'emboise near at hand. once i disappear, he becomes your husband. he is the man you have married in the eyes of men." "you are the man i have married in the eyes of the church." "the church! the church! there are means of arranging matters with the church.... your marriage can be annulled." "on what pretext that we can admit?" he remained silent, thinking over all those points which he had not considered, all those points which were trivial and absurd for him, but which were serious for her, and he repeated several times: "this is terrible ... this is terrible.... i should have anticipated...." and, suddenly, seized with an idea, he clapped his hands and cried: "there, i have it! i'm hand in glove with one of the chief figures at the vatican. the pope never refuses me anything. i shall obtain an audience and i have no doubt that the holy father, moved by my entreaties...." his plan was so humorous and his delight so artless that angélique could not help smiling; and she said: "i am your wife in the eyes of god." she gave him a look that showed neither scorn nor animosity, nor even anger; and he realized that she omitted to see in him the outlaw and the evil-doer and remembered only the man who was her husband and to whom the priest had bound her until the hour of death. he took a step toward her and observed her more attentively. she did not lower her eyes at first. but she blushed. and never had he seen so pathetic a face, marked with such modesty and such dignity. he said to her, as on that first evening in paris: "oh, your eyes ... the calm and sadness of your eyes ... the beauty of your eyes!" she dropped her head and stammered: "go away ... go ..." in the presence of her confusion, he received a quick intuition of the deeper feelings that stirred her, unknown to herself. to that spinster soul, of which he recognized the romantic power of imagination, the unsatisfied yearnings, the poring over old-world books, he suddenly represented, in that exceptional moment and in consequence of the unconventional circumstances of their meetings, somebody special, a byronic hero, a chivalrous brigand of romance. one evening, in spite of all obstacles, he, the world-famed adventurer, already ennobled in song and story and exalted by his own audacity, had come to her and slipped the magic ring upon her finger: a mystic and passionate betrothal, as in the days of the _corsair_ and _hernani_.... greatly moved and touched, he was on the verge of giving way to an enthusiastic impulse and exclaiming: "let us go away together!... let us fly!... you are my bride ... my wife.... share my dangers, my sorrows and my joys.... it will be a strange and vigorous, a proud and magnificent life...." but angélique's eyes were raised to his again; and they were so pure and so noble that he blushed in his turn. this was not the woman to whom such words could be addressed. he whispered: "forgive me.... i am a contemptible wretch.... i have wrecked your life...." "no," she replied, softly. "on the contrary, you have shown me where my real life lies." he was about to ask her to explain. but she had opened the door and was pointing the way to him. nothing more could be spoken between them. he went out without a word, bowing very low as he passed. * * * * * a month later, angélique de sarzeau-vendôme, princesse de bourbon-condé, lawful wife of arsène lupin, took the veil and, under the name of sister marie-auguste, buried herself within the walls of the visitation convent. on the day of the ceremony, the mother superior of the convent received a heavy sealed envelope containing a letter with the following words: "for sister marie-auguste's poor." enclosed with the letter were five hundred bank-notes of a thousand francs each. ix the invisible prisoner one day, at about four o'clock, as evening was drawing in, farmer goussot, with his four sons, returned from a day's shooting. they were stalwart men, all five of them, long of limb, broad-chested, with faces tanned by sun and wind. and all five displayed, planted on an enormous neck and shoulders, the same small head with the low forehead, thin lips, beaked nose and hard and repellent cast of countenance. they were feared and disliked by all around them. they were a money-grubbing, crafty family; and their word was not to be trusted. on reaching the old barbican-wall that surrounds the héberville property, the farmer opened a narrow, massive door, putting the big key back in his pocket after his sons had passed in. and he walked behind them, along the path that led through the orchards. here and there stood great trees, stripped by the autumn winds, and clumps of pines, the last survivors of the ancient park now covered by old goussot's farm. one of the sons said: "i hope mother has lit a log or two." "there's smoke coming from the chimney," said the father. the outhouses and the homestead showed at the end of a lawn; and, above them, the village church, whose steeple seemed to prick the clouds that trailed along the sky. "all the guns unloaded?" asked old goussot. "mine isn't," said the eldest. "i slipped in a bullet to blow a kestrel's head off...." he was the one who was proudest of his skill. and he said to his brothers: "look at that bough, at the top of the cherry tree. see me snap it off." on the bough sat a scarecrow, which had been there since spring and which protected the leafless branches with its idiot arms. he raised his gun and fired. the figure came tumbling down with large, comic gestures, and was caught on a big, lower branch, where it remained lying stiff on its stomach, with a great top hat on its head of rags and its hay-stuffed legs swaying from right to left above some water that flowed past the cherry tree through a wooden trough. they all laughed. the father approved: "a fine shot, my lad. besides, the old boy was beginning to annoy me. i couldn't take my eyes from my plate at meals without catching sight of that oaf...." they went a few steps farther. they were not more than thirty yards from the house, when the father stopped suddenly and said: "hullo! what's up?" the sons also had stopped and stood listening. one of them said, under his breath: "it comes from the house ... from the linen-room...." and another spluttered: "sounds like moans.... and mother's alone!" suddenly, a frightful scream rang out. all five rushed forward. another scream, followed by cries of despair. "we're here! we're coming!" shouted the eldest, who was leading. and, as it was a roundabout way to the door, he smashed in a window with his fist and sprang into the old people's bedroom. the room next to it was the linen-room, in which mother goussot spent most of her time. "damnation!" he said, seeing her lying on the floor, with blood all over her face. "dad! dad!" "what? where is she?" roared old goussot, appearing on the scene. "good lord, what's this?... what have they done to your mother?" she pulled herself together and, with outstretched arm, stammered: "run after him!... this way!... this way!... i'm all right ... only a scratch or two.... but run, you! he's taken the money." the father and sons gave a bound: "he's taken the money!" bellowed old goussot, rushing to the door to which his wife was pointing. "he's taken the money! stop thief!" but a sound of several voices rose at the end of the passage through which the other three sons were coming: "i saw him! i saw him!" "so did i! he ran up the stairs." "no, there he is, he's coming down again!" a mad steeplechase shook every floor in the house. farmer goussot, on reaching the end of the passage, caught sight of a man standing by the front door trying to open it. if he succeeded, it meant safety, escape through the market square and the back lanes of the village. interrupted as he was fumbling at the bolts, the man turning stupid, lost his head, charged at old goussot and sent him spinning, dodged the eldest brother and, pursued by the four sons, doubled back down the long passage, ran into the old couple's bedroom, flung his legs through the broken window and disappeared. the sons rushed after him across the lawns and orchards, now darkened by the falling night. "the villain's done for," chuckled old goussot. "there's no way out for him. the walls are too high. he's done for, the scoundrel!" the two farm-hands returned, at that moment, from the village; and he told them what had happened and gave each of them a gun: "if the swine shows his nose anywhere near the house," he said, "let fly at him. give him no mercy!" he told them where to stand, went to make sure that the farm-gates, which were only used for the carts, were locked, and, not till then, remembered that his wife might perhaps be in need of aid: "well, mother, how goes it?" "where is he? have you got him?" she asked, in a breath. "yes, we're after him. the lads must have collared him by now." the news quite restored her; and a nip of rum gave her the strength to drag herself to the bed, with old goussot's assistance, and to tell her story. for that matter, there was not much to tell. she had just lit the fire in the living-hall; and she was knitting quietly at her bedroom window, waiting for the men to return, when she thought that she heard a slight grating sound in the linen-room next door: "i must have left the cat in there," she thought to herself. she went in, suspecting nothing, and was astonished to see the two doors of one of the linen-cupboards, the one in which they hid their money, wide open. she walked up to it, still without suspicion. there was a man there, hiding, with his back to the shelves. "but how did he get in?" asked old goussot. "through the passage, i suppose. we never keep the back door shut." "and then did he go for you?" "no, i went for him. he tried to get away." "you should have let him." "and what about the money?" "had he taken it by then?" "had he taken it! i saw the bundle of bank-notes in his hands, the sweep! i would have let him kill me sooner.... oh, we had a sharp tussle, i give you my word!" "then he had no weapon?' "no more than i did. we had our fingers, our nails and our teeth. look here, where he bit me. and i yelled and screamed! only, i'm an old woman you see.... i had to let go of him...." "do you know the man?" "i'm pretty sure it was old trainard." "the tramp? why, of course it's old trainard!" cried the farmer. "i thought i knew him too.... besides, he's been hanging round the house these last three days. the old vagabond must have smelt the money. aha, trainard, my man, we shall see some fun! a number-one hiding in the first place; and then the police.... i say, mother, you can get up now, can't you? then go and fetch the neighbours.... ask them to run for the gendarmes.... by the by, the attorney's youngster has a bicycle.... how that damned old trainard scooted! he's got good legs for his age, he has. he can run like a hare!" goussot was holding his sides, revelling in the occurrence. he risked nothing by waiting. no power on earth could help the tramp escape or keep him from the sound thrashing which he had earned and from being conveyed, under safe escort, to the town gaol. the farmer took a gun and went out to his two labourers: "anything fresh?" "no, farmer goussot, not yet." "we sha'n't have long to wait. unless old nick carries him over the walls...." from time to time, they heard the four brothers hailing one another in the distance. the old bird was evidently making a fight for it, was more active than they would have thought. still, with sturdy fellows like the goussot brothers.... however, one of them returned, looking rather crestfallen, and made no secret of his opinion: "it's no use keeping on at it for the present. it's pitch dark. the old chap must have crept into some hole. we'll hunt him out to-morrow." "to-morrow! why, lad, you're off your chump!" protested the farmer. the eldest son now appeared, quite out of breath, and was of the same opinion as his brother. why not wait till next day, seeing that the ruffian was as safe within the demesne as between the walls of a prison? "well, i'll go myself," cried old goussot. "light me a lantern, somebody!" but, at that moment, three gendarmes arrived; and a number of village lads also came up to hear the latest. the sergeant of gendarmes was a man of method. he first insisted on hearing the whole story, in full detail; then he stopped to think; then he questioned the four brothers, separately, and took his time for reflection after each deposition. when he had learnt from them that the tramp had fled toward the back of the estate, that he had been lost sight of repeatedly and that he had finally disappeared near a place known as the crows' knoll, he meditated once more and announced his conclusion: "better wait. old trainard might slip through our hands, amidst all the confusion of a pursuit in the dark, and then good-night, everybody!" the farmer shrugged his shoulders and, cursing under his breath, yielded to the sergeant's arguments. that worthy organized a strict watch, distributed the brothers goussot and the lads from the village under his men's eyes, made sure that the ladders were locked away and established his headquarters in the dining-room, where he and farmer goussot sat and nodded over a decanter of old brandy. the night passed quietly. every two hours, the sergeant went his rounds and inspected the posts. there were no alarms. old trainard did not budge from his hole. the battle began at break of day. it lasted four hours. in those four hours, the thirteen acres of land within the walls were searched, explored, gone over in every direction by a score of men who beat the bushes with sticks, trampled over the tall grass, rummaged in the hollows of the trees and scattered the heaps of dry leaves. and old trainard remained invisible. "well, this is a bit thick!" growled goussot. "beats me altogether," retorted the sergeant. and indeed there was no explaining the phenomenon. for, after all, apart from a few old clumps of laurels and spindle-trees, which were thoroughly beaten, all the trees were bare. there was no building, no shed, no stack, nothing, in short, that could serve as a hiding-place. as for the wall, a careful inspection convinced even the sergeant that it was physically impossible to scale it. in the afternoon, the investigations were begun all over again in the presence of the examining-magistrate and the public-prosecutor's deputy. the results were no more successful. nay, worse, the officials looked upon the matter as so suspicious that they could not restrain their ill-humour and asked: "are you quite sure, farmer goussot, that you and your sons haven't been seeing double?" "and what about my wife?" retorted the farmer, red with anger. "did she see double when the scamp had her by the throat? go and look at the marks, if you doubt me!" "very well. but then where is the scamp?" "here, between those four walls." "very well. then ferret him out. we give it up. it's quite clear, that if a man were hidden within the precincts of this farm, we should have found him by now." "i swear i'll lay hands on him, true as i stand here!" shouted farmer goussot. "it shall not be said that i've been robbed of six thousand francs. yes, six thousand! there were three cows i sold; and then the wheat-crop; and then the apples. six thousand-franc notes, which i was just going to take to the bank. well, i swear to heaven that the money's as good as in my pocket!" "that's all right and i wish you luck," said the examining-magistrate, as he went away, followed by the deputy and the gendarmes. the neighbours also walked off in a more or less facetious mood. and, by the end of the afternoon, none remained but the goussots and the two farm-labourers. old goussot at once explained his plan. by day, they were to search. at night, they were to keep an incessant watch. it would last as long as it had to. hang it, old trainard was a man like other men; and men have to eat and drink! old trainard must needs, therefore, come out of his earth to eat and drink. "at most," said goussot, "he can have a few crusts of bread in his pocket, or even pull up a root or two at night. but, as far as drink's concerned, no go. there's only the spring. and he'll be a clever dog if he gets near that." he himself, that evening, took up his stand near the spring. three hours later, his eldest son relieved him. the other brothers and the farm-hands slept in the house, each taking his turn of the watch and keeping all the lamps and candles lit, so that there might be no surprise. so it went on for fourteen consecutive nights. and for fourteen days, while two of the men and mother goussot remained on guard, the five others explored the héberville ground. at the end of that fortnight, not a sign. the farmer never ceased storming. he sent for a retired detective-inspector who lived in the neighbouring town. the inspector stayed with him for a whole week. he found neither old trainard nor the least clue that could give them any hope of finding old trainard. "it's a bit thick!" repeated farmer goussot. "for he's there, the rascal! as far as being anywhere goes, he's there. so...." planting himself on the threshold, he railed at the enemy at the top of his voice: "you blithering idiot, would you rather croak in your hole than fork out the money? then croak, you pig!" and mother goussot, in her turn, yelped, in her shrill voice: "is it prison you're afraid of? hand over the notes and you can hook it!" but old trainard did not breathe a word; and the husband and wife tired their lungs in vain. shocking days passed. farmer goussot could no longer sleep, lay shivering with fever. the sons became morose and quarrelsome and never let their guns out of their hands, having no other idea but to shoot the tramp. it was the one topic of conversation in the village; and the goussot story, from being local at first, soon went the round of the press. newspaper-reporters came from the assize-town, from paris itself, and were rudely shown the door by farmer goussot. "each man his own house," he said. "you mind your business. i mind mine. it's nothing to do with any one." "still, farmer goussot...." "go to blazes!" and he slammed the door in their face. old trainard had now been hidden within the walls of héberville for something like four weeks. the goussots continued their search as doggedly and confidently as ever, but with daily decreasing hope, as though they were confronted with one of those mysterious obstacles which discourage human effort. and the idea that they would never see their money again began to take root in them. * * * * * one fine morning, at about ten o'clock, a motor-car, crossing the village square at full speed, broke down and came to a dead stop. the driver, after a careful inspection, declared that the repairs would take some little time, whereupon the owner of the car resolved to wait at the inn and lunch. he was a gentleman on the right side of forty, with close-cropped side-whiskers and a pleasant expression of face; and he soon made himself at home with the people at the inn. of course, they told him the story of the goussots. he had not heard it before, as he had been abroad; but it seemed to interest him greatly. he made them give him all the details, raised objections, discussed various theories with a number of people who were eating at the same table and ended by exclaiming: "nonsense! it can't be so intricate as all that. i have had some experience of this sort of thing. and, if i were on the premises...." "that's easily arranged," said the inn-keeper. "i know farmer goussot.... he won't object...." the request was soon made and granted. old goussot was in one of those frames of mind when we are less disposed to protest against outside interference. his wife, at any rate, was very firm: "let the gentleman come, if he wants to." the gentleman paid his bill and instructed his driver to try the car on the high-road as soon as the repairs were finished: "i shall want an hour," he said, "no more. be ready in an hour's time." then he went to farmer goussot's. he did not say much at the farm. old goussot, hoping against hope, was lavish with information, took his visitor along the walls down to the little door opening on the fields, produced the key and gave minute details of all the searches that had been made so far. oddly enough, the stranger, who hardly spoke, seemed not to listen either. he merely looked, with a rather vacant gaze. when they had been round the estate, old goussot asked, anxiously: "well?" "well what?" "do you think you know?" the visitor stood for a moment without answering. then he said: "no, nothing." "why, of course not!" cried the farmer, throwing up his arms. "how should you know! it's all hanky-panky. shall i tell you what i think? well, that old trainard has been so jolly clever that he's lying dead in his hole ... and the bank-notes are rotting with him. do you hear? you can take my word for it." the gentleman said, very calmly: "there's only one thing that interests me. the tramp, all said and done, was free at night and able to feed on what he could pick up. but how about drinking?" "out of the question!" shouted the farmer. "quite out of the question! there's no water except this; and we have kept watch beside it every night." "it's a spring. where does it rise?" "here, where we stand." "is there enough pressure to bring it into the pool of itself?" "yes." "and where does the water go when it runs out of the pool?" "into this pipe here, which goes under ground and carries it to the house, for use in the kitchen. so there's no way of drinking, seeing that we were there and that the spring is twenty yards from the house." "hasn't it rained during the last four weeks?" "not once: i've told you that already." the stranger went to the spring and examined it. the trough was formed of a few boards of wood joined together just above the ground; and the water ran through it, slow and clear. "the water's not more than a foot deep, is it?" he asked. in order to measure it, he picked up from the grass a straw which he dipped into the pool. but, as he was stooping, he suddenly broke off and looked around him. "oh, how funny!" he said, bursting into a peal of laughter. "why, what's the matter?" spluttered old goussot, rushing toward the pool, as though a man could have lain hidden between those narrow boards. and mother goussot clasped her hands. "what is it? have you seen him? where is he?" "neither in it nor under it," replied the stranger, who was still laughing. he made for the house, eagerly followed by the farmer, the old woman and the four sons. the inn-keeper was there also, as were the people from the inn who had been watching the stranger's movements. and there was a dead silence, while they waited for the extraordinary disclosure. "it's as i thought," he said, with an amused expression. "the old chap had to quench his thirst somewhere; and, as there was only the spring...." "oh, but look here," growled farmer goussot, "we should have seen him!" "it was at night." "we should have heard him ... and seen him too, as we were close by." "so was he." "and he drank the water from the pool?" "yes." "how?" "from a little way off." "with what?" "with this." and the stranger showed the straw which he had picked up: "there, here's the straw for the customer's long drink. you will see, there's more of it than usual: in fact, it is made of three straws stuck into one another. that was the first thing i noticed: those three straws fastened together. the proof is conclusive." "but, hang it all, the proof of what?" cried farmer goussot, irritably. the stranger took a shotgun from the rack. "is it loaded?" he asked. "yes," said the youngest of the brothers. "i use it to kill the sparrows with, for fun. it's small shot." "capital! a peppering where it won't hurt him will do the trick." his face suddenly assumed a masterful look. he gripped the farmer by the arm and rapped out, in an imperious tone: "listen to me, farmer goussot. i'm not here to do policeman's work; and i won't have the poor beggar locked up at any price. four weeks of starvation and fright is good enough for anybody. so you've got to swear to me, you and your sons, that you'll let him off without hurting him." "he must hand over the money!" "well, of course. do you swear?" "i swear." the gentleman walked back to the door-sill, at the entrance to the orchard. he took a quick aim, pointing his gun a little in the air, in the direction of the cherry tree which overhung the spring. he fired. a hoarse cry rang from the tree; and the scarecrow which had been straddling the main branch for a month past came tumbling to the ground, only to jump up at once and make off as fast as its legs could carry it. there was a moment's amazement, followed by outcries. the sons darted in pursuit and were not long in coming up with the runaway, hampered as he was by his rags and weakened by privation. but the stranger was already protecting him against their wrath: "hands off there! this man belongs to me. i won't have him touched.... i hope i haven't stung you up too much, trainard?" standing on his straw legs wrapped round with strips of tattered cloth, with his arms and his whole body clad in the same materials, his head swathed in linen, tightly packed like a sausage, the old chap still had the stiff appearance of a lay-figure. and the whole effect was so ludicrous and so unexpected that the onlookers screamed with laughter. the stranger unbound his head; and they saw a veiled mask of tangled grey beard encroaching on every side upon a skeleton face lit up by two eyes burning with fever. the laughter was louder than ever. "the money! the six notes!" roared the farmer. the stranger kept him at a distance: "one moment ... we'll give you that back, sha'n't we, trainard?" and, taking his knife and cutting away the straw and cloth, he jested, cheerily: "you poor old beggar, what a guy you look! but how on earth did you manage to pull off that trick? you must be confoundedly clever, or else you had the devil's own luck.... so, on the first night, you used the breathing-time they left you to rig yourself in these togs! not a bad idea. who could ever suspect a scarecrow?... they were so accustomed to seeing it stuck up in its tree! but, poor old daddy, how uncomfortable you must have felt, lying flat up there on your stomach, with your arms and legs dangling down! all day long, like that! the deuce of an attitude! and how you must have been put to it, when you ventured to move a limb, eh? and how you must have funked going to sleep!... and then you had to eat! and drink! and you heard the sentry and felt the barrel of his gun within a yard of your nose! brrrr!... but the trickiest of all, you know, was your bit of straw!... upon my word, when i think that, without a sound, without a movement so to speak, you had to fish out lengths of straw from your toggery, fix them end to end, let your apparatus down to the water and suck up the heavenly moisture drop by drop.... upon my word, one could scream with admiration.... well done, trainard...." and he added, between his teeth, "only you're in a very unappetizing state, my man. haven't you washed yourself all this month, you old pig? after all, you had as much water as you wanted!... here, you people, i hand him over to you. i'm going to wash my hands, that's what i'm going to do." farmer goussot and his four sons grabbed at the prey which he was abandoning to them: "now then, come along, fork out the money." dazed as he was, the tramp still managed to simulate astonishment. "don't put on that idiot look," growled the farmer. "come on. out with the six notes...." "what?... what do you want of me?" stammered old trainard. "the money ... on the nail...." "what money?" "the bank-notes." "the bank-notes?" "oh, i'm getting sick of you! here, lads...." they laid the old fellow flat, tore off the rags that composed his clothes, felt and searched him all over. there was nothing on him. "you thief and you robber!" yelled old goussot. "what have you done with it?" the old beggar seemed more dazed than ever. too cunning to confess, he kept on whining: "what do you want of me?... money? i haven't three sous to call my own...." but his eyes, wide with wonder, remained fixed upon his clothes; and he himself seemed not to understand. the goussots' rage could no longer be restrained. they rained blows upon him, which did not improve matters. but the farmer was convinced that trainard had hidden the money before turning himself into the scarecrow: "where have you put it, you scum? out with it! in what part of the orchard have you hidden it?" "the money?" repeated the tramp with a stupid look. "yes, the money! the money which you've buried somewhere.... oh, if we don't find it, your goose is cooked!... we have witnesses, haven't we?... all of you, friends, eh? and then the gentleman...." he turned, with the intention of addressing the stranger, in the direction of the spring, which was thirty or forty steps to the left. and he was quite surprised not to see him washing his hands there: "has he gone?" he asked. some one answered: "no, he lit a cigarette and went for a stroll in the orchard." "oh, that's all right!" said the farmer. "he's the sort to find the notes for us, just as he found the man." "unless ..." said a voice. "unless what?" echoed the farmer. "what do you mean? have you something in your head? out with it, then! what is it?" but he interrupted himself suddenly, seized with a doubt; and there was a moment's silence. the same idea dawned on all the country-folk. the stranger's arrival at héberville, the breakdown of his motor, his manner of questioning the people at the inn and of gaining admission to the farm: were not all these part and parcel of a put-up job, the trick of a cracksman who had learnt the story from the papers and who had come to try his luck on the spot?... "jolly smart of him!" said the inn-keeper. "he must have taken the money from old trainard's pocket, before our eyes, while he was searching him." "impossible!" spluttered farmer goussot. "he would have been seen going out that way ... by the house ... whereas he's strolling in the orchard." mother goussot, all of a heap, suggested: "the little door at the end, down there?..." "the key never leaves me." "but you showed it to him." "yes; and i took it back again.... look, here it is." he clapped his hand to his pocket and uttered a cry: "oh, dash it all, it's gone!... he's sneaked it!..." he at once rushed away, followed and escorted by his sons and a number of the villagers. when they were halfway down the orchard, they heard the throb of a motor-car, obviously the one belonging to the stranger, who had given orders to his chauffeur to wait for him at that lower entrance. when the goussots reached the door, they saw scrawled with a brick, on the worm-eaten panel, the two words: "arsÈne lupin." * * * * * stick to it as the angry goussots might, they found it impossible to prove that old trainard had stolen any money. twenty persons had to bear witness that, when all was said, nothing was discovered on his person. he escaped with a few months' imprisonment for the assault. he did not regret them. as soon as he was released, he was secretly informed that, every quarter, on a given date, at a given hour, under a given milestone on a given road, he would find three gold louis. to a man like old trainard that means wealth. x edith swan-neck "arsène lupin, what's your real opinion of inspector ganimard?" "a very high one, my dear fellow." "a very high one? then why do you never miss a chance of turning him into ridicule?" "it's a bad habit; and i'm sorry for it. but what can i say? it's the way of the world. here's a decent detective-chap, here's a whole pack of decent men, who stand for law and order, who protect us against the apaches, who risk their lives for honest people like you and me; and we have nothing to give them in return but flouts and gibes. it's preposterous!" "bravo, lupin! you're talking like a respectable ratepayer!" "what else am i? i may have peculiar views about other people's property; but i assure you that it's very different when my own's at stake. by jove, it doesn't do to lay hands on what belongs to me! then i'm out for blood! aha! it's _my_ pocket, _my_ money, _my_ watch ... hands off! i have the soul of a conservative, my dear fellow, the instincts of a retired tradesman and a due respect for every sort of tradition and authority. and that is why ganimard inspires me with no little gratitude and esteem." "but not much admiration?" "plenty of admiration too. over and above the dauntless courage which comes natural to all those gentry at the criminal investigation department, ganimard possesses very sterling qualities: decision, insight and judgment. i have watched him at work. he's somebody, when all's said. do you know the edith swan-neck story, as it was called?" "i know as much as everybody knows." "that means that you don't know it at all. well, that job was, i daresay, the one which i thought out most cleverly, with the utmost care and the utmost precaution, the one which i shrouded in the greatest darkness and mystery, the one which it took the biggest generalship to carry through. it was a regular game of chess, played according to strict scientific and mathematical rules. and yet ganimard ended by unravelling the knot. thanks to him, they know the truth to-day on the quai des orfèvres. and it is a truth quite out of the common, i assure you." "may i hope to hear it?" "certainly ... one of these days ... when i have time.... but the brunelli is dancing at the opera to-night; and, if she were not to see me in my stall ...!" i do not meet lupin often. he confesses with difficulty, when it suits him. it was only gradually, by snatches, by odds and ends of confidences, that i was able to obtain the different incidents and to piece the story together in all its details. * * * * * the main features are well known and i will merely mention the facts. three years ago, when the train from brest arrived at rennes, the door of one of the luggage vans was found smashed in. this van had been booked by colonel sparmiento, a rich brazilian, who was travelling with his wife in the same train. it contained a complete set of tapestry-hangings. the case in which one of these was packed had been broken open and the tapestry had disappeared. colonel sparmiento started proceedings against the railway-company, claiming heavy damages, not only for the stolen tapestry, but also for the loss in value which the whole collection suffered in consequence of the theft. the police instituted inquiries. the company offered a large reward. a fortnight later, a letter which had come undone in the post was opened by the authorities and revealed the fact that the theft had been carried out under the direction of arsène lupin and that a package was to leave next day for the united states. that same evening, the tapestry was discovered in a trunk deposited in the cloak-room at the gare saint-lazare. the scheme, therefore, had miscarried. lupin felt the disappointment so much that he vented his ill-humour in a communication to colonel sparmiento, ending with the following words, which were clear enough for anybody: "it was very considerate of me to take only one. next time, i shall take the twelve. _verbum sap._ "a. l." colonel sparmiento had been living for some months in a house standing at the end of a small garden at the corner of the rue de la faisanderie and the rue dufresnoy. he was a rather thick-set, broad-shouldered man, with black hair and a swarthy skin, always well and quietly dressed. he was married to an extremely pretty but delicate englishwoman, who was much upset by the business of the tapestries. from the first she implored her husband to sell them for what they would fetch. the colonel had much too forcible and dogged a nature to yield to what he had every right to describe as a woman's fancies. he sold nothing, but he redoubled his precautions and adopted every measure that was likely to make an attempt at burglary impossible. to begin with, so that he might confine his watch to the garden-front, he walled up all the windows on the ground-floor and the first floor overlooking the rue dufresnoy. next, he enlisted the services of a firm which made a speciality of protecting private houses against robberies. every window of the gallery in which the tapestries were hung was fitted with invisible burglar alarms, the position of which was known, to none but himself. these, at the least touch, switched on all the electric lights and set a whole system of bells and gongs ringing. in addition to this, the insurance companies to which he applied refused to grant policies to any considerable amount unless he consented to let three men, supplied by the companies and paid by himself, occupy the ground-floor of his house every night. they selected for the purpose three ex-detectives, tried and trustworthy men, all of whom hated lupin like poison. as for the servants, the colonel had known them for years and was ready to vouch for them. after taking these steps and organizing the defence of the house as though it were a fortress, the colonel gave a great house-warming, a sort of private view, to which he invited the members of both his clubs, as well as a certain number of ladies, journalists, art-patrons and critics. they felt, as they passed through the garden-gate, much as if they were walking into a prison. the three private detectives, posted at the foot of the stairs, asked for each visitor's invitation card and eyed him up and down suspiciously, making him feel as though they were going to search his pockets or take his finger-prints. the colonel, who received his guests on the first floor, made laughing apologies and seemed delighted at the opportunity of explaining the arrangements which he had invented to secure the safety of his hangings. his wife stood by him, looking charmingly young and pretty, fair-haired, pale and sinuous, with a sad and gentle expression, the expression of resignation often worn by those who are threatened by fate. when all the guests had come, the garden-gates and the hall-doors were closed. then everybody filed into the middle gallery, which was reached through two steel doors, while its windows, with their huge shutters, were protected by iron bars. this was where the twelve tapestries were kept. they were matchless works of art and, taking their inspiration from the famous bayeux tapestry, attributed to queen matilda, they represented the story of the norman conquest. they had been ordered in the fourteenth century by the descendant of a man-at-arms in william the conqueror's train; were executed by jehan gosset, a famous arras weaver; and were discovered, five hundred years later, in an old breton manor-house. on hearing of this, the colonel had struck a bargain for fifty thousand francs. they were worth ten times the money. but the finest of the twelve hangings composing the set, the most uncommon because the subject had not been treated by queen matilda, was the one which arsène lupin had stolen and which had been so fortunately recovered. it portrayed edith swan-neck on the battlefield of hastings, seeking among the dead for the body of her sweetheart harold, last of the saxon kings. the guests were lost in enthusiasm over this tapestry, over the unsophisticated beauty of the design, over the faded colours, over the life-like grouping of the figures and the pitiful sadness of the scene. poor edith swan-neck stood drooping like an overweighted lily. her white gown revealed the lines of her languid figure. her long, tapering hands were outstretched in a gesture of terror and entreaty. and nothing could be more mournful than her profile, over which flickered the most dejected and despairing of smiles. "a harrowing smile," remarked one of the critics, to whom the others listened with deference. "a very charming smile, besides; and it reminds me, colonel, of the smile of mme. sparmiento." and seeing that the observation seemed to meet with approval, he enlarged upon his idea: "there are other points of resemblance that struck me at once, such as the very graceful curve of the neck and the delicacy of the hands ... and also something about the figure, about the general attitude...." "what you say is so true," said the colonel, "that i confess that it was this likeness that decided me to buy the hangings. and there was another reason, which was that, by a really curious chance, my wife's name happens to be edith. i have called her edith swan-neck ever since." and the colonel added, with a laugh, "i hope that the coincidence will stop at this and that my dear edith will never have to go in search of her true-love's body, like her prototype." he laughed as he uttered these words, but his laugh met with no echo; and we find the same impression of awkward silence in all the accounts of the evening that appeared during the next few days. the people standing near him did not know what to say. one of them tried to jest: "your name isn't harold, colonel?" "no, thank you," he declared, with continued merriment. "no, that's not my name; nor am i in the least like the saxon king." all have since agreed in stating that, at that moment, as the colonel finished speaking, the first alarm rang from the windows--the right or the middle window: opinions differ on this point--rang short and shrill on a single note. the peal of the alarm-bell was followed by an exclamation of terror uttered by mme. sparmiento, who caught hold of her husband's arm. he cried: "what's the matter? what does this mean?" the guests stood motionless, with their eyes staring at the windows. the colonel repeated: "what does it mean? i don't understand. no one but myself knows where that bell is fixed...." and, at that moment--here again the evidence is unanimous--at that moment came sudden, absolute darkness, followed immediately by the maddening din of all the bells and all the gongs, from top to bottom of the house, in every room and at every window. for a few seconds, a stupid disorder, an insane terror, reigned. the women screamed. the men banged with their fists on the closed doors. they hustled and fought. people fell to the floor and were trampled under foot. it was like a panic-stricken crowd, scared by threatening flames or by a bursting shell. and, above the uproar, rose the colonel's voice, shouting: "silence!... don't move!... it's all right!... the switch is over there, in the corner.... wait a bit.... here!" he had pushed his way through his guests and reached a corner of the gallery; and, all at once, the electric light blazed up again, while the pandemonium of bells stopped. then, in the sudden light, a strange sight met the eyes. two ladies had fainted. mme. sparmiento, hanging to her husband's arm, with her knees dragging on the floor, and livid in the face, appeared half dead. the men, pale, with their neckties awry, looked as if they had all been in the wars. "the tapestries are there!" cried some one. there was a great surprise, as though the disappearance of those hangings ought to have been the natural result and the only plausible explanation of the incident. but nothing had been moved. a few valuable pictures, hanging on the walls, were there still. and, though the same din had reverberated all over the house, though all the rooms had been thrown into darkness, the detectives had seen no one entering or trying to enter. "besides," said the colonel, "it's only the windows of the gallery that have alarms. nobody but myself understands how they work; and i had not set them yet." people laughed loudly at the way in which they had been frightened, but they laughed without conviction and in a more or less shamefaced fashion, for each of them was keenly alive to the absurdity of his conduct. and they had but one thought--to get out of that house where, say what you would, the atmosphere was one of agonizing anxiety. two journalists stayed behind, however; and the colonel joined them, after attending to edith and handing her over to her maids. the three of them, together with the detectives, made a search that did not lead to the discovery of anything of the least interest. then the colonel sent for some champagne; and the result was that it was not until a late hour--to be exact, a quarter to three in the morning--that the journalists took their leave, the colonel retired to his quarters, and the detectives withdrew to the room which had been set aside for them on the ground-floor. they took the watch by turns, a watch consisting, in the first place, in keeping awake and, next, in looking round the garden and visiting the gallery at intervals. these orders were scrupulously carried out, except between five and seven in the morning, when sleep gained the mastery and the men ceased to go their rounds. but it was broad daylight out of doors. besides, if there had been the least sound of bells, would they not have woke up? nevertheless, when one of them, at twenty minutes past seven, opened the door of the gallery and flung back the shutters, he saw that the twelve tapestries were gone. this man and the others were blamed afterward for not giving the alarm at once and for starting their own investigations before informing the colonel and telephoning to the local commissary. yet this very excusable delay can hardly be said to have hampered the action of the police. in any case, the colonel was not told until half-past eight. he was dressed and ready to go out. the news did not seem to upset him beyond measure, or, at least, he managed to control his emotion. but the effort must have been too much for him, for he suddenly dropped into a chair and, for some moments, gave way to a regular fit of despair and anguish, most painful to behold in a man of his resolute appearance. recovering and mastering himself, he went to the gallery, stared at the bare walls and then sat down at a table and hastily scribbled a letter, which he put into an envelope and sealed. "there," he said. "i'm in a hurry.... i have an important engagement.... here is a letter for the commissary of police." and, seeing the detectives' eyes upon him, he added, "i am giving the commissary my views ... telling him of a suspicion that occurs to me.... he must follow it up.... i will do what i can...." he left the house at a run, with excited gestures which the detectives were subsequently to remember. a few minutes later, the commissary of police arrived. he was handed the letter, which contained the following words: "i am at the end of my tether. the theft of those tapestries completes the crash which i have been trying to conceal for the past year. i bought them as a speculation and was hoping to get a million francs for them, thanks to the fuss that was made about them. as it was, an american offered me six hundred thousand. it meant my salvation. this means utter destruction. "i hope that my dear wife will forgive the sorrow which i am bringing upon her. her name will be on my lips at the last moment." mme. sparmiento was informed. she remained aghast with horror, while inquiries were instituted and attempts made to trace the colonel's movements. late in the afternoon, a telephone-message came from ville d'avray. a gang of railway-men had found a man's body lying at the entrance to a tunnel after a train had passed. the body was hideously mutilated; the face had lost all resemblance to anything human. there were no papers in the pockets. but the description answered to that of the colonel. mme. sparmiento arrived at ville d'avray, by motor-car, at seven o'clock in the evening. she was taken to a room at the railway-station. when the sheet that covered it was removed, edith, edith swan-neck, recognized her husband's body. * * * * * in these circumstances, lupin did not receive his usual good notices in the press: "let him look to himself," jeered one leader-writer, summing up the general opinion. "it would not take many exploits of this kind for him to forfeit the popularity which has not been grudged him hitherto. we have no use for lupin, except when his rogueries are perpetrated at the expense of shady company-promoters, foreign adventurers, german barons, banks and financial companies. and, above all, no murders! a burglar we can put up with; but a murderer, no! if he is not directly guilty, he is at least responsible for this death. there is blood upon his hands; the arms on his escutcheon are stained gules...." the public anger and disgust were increased by the pity which edith's pale face aroused. the guests of the night before gave their version of what had happened, omitting none of the impressive details; and a legend formed straightway around the fair-haired englishwoman, a legend that assumed a really tragic character, owing to the popular story of the swan-necked heroine. and yet the public could not withhold its admiration of the extraordinary skill with which the theft had been effected. the police explained it, after a fashion. the detectives had noticed from the first and subsequently stated that one of the three windows of the gallery was wide open. there could be no doubt that lupin and his confederates had entered through this window. it seemed a very plausible suggestion. still, in that case, how were they able, first, to climb the garden railings, in coming and going, without being seen; secondly, to cross the garden and put up a ladder on the flower-border, without leaving the least trace behind; thirdly, to open the shutters and the window, without starting the bells and switching on the lights in the house? the police accused the three detectives of complicity. the magistrate in charge of the case examined them at length, made minute inquiries into their private lives and stated formally that they were above all suspicion. as for the tapestries, there seemed to be no hope that they would be recovered. it was at this moment that chief-inspector ganimard returned from india, where he had been hunting for lupin on the strength of a number of most convincing proofs supplied by former confederates of lupin himself. feeling that he had once more been tricked by his everlasting adversary, fully believing that lupin had dispatched him on this wild-goose chase so as to be rid of him during the business of the tapestries, he asked for a fortnight's leave of absence, called on mme. sparmiento and promised to avenge her husband. edith had reached the point at which not even the thought of vengeance relieves the sufferer's pain. she had dismissed the three detectives on the day of the funeral and engaged just one man and an old cook-housekeeper to take the place of the large staff of servants the sight of whom reminded her too cruelly of the past. not caring what happened, she kept her room and left ganimard free to act as he pleased. he took up his quarters on the ground-floor and at once instituted a series of the most minute investigations. he started the inquiry afresh, questioned the people in the neighbourhood, studied the distribution of the rooms and set each of the burglar-alarms going thirty and forty times over. at the end of the fortnight, he asked for an extension of leave. the chief of the detective-service, who was at that time m. dudouis, came to see him and found him perched on the top of a ladder, in the gallery. that day, the chief-inspector admitted that all his searches had proved useless. two days later, however, m. dudouis called again and discovered ganimard in a very thoughtful frame of mind. a bundle of newspapers lay spread in front of him. at last, in reply to his superior's urgent questions, the chief-inspector muttered: "i know nothing, chief, absolutely nothing; but there's a confounded notion worrying me.... only it seems so absurd.... and then it doesn't explain things.... on the contrary, it confuses them rather...." "then ...?" "then i implore you, chief, to have a little patience ... to let me go my own way. but if i telephone to you, some day or other, suddenly, you must jump into a taxi, without losing a minute. it will mean that i have discovered the secret." forty-eight hours passed. then, one morning, m. dudouis received a telegram: "going to lille. "ganimard." "what the dickens can he want to go to lille for?" wondered the chief-detective. the day passed without news, followed by another day. but m. dudouis had every confidence in ganimard. he knew his man, knew that the old detective was not one of those people who excite themselves for nothing. when ganimard "got a move on him," it meant that he had sound reasons for doing so. as a matter of fact, on the evening of that second day, m. dudouis was called to the telephone. "is that you, chief?" "is it ganimard speaking?" cautious men both, they began by making sure of each other's identity. as soon as his mind was eased on this point, ganimard continued, hurriedly: "ten men, chief, at once. and please come yourself." "where are you?" "in the house, on the ground-floor. but i will wait for you just inside the garden-gate." "i'll come at once. in a taxi, of course?" "yes, chief. stop the taxi fifty yards from the house. i'll let you in when you whistle." things took place as ganimard had arranged. shortly after midnight, when all the lights were out on the upper floors, he slipped into the street and went to meet m. dudouis. there was a hurried consultation. the officers distributed themselves as ganimard ordered. then the chief and the chief-inspector walked back together, noiselessly crossed the garden and closeted themselves with every precaution: "well, what's it all about?" asked m. dudouis. "what does all this mean? upon my word, we look like a pair of conspirators!" but ganimard was not laughing. his chief had never seen him in such a state of perturbation, nor heard him speak in a voice denoting such excitement: "any news, ganimard?" "yes, chief, and ... this time ...! but i can hardly believe it myself.... and yet i'm not mistaken: i know the real truth.... it may be as unlikely as you please, but it is the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth." he wiped away the drops of perspiration that trickled down his forehead and, after a further question from m. dudouis, pulled himself together, swallowed a glass of water and began: "lupin has often got the better of me...." "look here, ganimard," said m. dudouis, interrupting him. "why can't you come straight to the point? tell me, in two words, what's happened." "no, chief," retorted the chief-inspector, "it is essential that you should know the different stages which i have passed through. excuse me, but i consider it indispensable." and he repeated: "i was saying, chief, that lupin has often got the better of me and led me many a dance. but, in this contest in which i have always come out worst ... so far ... i have at least gained experience of his manner of play and learnt to know his tactics. now, in the matter of the tapestries, it occurred to me almost from the start to set myself two problems. in the first place, lupin, who never makes a move without knowing what he is after, was obviously aware that colonel sparmiento had come to the end of his money and that the loss of the tapestries might drive him to suicide. nevertheless, lupin, who hates the very thought of bloodshed, stole the tapestries." "there was the inducement," said m. dudouis, "of the five or six hundred thousand francs which they are worth." "no, chief, i tell you once more, whatever the occasion might be, lupin would not take life, nor be the cause of another person's death, for anything in this world, for millions and millions. that's the first point. in the second place, what was the object of all that disturbance, in the evening, during the house-warming party? obviously, don't you think, to surround the business with an atmosphere of anxiety and terror, in the shortest possible time, and also to divert suspicion from the truth, which, otherwise, might easily have been suspected?... you seem not to understand, chief?" "upon my word, i do not!" "as a matter of fact," said ganimard, "as a matter of fact, it is not particularly plain. and i myself, when i put the problem before my mind in those same words, did not understand it very clearly.... and yet i felt that i was on the right track.... yes, there was no doubt about it that lupin wanted to divert suspicions ... to divert them to himself, lupin, mark you ... so that the real person who was working the business might remain unknown...." "a confederate," suggested m. dudouis. "a confederate, moving among the visitors, who set the alarms going ... and who managed to hide in the house after the party had broken up." "you're getting warm, chief, you're getting warm! it is certain that the tapestries, as they cannot have been stolen by any one making his way surreptitiously into the house, were stolen by somebody who remained in the house; and it is equally certain that, by taking the list of the people invited and inquiring into the antecedents of each of them, one might...." "well?" "well, chief, there's a 'but,' namely, that the three detectives had this list in their hands when the guests arrived and that they still had it when the guests left. now sixty-three came in and sixty-three went away. so you see...." "then do you suppose a servant?..." "no." "the detectives?" "no." "but, still ... but, still," said the chief, impatiently, "if the robbery was committed from the inside...." "that is beyond dispute," declared the inspector, whose excitement seemed to be nearing fever-point. "there is no question about it. all my investigations led to the same certainty. and my conviction gradually became so positive that i ended, one day, by drawing up this startling axiom: in theory and in fact, the robbery can only have been committed with the assistance of an accomplice staying in the house. whereas there was no accomplice!" "that's absurd," said dudouis. "quite absurd," said ganimard. "but, at the very moment when i uttered that absurd sentence, the truth flashed upon me." "eh?" "oh, a very dim, very incomplete, but still sufficient truth! with that clue to guide me, i was bound to find the way. do you follow me, chief?" m. dudouis sat silent. the same phenomenon that had taken place in ganimard was evidently taking place in him. he muttered: "if it's not one of the guests, nor the servants, nor the private detectives, then there's no one left...." "yes, chief, there's one left...." m. dudouis started as though he had received a shock; and, in a voice that betrayed his excitement: "but, look here, that's preposterous." "why?" "come, think for yourself!" "go on, chief: say what's in your mind." "nonsense! what do you mean?" "go on, chief." "it's impossible! how can sparmiento have been lupin's accomplice?" ganimard gave a little chuckle. "exactly, arsène lupin's accomplice!... that explains everything. during the night, while the three detectives were downstairs watching, or sleeping rather, for colonel sparmiento had given them champagne to drink and perhaps doctored it beforehand, the said colonel took down the hangings and passed them out through the window of his bedroom. the room is on the second floor and looks out on another street, which was not watched, because the lower windows are walled up." m. dudouis reflected and then shrugged his shoulders: "it's preposterous!" he repeated. "why?" "why? because, if the colonel had been arsène lupin's accomplice, he would not have committed suicide after achieving his success." "who says that he committed suicide?" "why, he was found dead on the line!" "i told you, there is no such thing as death with lupin." "still, this was genuine enough. besides, mme. sparmiento identified the body." "i thought you would say that, chief. the argument worried me too. there was i, all of a sudden, with three people in front of me instead of one: first, arsène lupin, cracksman; secondly, colonel sparmiento, his accomplice; thirdly, a dead man. spare us! it was too much of a good thing!" ganimard took a bundle of newspapers, untied it and handed one of them to mr. dudouis: "you remember, chief, last time you were here, i was looking through the papers.... i wanted to see if something had not happened, at that period, that might bear upon the case and confirm my supposition. please read this paragraph." m. dudouis took the paper and read aloud: "our lille correspondent informs us that a curious incident has occurred in that town. a corpse has disappeared from the local morgue, the corpse of a man unknown who threw himself under the wheels of a steam tram-car on the day before. no one is able to suggest a reason for this disappearance." m. dudouis sat thinking and then asked: "so ... you believe ...?" "i have just come from lille," replied ganimard, "and my inquiries leave not a doubt in my mind. the corpse was removed on the same night on which colonel sparmiento gave his house-warming. it was taken straight to ville d'avray by motor-car; and the car remained near the railway-line until the evening." "near the tunnel, therefore," said m. dudouis. "next to it, chief." "so that the body which was found is merely that body, dressed in colonel sparmiento's clothes." "precisely, chief." "then colonel sparmiento is not dead?" "no more dead than you or i, chief." "but then why all these complications? why the theft of one tapestry, followed by its recovery, followed by the theft of the twelve? why that house-warming? why that disturbance? why everything? your story won't hold water, ganimard." "only because you, chief, like myself, have stopped halfway; because, strange as this story already sounds, we must go still farther, very much farther, in the direction of the improbable and the astounding. and why not, after all? remember that we are dealing with arsène lupin. with him, is it not always just the improbable and the astounding that we must look for? must we not always go straight for the maddest suppositions? and, when i say the maddest, i am using the wrong word. on the contrary, the whole thing is wonderfully logical and so simple that a child could understand it. confederates only betray you. why employ confederates, when it is so easy and so natural to act for yourself, by yourself, with your own hands and by the means within your own reach?" "what are you saying?... what are you saying?... what are you saying?" cried m. dudouis, in a sort of sing-song voice and a tone of bewilderment that increased with each separate exclamation. ganimard gave a fresh chuckle. "takes your breath away, chief, doesn't it? so it did mine, on the day when you came to see me here and when the notion was beginning to grow upon me. i was flabbergasted with astonishment. and yet i've had experience of my customer. i know what he's capable of.... but this, no, this was really a bit too stiff!" "it's impossible! it's impossible!" said m. dudouis, in a low voice. "on the contrary, chief, it's quite possible and quite logical and quite normal. it's the threefold incarnation of one and the same individual. a schoolboy would solve the problem in a minute, by a simple process of elimination. take away the dead man: there remains sparmiento and lupin. take away sparmiento...." "there remains lupin," muttered the chief-detective. "yes, chief, lupin simply, lupin in five letters and two syllables, lupin taken out of his brazilian skin, lupin revived from the dead, lupin translated, for the past six months, into colonel sparmiento, travelling in brittany, hearing of the discovery of the twelve tapestries, buying them, planning the theft of the best of them, so as to draw attention to himself, lupin, and divert it from himself, sparmiento. next, he brings about, in full view of the gaping public, a noisy contest between lupin and sparmiento or sparmiento and lupin, plots and gives the house-warming party, terrifies his guests and, when everything is ready, arranges for lupin to steal sparmiento's tapestries and for sparmiento, lupin's victim, to disappear from sight and die unsuspected, unsuspectable, regretted by his friends, pitied by the public and leaving behind him, to pocket the profits of the swindle...." ganimard stopped, looked the chief in the eyes and, in a voice that emphasized the importance of his words, concluded: "leaving behind him a disconsolate widow." "mme. sparmiento! you really believe....? "hang it all!" said the chief-inspector. "people don't work up a whole business of this sort, without seeing something ahead of them ... solid profits." "but the profits, it seems to me, lie in the sale of the tapestries which lupin will effect in america or elsewhere." "first of all, yes. but colonel sparmiento could effect that sale just as well. and even better. so there's something more." "something more?" "come, chief, you're forgetting that colonel sparmiento has been the victim of an important robbery and that, though he may be dead, at least his widow remains. so it's his widow who will get the money." "what money?" "what money? why, the money due to her! the insurance-money, of course!" m. dudouis was staggered. the whole business suddenly became clear to him, with its real meaning. he muttered: "that's true!... that's true!... the colonel had insured his tapestries...." "rather! and for no trifle either." "for how much?" "eight hundred thousand francs." "eight hundred thousand?" "just so. in five different companies." "and has mme. sparmiento had the money?" "she got a hundred and fifty thousand francs yesterday and two hundred thousand to-day, while i was away. the remaining payments are to be made in the course of this week." "but this is terrible! you ought to have...." "what, chief? to begin with, they took advantage of my absence to settle up accounts with the companies. i only heard about it on my return when i ran up against an insurance-manager whom i happen to know and took the opportunity of drawing him out." the chief-detective was silent for some time, not knowing what to say. then he mumbled: "what a fellow, though!" ganimard nodded his head: "yes, chief, a blackguard, but, i can't help saying, a devil of a clever fellow. for his plan to succeed, he must have managed in such a way that, for four or five weeks, no one could express or even conceive the least suspicion of the part played by colonel sparmiento. all the indignation and all the inquiries had to be concentrated upon lupin alone. in the last resort, people had to find themselves faced simply with a mournful, pitiful, penniless widow, poor edith swan-neck, a beautiful and legendary vision, a creature so pathetic that the gentlemen of the insurance-companies were almost glad to place something in her hands to relieve her poverty and her grief. that's what was wanted and that's what happened." the two men were close together and did not take their eyes from each other's faces. the chief asked: "who is that woman?" "sonia kritchnoff." "sonia kritchnoff?" "yes, the russian girl whom i arrested last year at the time of the theft of the coronet, and whom lupin helped to escape."[e] [e] _arsène lupin._ the novel of the play. by edgar jepson and maurice leblanc (mills & boon). "are you sure?" "absolutely. i was put off the scent, like everybody else, by lupin's machinations, and had paid no particular attention to her. but, when i knew the part which she was playing, i remembered. she is certainly sonia, metamorphosed into an englishwoman; sonia, the most innocent-looking and the trickiest of actresses; sonia, who would not hesitate to face death for love of lupin." "a good capture, ganimard," said m. dudouis, approvingly. "i've something better still for you, chief!" "really? what?" "lupin's old foster-mother." "victoire?"[f] [f] _the hollow needle._ by maurice leblanc. translated by alexander teixeira de mattos (nash). _ _ by maurice leblanc. translated by alexander teixeira de mattos (mills & boon). "she has been here since mme. sparmiento began playing the widow; she's the cook." "oho!" said m. dudouis. "my congratulations, ganimard!" "i've something for you, chief, that's even better than that!" m. dudouis gave a start. the inspector's hand clutched his and was shaking with excitement. "what do you mean, ganimard?" "do you think, chief, that i would have brought you here, at this late hour, if i had had nothing more attractive to offer you than sonia and victoire? pah! they'd have kept!" "you mean to say ...?" whispered m. dudouis, at last, understanding the chief-inspector's agitation. "you've guessed it, chief!" "is he here?" "he's here." "in hiding?" "not a bit of it. simply in disguise. he's the man-servant." this time, m. dudouis did not utter a word nor make a gesture. lupin's audacity confounded him. ganimard chuckled. "it's no longer a threefold, but a fourfold incarnation. edith swan-neck might have blundered. the master's presence was necessary; and he had the cheek to return. for three weeks, he has been beside me during my inquiry, calmly following the progress made." "did you recognize him?" "one doesn't recognize him. he has a knack of making-up his face and altering the proportions of his body so as to prevent any one from knowing him. besides, i was miles from suspecting.... but, this evening, as i was watching sonia in the shadow of the stairs, i heard victoire speak to the man-servant and call him, 'dearie.' a light flashed in upon me. 'dearie!' that was what she always used to call him. and i knew where i was." m. dudouis seemed flustered, in his turn, by the presence of the enemy, so often pursued and always so intangible: "we've got him, this time," he said, between his teeth. "we've got him; and he can't escape us." "no, chief, he can't: neither he nor the two women." "where are they?" "sonia and victoire are on the second floor; lupin is on the third." m. dudouis suddenly became anxious: "why, it was through the windows of one of those floors that the tapestries were passed when they disappeared!" "that's so, chief." "in that case, lupin can get away too. the windows look out on the rue dufresnoy." "of course they do, chief; but i have taken my precautions. the moment you arrived, i sent four of our men to keep watch under the windows in the rue dufresnoy. they have strict instructions to shoot, if any one appears at the windows and looks like coming down. blank cartridges for the first shot, ball-cartridges for the next." "good, ganimard! you have thought of everything. we'll wait here; and, immediately after sunrise...." "wait, chief? stand on ceremony with that rascal? bother about rules and regulations, legal hours and all that rot? and suppose he's not quite so polite to us and gives us the slip meanwhile? suppose he plays us one of his lupin tricks? no, no, we must have no nonsense! we've got him: let's collar him; and that without delay!" and ganimard, all a-quiver with indignant impatience, went out, walked across the garden and presently returned with half-a-dozen men: "it's all right, chief. i've told them, in the rue dufresnoy, to get their revolvers out and aim at the windows. come along." these alarums and excursions had not been effected without a certain amount of noise, which was bound to be heard by the inhabitants of the house. m. dudouis felt that his hand was forced. he made up his mind to act: "come on, then," he said. the thing did not take long. the eight of them, browning pistols in hand, went up the stairs without overmuch precaution, eager to surprise lupin before he had time to organize his defences. "open the door!" roared ganimard, rushing at the door of mme. sparmiento's bedroom. a policeman smashed it in with his shoulder. there was no one in the room; and no one in victoire's bedroom either. "they're all upstairs!" shouted ganimard. "they've gone up to lupin in his attic. be careful now!" all the eight ran up the third flight of stairs. to his great astonishment, ganimard found the door of the attic open and the attic empty. and the other rooms were empty too. "blast them!" he cursed. "what's become of them?" but the chief called him. m. dudouis, who had gone down again to the second floor, noticed that one of the windows was not latched, but just pushed to: "there," he said, to ganimard, "that's the road they took, the road of the tapestries. i told you as much: the rue dufresnoy...." "but our men would have fired on them," protested ganimard, grinding his teeth with rage. "the street's guarded." "they must have gone before the street was guarded." "they were all three of them in their rooms when i rang you up, chief!" "they must have gone while you were waiting for me in the garden." "but why? why? there was no reason why they should go to-day rather than to-morrow, or the next day, or next week, for that matter, when they had pocketed all the insurance-money!" yes, there was a reason; and ganimard knew it when he saw, on the table, a letter addressed to himself and opened it and read it. the letter was worded in the style of the testimonials which we hand to people in our service who have given satisfaction: "i, the undersigned, arsène lupin, gentleman-burglar, ex-colonel, ex-man-of-all-work, ex-corpse, hereby certify that the person of the name of ganimard gave proof of the most remarkable qualities during his stay in this house. he was exemplary in his behaviour, thoroughly devoted and attentive; and, unaided by the least clue, he foiled a part of my plans and saved the insurance-companies four hundred and fifty thousand francs. i congratulate him; and i am quite willing to overlook his blunder in not anticipating that the downstairs telephone communicates with the telephone in sonia kritchnoff's bedroom and that, when telephoning to mr. chief-detective, he was at the same time telephoning to me to clear out as fast as i could. it was a pardonable slip, which must not be allowed to dim the glamour of his services nor to detract from the merits of his victory. "having said this, i beg him to accept the homage of my admiration and of my sincere friendship. "arsÈne lupin" the hollow needle further adventures of arsene lupin by maurice leblanc author of "arsene lupin," "the blonde lady," etc. translated by alexander teixeira de mattos contents i. the shot ii. isidore beautrelet, sixth-form schoolboy iii. the corpse iv. face to face v. on the track vi. an historic secret vii. the treatise of the needle viii. from caesar to lupin ix. open, sesame! x. the treasures of the kings of france illustrations valmeras loved raymonde's melancholy charm she put the gun to her shoulder, calmly took aim and fired two huge letters, each perhaps a foot long, appeared cut in relief in the granite of the floor "we're going now. what do you think of my cockle-shell, beautrelet?" the hollow needle chapter one the shot raymonde listened. the noise was repeated twice over, clearly enough to be distinguished from the medley of vague sounds that formed the great silence of the night and yet too faintly to enable her to tell whether it was near or far, within the walls of the big country-house, or outside, among the murky recesses of the park. she rose softly. her window was half open: she flung it back wide. the moonlight lay over a peaceful landscape of lawns and thickets, against which the straggling ruins of the old abbey stood out in tragic outlines, truncated columns, mutilated arches, fragments of porches and shreds of flying buttresses. a light breeze hovered over the face of things, gliding noiselessly through the bare motionless branches of the trees, but shaking the tiny budding leaves of the shrubs. and, suddenly, she heard the same sound again. it was on the left and on the floor below her, in the living rooms, therefore, that occupied the left wing of the house. brave and plucky though she was, the girl felt afraid. she slipped on her dressing gown and took the matches. "raymonde--raymonde!" a voice as low as a breath was calling to her from the next room, the door of which had not been closed. she was feeling her way there, when suzanne, her cousin, came out of the room and fell into her arms: "raymonde--is that you? did you hear--?" "yes. so you're not asleep?" "i suppose the dog woke me--some time ago. but he's not barking now. what time is it?" "about four." "listen! surely, some one's walking in the drawing room!" "there's no danger, your father is down there, suzanne." "but there is danger for him. his room is next to the boudoir." "m. daval is there too--" "at the other end of the house. he could never hear." they hesitated, not knowing what course to decide upon. should they call out? cry for help? they dared not; they were frightened of the sound of their own voices. but suzanne, who had gone to the window, suppressed a scream: "look!--a man!--near the fountain!" a man was walking away at a rapid pace. he carried under his arm a fairly large load, the nature of which they were unable to distinguish: it knocked against his leg and impeded his progress. they saw him pass near the old chapel and turn toward a little door in the wall. the door must have been open, for the man disappeared suddenly from view and they failed to hear the usual grating of the hinges. "he came from the drawing room," whispered suzanne. "no, the stairs and the hall would have brought him out more to the left--unless--" the same idea struck them both. they leant out. below them, a ladder stood against the front of the house, resting on the first floor. a glimmer lit up the stone balcony. and another man, who was also carrying something, bestrode the baluster, slid down the ladder and ran away by the same road as the first. suzanne, scared to the verge of swooning, fell on her knees, stammering: "let us call out--let us call for help--" "who would come? your father--and if there are more of them left--and they throw themselves upon him--?" "then--then--we might call the servants--your bell rings on their floor." "yes--yes--perhaps, that's better. if only they come in time!" raymonde felt for the electric push near her bed and pressed it with her finger. they heard the bell ring upstairs and had an impression that its shrill sound must also reach any one below. they waited. the silence became terrifying and the very breeze no longer shook the leaves of the shrubs. "i'm frightened--frightened," said suzanne. and, suddenly, from the profound darkness below them, came the sound of a struggle, a crash of furniture overturned, words, exclamations and then, horrible and ominous, a hoarse groan, the gurgle of a man who is being murdered-- raymonde leapt toward the door. suzanne clung desperately to her arm: "no--no--don't leave me--i'm frightened--" raymonde pushed her aside and darted down the corridor, followed by suzanne, who staggered from wall to wall, screaming as she went. raymonde reached the staircase, flew down the stairs, flung herself upon the door of the big drawing room and stopped short, rooted to the threshold, while suzanne sank in a heap by her side. facing them, at three steps' distance, stood a man, with a lantern in his hand. he turned it upon the two girls, blinding them with the light, stared long at their pale faces, and then, without hurrying, with the calmest movements in the world, took his cap, picked up a scrap of paper and two bits of straw, removed some footmarks from the carpet, went to the balcony, turned to the girls, made them a deep bow and disappeared. suzanne was the first to run to the little boudoir which separated the big drawing-room from her father's bedroom. but, at the entrance, a hideous sight appalled her. by the slanting rays of the moon, she saw two apparently lifeless bodies lying close to each other on the floor. she leaned over one of them: "father!--father!--is it you? what has happened to you?" she cried, distractedly. after a moment, the comte de gesvres moved. in a broken voice, he said: "don't be afraid--i am not wounded--daval?--is he alive?--the knife?--the knife?--" two men-servants now arrived with candles. raymonde flung herself down before the other body and recognized jean daval, the count's private secretary. a little stream of blood trickled from his neck. his face already wore the pallor of death. then she rose, returned to the drawing room, took a gun that hung in a trophy of arms on the wall and went out on the balcony. not more than fifty or sixty seconds had elapsed since the man had set his foot on the top rung of the ladder. he could not, therefore, be very far away, the more so as he had taken the precaution to remove the ladder, in order to prevent the inmates of the house from using it. and soon she saw him skirting the remains of the old cloister. she put the gun to her shoulder, calmly took aim and fired. the man fell. "that's done it! that's done it!" said one of the servants. "we've got this one. i'll run down." "no, victor, he's getting up.... you had better go down by the staircase and make straight for the little door in the wall. that's the only way he can escape." victor hurried off, but, before he reached the park, the man fell down again. raymonde called the other servant: "albert, do you see him down there? near the main cloister?--" "yes, he's crawling in the grass. he's done for--" "watch him from here." "there's no way of escape for him. on the right of the ruins is the open lawn--" "and, victor, do you guard the door, on the left," she said, taking up her gun. "but, surely, you are not going down, miss?" "yes, yes," she said, with a resolute accent and abrupt movements; "let me be--i have a cartridge left--if he stirs--" she went out. a moment later, albert saw her going toward the ruins. he called to her from the window: "he's dragged himself behind the cloister. i can't see him. be careful, miss--" raymonde went round the old cloisters, to cut off the man's retreat, and albert soon lost sight of her. after a few minutes, as he did not see her return, he became uneasy and, keeping his eye on the ruins, instead of going down by the stairs he made an effort to reach the ladder. when he had succeeded, he scrambled down and ran straight to the cloisters near which he had seen the man last. thirty paces farther, he found raymonde, who was searching with victor. "well?" he asked. "there's no laying one's hands on him," replied victor. "the little door?" "i've been there; here's the key." "still--he must--" "oh, we've got him safe enough, the scoundrel--he'll be ours in ten minutes." the farmer and his son, awakened by the shot, now came from the farm buildings, which were at some distance on the right, but within the circuit of the walls. they had met no one. "of course not," said albert. "the ruffian can't have left the ruins--we'll dig him out of some hole or other." they organized a methodical search, beating every bush, pulling aside the heavy masses of ivy rolled round the shafts of the columns. they made sure that the chapel was properly locked and that none of the panes were broken. they went round the cloisters and examined every nook and corner. the search was fruitless. there was but one discovery: at the place where the man had fallen under raymonde's gun, they picked up a chauffeur's cap, in very soft buff leather; besides that, nothing. * * * * * the gendarmerie of ouville-la-riviere were informed at six o'clock in the morning and at once proceeded to the spot, after sending an express to the authorities at dieppe with a note describing the circumstances of the crime, the imminent capture of the chief criminal and "the discovery of his headgear and of the dagger with which the crime had been committed." at ten o'clock, two hired conveyances came down the gentle slope that led to the house. one of them, an old-fashioned calash, contained the deputy public prosecutor and the examining magistrate, accompanied by his clerk. in the other, a humble fly, were seated two reporters, representing the journal de rouen and a great paris paper. the old chateau came into view--once the abbey residence of the priors of ambrumesy, mutilated under the revolution, both restored by the comte de gesvres, who had now owned it for some twenty years. it consists of a main building, surmounted by a pinnacled clock-tower, and two wings, each of which is surrounded by a flight of steps with a stone balustrade. looking across the walls of the park and beyond the upland supported by the high norman cliffs, you catch a glimpse of the blue line of the channel between the villages of sainte-marguerite and varengeville. here the comte de gesvres lived with his daughter suzanne, a delicate, fair-haired, pretty creature, and his niece raymonde de saint-veran, whom he had taken to live with him two years before, when the simultaneous death of her father and mother left raymonde an orphan. life at the chateau was peaceful and regular. a few neighbors paid an occasional visit. in the summer, the count took the two girls almost every day to dieppe. he was a tall man, with a handsome, serious face and hair that was turning gray. he was very rich, managed his fortune himself and looked after his extensive estates with the assistance of his secretary, jean daval. immediately upon his arrival, the examining magistrate took down the first observations of sergeant quevillon of the gendarmes. the capture of the criminal, imminent though it might be, had not yet been effected, but every outlet of the park was held. escape was impossible. the little company next crossed the chapter-hall and the refectory, both of which are on the ground floor, and went up to the first story. they at once remarked the perfect order that prevailed in the drawing room. not a piece of furniture, not an ornament but appeared to occupy its usual place; nor was there any gap among the ornaments or furniture. on the right and left walls hung magnificent flemish tapestries with figures. on the panels of the wall facing the windows were four fine canvases, in contemporary frames, representing mythological scenes. these were the famous pictures by rubens which had been left to the comte de gesvres, together with the flemish tapestries, by his maternal uncle, the marques de bobadilla, a spanish grandee. m. filleul remarked: "if the motive of the crime was theft, this drawing room, at any rate, was not the object of it." "you can't tell!" said the deputy, who spoke little, but who, when he did, invariably opposed the magistrate's views. "why, my dear sir, the first thought of a burglar would be to carry off those pictures and tapestries, which are universally renowned." "perhaps there was no time." "we shall see." at that moment, the comte de gesvres entered, accompanied by the doctor. the count, who did not seem to feel the effects of the attack to which he had been subjected, welcomed the two officials. then he opened the door of the boudoir. this room, which no one had been allowed to enter since the discovery of the crime, differed from the drawing room inasmuch as it presented a scene of the greatest disorder. two chairs were overturned, one of the tables smashed to pieces and several objects--a traveling-clock, a portfolio, a box of stationery--lay on the floor. and there was blood on some of the scattered pieces of note-paper. the doctor turned back the sheet that covered the corpse. jean daval, dressed in his usual velvet suit, with a pair of nailed boots on his feet, lay stretched on his back, with one arm folded beneath him. his collar and tie had been removed and his shirt opened, revealing a large wound in the chest. "death must have been instantaneous," declared the doctor. "one blow of the knife was enough." "it was, no doubt, the knife which i saw on the drawing-room mantelpiece, next to a leather cap?" said the examining magistrate. "yes," said the comte de gesvres, "the knife was picked up here. it comes from the same trophy in the drawing room from which my niece, mlle. de saint-veran, snatched the gun. as for the chauffeur's cap, that evidently belongs to the murderer." m. filleul examined certain further details in the room, put a few questions to the doctor and then asked m. de gesvres to tell him what he had seen and heard. the count worded his story as follows: "jean daval woke me up. i had been sleeping badly, for that matter, with gleams of consciousness in which i seemed to hear noises, when, suddenly opening my eyes, i saw daval standing at the foot of my bed, with his candle in his hand and fully dressed--as he is now, for he often worked late into the night. he seemed greatly excited and said, in a low voice: 'there's some one in the drawing room.' i heard a noise myself. i got up and softly pushed the door leading to this boudoir. at the same moment, the door over there, which opens into the big drawing room, was thrown back and a man appeared who leaped at me and stunned me with a blow on the temple. i am telling you this without any details, monsieur le juge d'instruction, for the simple reason that i remember only the principal facts, and that these facts followed upon one another with extraordinary swiftness." "and after that?--" "after that, i don't know--i fainted. when i came to, daval lay stretched by my side, mortally wounded." "at first sight, do you suspect no one?" "no one." "you have no enemy?" "i know of none." "nor m. daval either?" "daval! an enemy? he was the best creature that ever lived. m. daval was my secretary for twenty years and, i may say, my confidant; and i have never seen him surrounded with anything but love and friendship." "still, there has been a burglary and there has been a murder: there must be a motive for all that." "the motive? why, it was robbery pure and simple." "robbery? have you been robbed of something, then?" "no, nothing." "in that case--?" "in that case, if they have stolen nothing and if nothing is missing, they at least took something away." "what?" "i don't know. but my daughter and my niece will tell you, with absolute certainty, that they saw two men in succession cross the park and that those two men were carrying fairly heavy loads." "the young ladies--" "the young ladies may have been dreaming, you think? i should be tempted to believe it, for i have been exhausting myself in inquiries and suppositions ever since this morning. however, it is easy enough to question them." the two cousins were sent for to the big drawing room. suzanne, still quite pale and trembling, could hardly speak. raymonde, who was more energetic, more of a man, better looking, too, with the golden glint in her brown eyes, described the events of the night and the part which she had played in them. "so i may take it, mademoiselle, that your evidence is positive?" "absolutely. the men who went across the park were carrying things away with them." "and the third man?" "he went from here empty-handed." "could you describe him to us?" "he kept on dazzling us with the light of his lantern. all that i could say is that he is tall and heavily built." "is that how he appeared to you, mademoiselle?" asked the magistrate, turning to suzanne de gesvres. "yes--or, rather, no," said suzanne, reflecting. "i thought he was about the middle height and slender." m. filleul smiled; he was accustomed to differences of opinion and sight in witnesses to one and the same fact: "so we have to do, on the one hand, with a man, the one in the drawing room, who is, at the same time, tall and short, stout and thin, and, on the other, with two men, those in the park, who are accused of removing from that drawing room objects--which are still here!" m. filleul was a magistrate of the ironic school, as he himself would say. he was also a very ambitious magistrate and one who did not object to an audience nor to an occasion to display his tactful resource in public, as was shown by the increasing number of persons who now crowded into the room. the journalists had been joined by the farmer and his son, the gardener and his wife, the indoor servants of the chateau and the two cabmen who had driven the flies from dieppe. m. filleul continued: "there is also the question of agreeing upon the way in which the third person disappeared. was this the gun you fired, mademoiselle, and from this window?" "yes. the man reached the tombstone which is almost buried under the brambles, to the left of the cloisters." "but he got up again?" "only half. victor ran down at once to guard the little door and i followed him, leaving the second footman, albert, to keep watch here." albert now gave his evidence and the magistrate concluded: "so, according to you, the wounded man was not able to escape on the left, because your fellow-servant was watching the door, nor on the right, because you would have seen him cross the lawn. logically, therefore, he is, at the present moment, in the comparatively restricted space that lies before our eyes." "i am sure of it." "and you, mademoiselle?" "yes." "and i, too," said victor. the deputy prosecutor exclaimed, with a leer: "the field of inquiry is quite narrow. we have only to continue the search commenced four hours ago." "we may be more fortunate." m. filleul took the leather cap from the mantel, examined it and, beckoning to the sergeant of gendarmes, whispered: "sergeant, send one of your men to dieppe at once. tell him to go to maigret, the hatter, in the rue de la barre, and ask m. maigret to tell him, if possible, to whom this cap was sold." the "field of inquiry," in the deputy's phrase, was limited to the space contained between the house, the lawn on the right and the angle formed by the left wall and the wall opposite the house, that is to say, a quadrilateral of about a hundred yards each way, in which the ruins of ambrumesy, the famous mediaeval monastery, stood out at intervals. they at once noticed the traces left by the fugitive in the trampled grass. in two places, marks of blackened blood, now almost dried up, were observed. after the turn at the end of the cloisters, there was nothing more to be seen, as the nature of the ground, here covered with pine-needles, did not lend itself to the imprint of a body. but, in that case, how had the wounded man succeeded in escaping the eyes of raymonde, victor and albert? there was nothing but a few brakes, which the servants and the gendarmes had beaten over and over again, and a number of tombstones, under which they had explored. the examining magistrate made the gardener, who had the key, open the chapel, a real gem of carving, a shrine in stone which had been respected by time and the revolutionaries, and which, with the delicate sculpture work of its porch and its miniature population of statuettes, was always looked upon as a marvelous specimen of the norman-gothic style. the chapel, which was very simple in the interior, with no other ornament than its marble altar, offered no hiding-place. besides, the fugitive would have had to obtain admission. and by what means? the inspection brought them to the little door in the wall that served as an entrance for the visitors to the ruins. it opened on a sunk road running between the park wall and a copsewood containing some abandoned quarries. m. filleul stooped forward: the dust of the road bore marks of anti-skid pneumatic tires. raymonde and victor remembered that, after the shot, they had seemed to hear the throb of a motor-car. the magistrate suggested: "the man must have joined his confederates." "impossible!" cried victor. "i was here while mademoiselle and albert still had him in view." "nonsense, he must be somewhere! outside or inside: we have no choice!" "he is here," the servants insisted, obstinately. the magistrate shrugged his shoulders and went back to the house in a more or less sullen mood. there was no doubt that it was an unpromising case. a theft in which nothing had been stolen; an invisible prisoner: what could be less satisfactory? it was late. m. de gesvres asked the officials and the two journalists to stay to lunch. they ate in silence and then m. filleul returned to the drawing room, where he questioned the servants. but the sound of a horse's hoofs came from the courtyard and, a moment after, the gendarme who had been sent to dieppe entered. "well, did you see the hatter?" exclaimed the magistrate, eager at last to obtain some positive information. "i saw m. maigret. the cap was sold to a cab-driver." "a cab-driver!" "yes, a driver who stopped his fly before the shop and asked to be supplied with a yellow-leather chauffeur's cap for one of his customers. this was the only one left. he paid for it, without troubling about the size, and drove off. he was in a great hurry." "what sort of fly was it?" "a calash." "and on what day did this happen?" "on what day? why, to-day, at eight o'clock this morning." "this morning? what are you talking about?" "the cap was bought this morning." "but that's impossible, because it was found last night in the park. if it was found there, it must have been there; and, consequently, it must have been bought before." "the hatter told me it was bought this morning." there was a moment of general bewilderment. the nonplussed magistrate strove to understand. suddenly, he started, as though struck with a gleam of light: "fetch the cabman who brought us here this morning! the man who drove the calash! fetch him at once!" the sergeant of gendarmes and his subordinate ran off to the stables. in a few minutes, the sergeant returned alone. "where's the cabman?" "he asked for food in the kitchen, ate his lunch and then--" "and then--?" "he went off." "with his fly?" "no. pretending that he wanted to go and see a relation at ouville, he borrowed the groom's bicycle. here are his hat and greatcoat." "but did he leave bare-headed?" "no, he took a cap from his pocket and put it on." "a cap?" "yes, a yellow leather cap, it seems." "a yellow leather cap? why, no, we've got it here!" "that's true, monsieur le juge d'instruction, but his is just like it." the deputy sniggered: "very funny! most amusing! there are two caps--one, the real one, which constituted our only piece of evidence, has gone off on the head of the sham flyman! the other, the false one, is in your hands. oh, the fellow has had us nicely!" "catch him! fetch him back!" cried m. filleul. "two of your men on horseback, sergeant quevillon, and at full speed!" "he is far away by this time," said the deputy. "he can be as far as he pleases, but still we must lay hold of him." "i hope so; but i think, monsieur le juge d'instruction, that your efforts should be concentrated here above all. would you mind reading this scrap of paper, which i have just found in the pocket of the coat?" "which coat?" "the driver's." and the deputy prosecutor handed m. filleul a piece of paper, folded in four, containing these few words written in pencil, in a more or less common hand: "woe betide the young lady, if she has killed the governor!" the incident caused a certain stir. "a word to the wise!" muttered the deputy. "we are now forewarned." "monsieur le comte," said the examining magistrate, "i beg you not to be alarmed. nor you either, mademoiselle. this threat is of no importance, as the police are on the spot. we shall take every precaution and i will answer for your safety. as for you, gentlemen. i rely on your discretion. you have been present at this inquiry, thanks to my excessive kindness toward the press, and it would be making me an ill return--" he interrupted himself, as though an idea had struck him, looked at the two young men, one after the other, and, going up to the first, asked: "what paper do you represent, sir?" "the journal de rouen." "have you your credentials?" "here." the card was in order. there was no more to be said. m. filleul turned to the other reporter: "and you, sir?" "i?" "yes, you: what paper do you belong to?" "why, monsieur le juge d'instruction, i write for a number of papers--all over the place--" "your credentials?" "i haven't any." "oh! how is that?" "for a newspaper to give you a card, you have to be on its regular staff." "well?" "well, i am only an occasional contributor, a free-lance. i send articles to this newspaper and that. they are published or declined according to circumstances." "in that case, what is your name? where are your papers?" "my name would tell you nothing. as for papers, i have none." "you have no paper of any kind to prove your profession!" "i have no profession." "but look here, sir," cried the magistrate, with a certain asperity, "you can't expect to preserve your incognito after introducing yourself here by a trick and surprising the secrets of the police!" "i beg to remark, monsieur le juge d'instruction, that you asked me nothing when i came in, and that therefore i had nothing to say. besides, it never struck me that your inquiry was secret, when everybody was admitted--including even one of the criminals!" he spoke softly, in a tone of infinite politeness. he was quite a young man, very tall, very slender and dressed without the least attempt at fashion, in a jacket and trousers both too small for him. he had a pink face like a girl's, a broad forehead topped with close-cropped hair, and a scrubby and ill-trimmed fair beard. his bright eyes gleamed with intelligence. he seemed not in the least embarrassed and wore a pleasant smile, free from any shade of banter. m. filleul looked at him with an aggressive air of distrust. the two gendarmes came forward. the young man exclaimed, gaily: "monsieur le juge d'instruction, you clearly suspect me of being an accomplice. but, if that were so, would i not have slipped away at the right moment, following the example of my fellow-criminal?" "you might have hoped--" "any hope would have been absurd. a moment's reflection, monsieur le juge d'instruction, will make you agree with me that, logically speaking--" m. filleul looked him straight in the eyes and said, sharply: "no more jokes! your name?" "isidore beautrelet." "your occupation?" "sixth-form pupil at the lycee janson-de-sailly." m. filleul opened a pair of startled eyes. "what are you talking about? sixth-form pupil--" "at the lycee janson, rue de la pompe, number--" "oh, look here," exclaimed m. filleul, "you're trying to take me in! this won't do, you know; a joke can go too far!" "i must say, monsieur le juge d'instruction, that your astonishment surprises me. what is there to prevent my being a sixth-form pupil at the lycee janson? my beard, perhaps? set your mind at ease: my beard is false!" isidore beautrelet pulled off the few curls that adorned his chin, and his beardless face appeared still younger and pinker, a genuine schoolboy's face. and, with a laugh like a child's, revealing his white teeth: "are you convinced now?" he asked. "do you want more proofs? here, you can read the address on these letters from my father: 'to monsieur isidore beautrelet, indoor pupil, lycee janson-de-sailly.'" convinced or not, m. filleul did not look as if he liked the story. he asked, gruffly: "what are you doing here?" "why--i'm--i'm improving my mind." "there are schools for that: yours, for instance." "you forget, monsieur le juge d'instruction, that this is the twenty-third of april and that we are in the middle of the easter holidays." "well?" "well, i have every right to spend my holidays as i please." "your father--" "my father lives at the other end of the country, in savoy, and he himself advised me to take a little trip on the north coast." "with a false beard?" "oh, no! that's my own idea. at school, we talk a great deal about mysterious adventures; we read detective stories, in which people disguise themselves; we imagine any amount of terrible and intricate cases. so i thought i would amuse myself; and i put on this false beard. besides, i enjoyed the advantage of being taken seriously and i pretended to be a paris reporter. that is how, last night, after an uneventful period of more than a week, i had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of my rouen colleague; and, this morning, when he heard of the ambrumesy murder, he very kindly suggested that i should come with him and that we should share the cost of a fly." isidore beautrelet said all this with a frank and artless simplicity of which it was impossible not to feel the charm. m. filleul himself, though maintaining a distrustful reserve, took a certain pleasure in listening to him. he asked him, in a less peevish tone: "and are you satisfied with your expedition?" "delighted! all the more as i had never been present at a case of the sort and i find that this one is not lacking in interest." "nor in that mysterious intricacy which you prize so highly--" "and which is so stimulating, monsieur le juge d'instruction! i know nothing more exciting than to see all the facts coming up out of the shadow, clustering together, so to speak, and gradually forming the probable truth." "the probable truth! you go pretty fast, young man! do you suggest that you have your little solution of the riddle ready?" "oh, no!" replied beautrelet, with a laugh. "only--it seems to me that there are certain points on which it is not impossible to form an opinion; and others, even, are so precise as to warrant--a conclusion." "oh, but this is becoming very curious and i shall get to know something at last! for i confess, to my great confusion, that i know nothing." "that is because you have not had time to reflect, monsieur le juge d'instruction. the great thing is to reflect. facts very seldom fail to carry their own explanation!" "and, according to you, the facts which we have just ascertained carry their own explanation?" "don't you think so yourself? in any case, i have ascertained none besides those which are set down in the official report." "good! so that, if i were to ask you which were the objects stolen from this room--" "i should answer that i know." "bravo! my gentleman knows more about it than the owner himself. m. de gesvres has everything accounted for: m. isidore beautrelet has not. he misses a bookcase in three sections and a life-size statue which nobody ever noticed. and, if i asked you the name of the murderer?" "i should again answer that i know it." all present gave a start. the deputy and the journalist drew nearer. m. de gesvres and the two girls, impressed by beautrelet's tranquil assurance, listened attentively. "you know the murderer's name?" "yes." "and the place where he is concealed, perhaps?" "yes." m. filleul rubbed his hands. "what a piece of luck! this capture will do honor to my career. and can you make me these startling revelations now?" "yes, now--or rather, if you do not mind, in an hour or two, when i shall have assisted at your inquiry to the end." "no, no, young man, here and now, please." at that moment raymonde de saint-veran, who had not taken her eyes from isidore beautrelet since the beginning of this scene, came up to m. filleul: "monsieur le juge d'instruction--" "yes, mademoiselle?" she hesitated for two or three seconds, with her eyes fixed on beautrelet, and then, addressing m. filleul: "i should like you to ask monsieur the reason why he was walking yesterday in the sunk road which leads up to the little door." it was an unexpected and dramatic stroke. isidore beautrelet appeared nonplussed: "i, mademoiselle? i? you saw me yesterday?" raymonde remained thoughtful, with her eyes upon beautrelet, as though she were trying to settle her own conviction, and then said, in a steady voice: "at four o'clock in the afternoon, as i was crossing the wood, i met in the sunk road a young man of monsieur's height, dressed like him and wearing a beard cut in the same way--and i received a very clear impression that he was trying to hide." "and it was i?" "i could not say that as an absolute certainty, for my recollection is a little vague. still--still, i think so--if not, it would be an unusual resemblance--" m. filleul was perplexed. already taken in by one of the confederates, was he now going to let himself be tricked by this self-styled schoolboy? certainly, the young man's manner spoke in his favor; but one can never tell! "what have you to say, sir?" "that mademoiselle is mistaken, as i can easily show you with one word. yesterday, at the time stated, i was at veules." "you will have to prove it, you will have to. in any case, the position is not what it was. sergeant, one of your men will keep monsieur company." isidore beautrelet's face denoted a keen vexation. "will it be for long?" "long enough to collect the necessary information." "monsieur le juge d'instruction, i beseech you to collect it with all possible speed and discretion." "why?" "my father is an old man. we are very much attached to each other--and i would not have him suffer on my account." the more or less pathetic note in his voice made a bad impression on m. filleul. it suggested a scene in a melodrama. nevertheless, he promised: "this evening--or to-morrow at latest, i shall know what to think." the afternoon was wearing on. the examining magistrate returned to the ruins of the cloisters, after giving orders that no unauthorized persons were to be admitted, and patiently, methodically, dividing the ground into lots which were successively explored, himself directed the search. but at the end of the day he was no farther than at the start; and he declared, before an army of reporters who, during that time, had invaded the chateau: "gentlemen, everything leads us to suppose that the wounded man is here, within our reach; everything, that is, except the reality, the fact. therefore, in our humble opinion, he must have escaped and we shall find him outside." by way of precaution, however, he arranged, with the sergeant of gendarmes, for a complete watch to be kept over the park and, after making a fresh examination of the two drawing rooms, visiting the whole of the chateau and surrounding himself with all the necessary information, he took the road back to dieppe, accompanied by the deputy prosecutor. * * * * * night fell. as the boudoir was to remain locked, jean daval's body had been moved to another room. two women from the neighborhood sat up with it, assisted by suzanne and raymonde. downstairs, young isidore beautrelet slept on the bench in the old oratory, under the watchful eye of the village policeman, who had been attached to his person. outside, the gendarmes, the farmer and a dozen peasants had taken up their position among the ruins and along the walls. all was still until eleven o'clock; but, at ten minutes past eleven, a shot echoed from the other side of the house. "attention!" roared the sergeant. "two men remain here: you, fossier--and you, lecanu--the others at the double!" they all rushed forward and ran round the house on the left. a figure was seen to make away in the dark. then, suddenly, a second shot drew them farther on, almost to the borders of the farm. and, all at once, as they arrived, in a band, at the hedge which lines the orchard, a flame burst out, to the right of the farmhouse, and other names also rose in a thick column. it was a barn burning, stuffed to the ridge with straw. "the scoundrels!" shouted the sergeant. "they've set fire to it. have at them, lads! they can't be far away!" but the wind was turning the flames toward the main building; and it became necessary, before all things, to ward off the danger. they all exerted themselves with the greater ardor inasmuch as m. de gesvres, hurrying to the scene of the disaster, encouraged them with the promise of a reward. 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 fulfil 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 alarmed, drove to the office of the commissary of police. there she found the real m. thezard and discovered, to her great terror, that the individual who had carried off her husband was an impostor. inquiries made so far have revealed the fact that the doctor stepped into a motor car and that the car drove off in the direction of the concorde. readers will find further details of this incredible adventure in our second edition. * * * * * incredible though it might be, the adventure was perfectly true. besides, the issue was not long delayed and the grand journal, while confirming the story in its midday edition, described in a few lines the dramatic ending with which it concluded: the story ends and guess-work begins dr. delattre was brought back to , rue duret, at nine o'clock this morning, in a motor car which drove away immediately at full speed. no. , rue duret, is the address of dr. delattre's clinical surgery, at which he arrives every morning at the same hour. when we sent in our card, the doctor, though closeted with the chief of the detective service, was good enough to consent to receive us. "all that i can tell you," he said, in reply to our questions, "is that i was treated with the greatest consideration. my three companions were the most charming people i have ever met, exquisitely well-mannered and bright and witty talkers: a quality not to be despised, in view of the length of the journey." "how long did it take?" "about four hours and as long returning." "and what was the object of the journey?" "i was taken to see a patient whose condition rendered an immediate operation necessary." "and was the operation successful?" "yes, but the consequences may be dangerous. i would answer for the patient here. down there--under his present conditions--" "bad conditions?" "execrable!--a room in an inn--and the practically absolute impossibility of being attended to." "then what can save him?" "a miracle--and his constitution, which is an exceptionally strong one." "and can you say nothing more about this strange patient?" "no. in the first place, i have taken an oath; and, secondly, i have received a present of ten thousand francs for my free surgery. if i do not keep silence, this sum will be taken from me." "you are joking! do you believe that?" "indeed i do. the men all struck me as being very much in earnest." this is the statement made to us by dr. delattre. and we know, on the other hand, that the head of the detective service, in spite of all his insisting, has not yet succeeded in extracting any more precise particulars from him as to the operation which he performed, the patient whom he attended or the district traversed by the car. it is difficult, therefore, to arrive at the truth. * * * * * this truth, which the writer of the interview confessed himself unable to discover, was guessed by the more or less clear-sighted minds that perceived a connection with the facts which had occurred the day before at the chateau d'ambrumesy, and which were reported, down to the smallest detail, in all the newspapers of that day. there was evidently a coincidence to be reckoned with in the disappearance of a wounded burglar and the kidnapping of a famous surgeon. the judicial inquiry, moreover, proved the correctness of the hypothesis. by following the track of the sham flyman, who had fled on a bicycle, they were able to show that he had reached the forest of arques, at some ten miles' distance, and that from there, after throwing his bicycle into a ditch, he had gone to the village of saint-nicolas, whence he had dispatched the following telegram: a. l. n., post-office , paris. situation desperate. operation urgently necessary. send celebrity by national road fourteen. the evidence was undeniable. once apprised the accomplices in paris hastened to make their arrangements. at ten o'clock in the evening they sent their celebrity by national road no. , which skirts the forest of arques and ends at dieppe. during this time, under cover of the fire which they themselves had caused, the gang of burglars carried off their leader and moved him to an inn, where the operation took place on the arrival of the surgeon, at two o'clock in the morning. about that there was no doubt. at pontoise, at gournay, at forges, chief-inspector ganimard, who was sent specially from paris, with inspector folenfant, as his assistant, ascertained that a motor car had passed in the course of the previous night. the same on the road from dieppe to ambrumesy. and, though the traces of the car were lost at about a mile and a half from the chateau, at least a number of footmarks were seen between the little door in the park wall and the abbey ruins. besides, ganimard remarked that the lock of the little door had been forced. so all was explained. it remained to decide which inn the doctor had spoken of: an easy piece of work for a ganimard, a professional ferret, a patient old stager of the police. the number of inns is limited and this one, given the condition of the wounded man, could only be one quite close to ambrumesy. ganimard and sergeant quevillon set to work. within a circle of five hundred yards, of a thousand yards, of fifteen hundred yards, they visited and ransacked everything that could pass for an inn. but, against all expectation, the dying man persisted in remaining invisible. ganimard became more resolved than ever. he came back to sleep at the chateau, on the saturday night, with the intention of making his personal inquiry on the sunday. on sunday morning, he learned that, during the night, a posse of gendarmes had seen a figure gliding along the sunk road, outside the wall. was it an accomplice who had come back to investigate? were they to suppose that the leader of the gang had not left the cloisters or the neighborhood of the cloisters? that night, ganimard openly sent the squad of gendarmes to the farm and posted himself and folenfant outside the walls, near the little door. a little before midnight, a person passed out of the wood, slipped between them, went through the door and entered the park. for three hours, they saw him wander from side to side across the ruins, stooping, climbing up the old pillars, sometimes remaining for long minutes without moving. then he went back to the door and again passed between the two inspectors. ganimard caught him by the collar, while folenfant seized him round the body. he made no resistance of any kind and, with the greatest docility, allowed them to bind his wrists and take him to the house. but, when they attempted to question him, he replied simply that he owed them no account of his doings and that he would wait for the arrival of the examining magistrate. thereupon, they fastened him firmly to the foot of a bed, in one of the two adjoining rooms which they occupied. at nine o'clock on monday morning, as soon as m. filleul had arrived, ganimard announced the capture which he had made. the prisoner was brought downstairs. it was isidore beautrelet. "m. isidore beautrelet!" exclaimed m. filleul with an air of rapture, holding out both his hands to the newcomer. "what a delightful surprise! our excellent amateur detective here! and at our disposal too! why, it's a windfall!--m. chief-inspector, allow me to introduce to you m. isidore beautrelet, a sixth-form pupil at the lycee janson-de-sailly." ganimard seemed a little nonplussed. isidore made him a very low bow, as though he were greeting a colleague whom he knew how to esteem at his true value, and, turning to m. filleul: "it appears, monsieur le juge d'instruction, that you have received a satisfactory account of me?" "perfectly satisfactory! to begin with, you were really at veules-les-roses at the time when mlle. de saint-veran thought she saw you in the sunk road. i dare say we shall discover the identity of your double. in the second place, you are in very deed isidore beautrelet, a sixth-form pupil and, what is more, an excellent pupil, industrious at your work and of exemplary behavior. as your father lives in the country, you go out once a month to his correspondent, m. bernod, who is lavish in his praises of you." "so that--" "so that you are free, m. isidore beautrelet." "absolutely free?" "absolutely. oh, i must make just one little condition, all the same. you can understand that i can't release a gentleman who administers sleeping-draughts, who escapes by the window and who is afterward caught in the act of trespassing upon private property. i can't release him without a compensation of some kind." "i await your pleasure." "well, we will resume our interrupted conversation and you shall tell me how far you have advanced with your investigations. in two days of liberty, you must have carried them pretty far?" and, as ganimard was preparing to go, with an affectation of contempt for that sort of practice, the magistrate cried, "not at all, m. inspector, your place is here--i assure you that m. isidore beautrelet is worth listening to. m. isidore beautrelet, according to my information, has made a great reputation at the lycee janson-de-sailly as an observer whom nothing escapes; and his schoolfellows, i hear, look upon him as your competitor and a rival of holmlock shears!" "indeed!" said ganimard, ironically. "just so. one of them wrote to me, 'if beautrelet declares that he knows, you must believe him; and, whatever he says, you may be sure that it is the exact expression of the truth.' m. isidore beautrelet, now or never is the time to vindicate the confidence of your friends. i beseech you, give us the exact expression of the truth." isidore listened with a smile and replied: "monsieur le juge d'instruction, you are very cruel. you make fun of poor schoolboys who amuse themselves as best they can. you are quite right, however, and i will give you no further reason to laugh at me." "the fact is that you know nothing, m. isidore beautrelet." "yes, i confess in all humility that i know nothing. for i do not call it 'knowing anything' that i happen to have hit upon two or three more precise points which, i am sure, cannot have escaped you." "for instance?" "for instance, the object of the theft." "ah, of course, you know the object of the theft?" "as you do, i have no doubt. in fact, it was the first thing i studied, because the task struck me as easier." "easier, really?" "why, of course. at the most, it's a question of reasoning." "nothing more than that?" "nothing more." "and what is your reasoning?" "it is just this, stripped of all extraneous comment: on the one hand, there has been a theft, because the two young ladies are agreed and because they really saw two men running away and carrying things with them." "there has been a theft." "on the other hand, nothing has disappeared, because m. de gesvres says so and he is in a better position than anybody to know." "nothing has disappeared." "from those two premises i arrive at this inevitable result: granted that there has been a theft and that nothing has disappeared, it is because the object carried off has been replaced by an exactly similar object. let me hasten to add that possibly my argument may not be confirmed by the facts. but i maintain that it is the first argument that ought to occur to us and that we are not entitled to waive it until we have made a serious examination." "that's true--that's true," muttered the magistrate, who was obviously interested. "now," continued isidore, "what was there in this room that could arouse the covetousness of the burglars? two things. the tapestry first. it can't have been that. old tapestry cannot be imitated: the fraud would have been palpable at once. there remain the four rubens pictures." "what's that you say?" "i say that the four rubenses on that wall are false." "impossible!" "they are false a priori, inevitably and without a doubt." "i tell you, it's impossible." "it is very nearly a year ago, monsieur le juge d'instruction, since a young man, who gave his name as charpenais, came to the chateau d'ambrumesy and asked permission to copy the rubens pictures. m. de gesvres gave him permission. every day for five months charpenais worked in this room from morning till dusk. the copies which he made, canvases and frames, have taken the place of the four original pictures bequeathed to m. de gesvres by his uncle, the marques de bobadilla." "prove it!" "i have no proof to give. a picture is false because it is false; and i consider that it is not even necessary to examine these four." m. filleul and ganimard exchanged glances of unconcealed astonishment. the inspector no longer thought of withdrawing. at last, the magistrate muttered: "we must have m. de gesvres's opinion." and ganimard agreed: "yes, we must have his opinion." and they sent to beg the count to come to the drawing room. the young sixth-form pupil had won a real victory. to compel two experts, two professionals like m. filleul and ganimard to take account of his surmises implied a testimony of respect of which any other would have been proud. but beautrelet seemed not to feel those little satisfactions of self-conceit and, still smiling without the least trace of irony, he placidly waited. m. de gesvres entered the room. "monsieur le comte," said the magistrate, "the result of our inquiry has brought us face to face with an utterly unexpected contingency, which we submit to you with all reserve. it is possible--i say that it is possible--that the burglars, when breaking into the house, had it as their object to steal your four pictures by rubens--or, at least, to replace them by four copies--copies which are said to have been made last year by a painter called charpenais. would you be so good as to examine the pictures and to tell us if you recognize them as genuine?" the count appeared to suppress a movement of annoyance, looked at isidore beautrelet and at m. filleul and replied, without even troubling to go near the pictures: "i hoped, monsieur le juge d'instruction, that the truth might have remained unknown. as this is not so, i have no hesitation in declaring that the four pictures are false." "you knew it, then?" "from the beginning." "why didn't you say so?" "the owner of a work is never in a hurry to declare that that work is not--or, rather, is no longer genuine." "still, it was the only means of recovering them." "i consider that there was another and a better." "which was that?" "not to make the secret known, not to frighten my burglars and to offer to buy back the pictures, which they must find more or less difficult to dispose of." "how would you communicate with them?" as the count did not reply, isidore answered for him: "by means of an advertisement in the papers. the paragraph inserted in the agony column of the journal, the echo de paris and the matin runs, 'am prepared to buy back the pictures.'" the count agreed with a nod. once again, the young man was teaching his elders. m. filleul showed himself a good sportsman. "there's no doubt about it, my dear sir," he exclaimed. "i'm beginning to think your school-fellows were not quite wrong. by jove, what an eye! what intuition! if this goes on, there will be nothing left for m. ganimard and me to do." "oh, none of this part was so very complicated!" "you mean to say that the rest was more so i remember, in fact, that, when we first met you seemed to know all about it. let me see, a far as i recollect, you said that you knew the name of the murderer." "so i do." "well, then, who killed jean daval? is the man alive? where is he hiding?" "there is a misunderstanding between us, monsieur le juge d'instruction, or, rather, you have misunderstood the facts from the beginning the murderer and the runaway are two distinct persons." "what's that?" exclaimed m. filleul. "the man whom m. de gesvres saw in the boudoir and struggled with, the man whom the young ladies saw in the drawing-room and whom mlle. de saint-veran shot at, the man who fell in the park and whom we are looking for: do you suggest that he is not the man who killed jean daval?" "i do." "have you discovered the traces of a third accomplice who disappeared before the arrival of the young ladies?" "i have not." "in that case, i don't understand.--well, who is the murderer of jean daval?" "jean daval was killed by--" beautrelet interrupted himself, thought for a moment and continued: "but i must first show you the road which i followed to arrive at the certainty and the very reasons of the murder--without which my accusation would seem monstrous to you.--and it is not--no, it is not monstrous at all.--there is one detail which has passed unobserved and which, nevertheless, is of the greatest importance; and that is that jean daval, at the moment when he was stabbed, had all his clothes on, including his walking boots, was dressed, in short, as a man is dressed in the middle of the day, with a waistcoat, collar, tie and braces. now the crime was committed at four o'clock in the morning." "i reflected on that strange fact," said the magistrate, "and m. de gesvres replied that jean daval spent a part of his nights in working." "the servants say, on the contrary, that he went to bed regularly at a very early hour. but, admitting that he was up, why did he disarrange his bedclothes, to make believe that he had gone to bed? and, if he was in bed, why, when he heard a noise, did he take the trouble to dress himself from head to foot, instead of slipping on anything that came to hand? i went to his room on the first day, while you were at lunch: his slippers were at the foot of the bed. what prevented him from putting them on rather than his heavy nailed boots?" "so far, i do not see--" "so far, in fact, you cannot see anything, except anomalies. they appeared much more suspicious to me, however, when i learned that charpenais the painter, the man who copied the rubens pictures, had been introduced and recommended to the comte de gesvres by jean daval himself." "well?" "well, from that to the conclusion that jean daval and charpenais were accomplices required but a step. i took that step at the time of our conversation." "a little quickly, i think." "as a matter of fact, a material proof was wanted. now i had discovered in daval's room, on one of the sheets of the blotting-pad on which he used to write, this address: 'monsieur a.l.n., post-office , paris.' you will find it there still, traced the reverse way on the blotting-paper. the next day, it was discovered that the telegram sent by the sham flyman from saint-nicolas bore the same address: 'a.l.n., post-office .' the material proof existed: jean daval was in correspondence with the gang which arranged the robbery of the pictures." m. filleul raised no objection. "agreed. the complicity is established. and what conclusion do you draw?" "this, first of all, that it was not the runaway who killed jean daval, because jean daval was his accomplice." "and after that?" "monsieur le juge d'instruction, i will ask you to remember the first sentence uttered by monsieur le comte when he recovered from fainting. the sentence forms part of mlle. de gesvres' evidence and is in the official report: 'i am not wounded.--daval?--is he alive?--the knife?' and i will ask you to compare it with that part of his story, also in the report, in which monsieur le comte describes the assault: 'the man leaped at me and felled me with a blow on the temple!' how could m. de gesvres, who had fainted, know, on waking, that daval had been stabbed with a knife?" isidore beautrelet did not wait for an answer to his question. it seemed as though he were in a hurry to give the answer himself and to avoid all comment. he continued straightway: "therefore it was jean daval who brought the three burglars to the drawing room. while he was there with the one whom they call their chief, a noise was heard in the boudoir. daval opened the door. recognizing m. de gesvres, he rushed at him, armed with the knife. m. de gesvres succeeded in snatching the knife from him, struck him with it and himself fell, on receiving a blow from the man whom the two girls were to see a few minutes after." once again, m. filleul and the inspector exchanged glances. ganimard tossed his head in a disconcerted way. the magistrate said: "monsieur le comte, am i to believe that this version is correct?" m. de gesvres made no answer. "come, monsieur le comte, your silence would allow us to suppose--i beg you to speak." replying in a very clear voice, m. de gesvres said: "the version is correct in every particular." the magistrate gave a start. "then i cannot understand why you misled the police. why conceal an act which you were lawfully entitled to commit in defense of your life?" "for twenty years," said m. de gesvres, "daval worked by my side. i trusted him. if he betrayed me, as the result of some temptation or other, i was, at least, unwilling, for the sake of the past, that his treachery should become known." "you were unwilling, i agree, but you had no right to be." "i am not of your opinion, monsieur le juge d'instruction. as long as no innocent person was accused of the crime, i was absolutely entitled to refrain from accusing the man who was at the same time the culprit and the victim. he is dead. i consider death a sufficient punishment." "but now, monsieur le comte, now that the truth is known, you can speak." "yes. here are two rough drafts of letters written by him to his accomplices. i took them from his pocket-book, a few minutes after his death." "and the motive of his theft?" "go to , rue de la barre, at dieppe, which is the address of a certain mme. verdier. it was for this woman, whom he got to know two years ago, and to supply her constant need of money that daval turned thief." so everything was cleared up. the tragedy rose out of the darkness and gradually appeared in its true light. "let us go on," said m. filluel after the count had withdrawn. "upon my word," said beautrelet, gaily, "i have said almost all that i had to say." "but the runaway, the wounded man?" "as to that, monsieur le juge d'instruction, you know as much as i do. you have followed his tracks in the grass by the cloisters--you have--" "yes, yes, i know. but, since then, his friends have removed him and what i want is a clue or two as regards that inn--" isidore beautrelet burst out laughing: "the inn! the inn does not exist! it's an invention, a trick to put the police on the wrong scent, an ingenious trick, too, for it seems to have succeeded." "but dr. delattre declares--" "ah, that's just it!" cried beautrelet, in a tone of conviction. "it is just because dr. delattre declares that we mustn't believe him. why, dr. delattre refused to give any but the vaguest details concerning his adventure! he refused to say anything that might compromise his patient's safety!--and suddenly he calls attention to an inn!--you may be sure that he talked about that inn because he was told to. you may be sure that the whole story which he dished up to us was dictated to him under the threat of terrible reprisals. the doctor has a wife. the doctor has a daughter. he is too fond of them to disobey people of whose formidable power he has seen proofs. and that is why he has assisted your efforts by supplying the most precise clues." "so precise that the inn is nowhere to be found." "so precise that you have never ceased looking for it, in the face of all probability, and that your eyes have been turned away from the only spot where the man can be, the mysterious spot which he has not left, which he has been unable to leave ever since the moment when, wounded by mlle. de saint-veran, he succeeded in dragging himself to it, like a beast to its lair." "but where, confound it all?--in what corner of hades--?" "in the ruins of the old abbey." "but there are no ruins left!--a few bits of wall!--a few broken columns!" "that's where he's gone to earth. monsieur le juge d'instruction!" shouted beautrelet. "that's where you will have to look for him! it's there and nowhere else that you will find arsene lupin!" "arsene lupin!" yelled m. filleul, springing to his feet. there was a rather solemn pause, amid which the syllables of the famous name seemed to prolong their sound. was it possible that the vanquished and yet invisible adversary, whom they had been hunting in vain for several days, could really be arsene lupin? arsene lupin, caught in a trap, arrested, meant immediate promotion, fortune, glory to any examining magistrate! ganimard had not moved a limb. isidore said to him: "you agree with me, do you not, m. inspector?" "of course i do!" "you have not doubted either, for a moment have you, that he managed this business?" "not for a second! the thing bears his signature. a move of arsene lupin's is as different from a move made by another man as one face is from another. you have only to open your eyes." "do you think so? do you think so?" said m. filleul. "think so!" cried the young man. "look, here's one little fact: what are the initials under which those men correspond among themselves? 'a. l. n.,' that is to say, the first letter of the name arsene and the first and last letters of the name lupin." "ah," said ganimard, "nothing escapes you! upon my word, you're a fine fellow and old ganimard lays down his arms before you!" beautrelet flushed with pleasure and pressed the hand which the chief-inspector held out to him. the three men had drawn near the balcony and their eyes now took in the extent of the ruins. m. filleul muttered: "so he ought to be there." "he is there," said beautrelet, in a hollow voice. "he has been there ever since the moment when he fell. logically and practically, he could not escape without being seen by mlle. de saint-veran and the two servants." "what proof have you?" "his accomplices have furnished the proof. on the very morning, one of them disguised himself as a flyman and drove you here--" "to recover the cap, which would serve to identify him." "very well, but also and more particularly to examine the spot, find out and see for himself what had become of the 'governor.'" "and did he find out?" "i presume so, as he knew the hiding-place. and i presume that he became aware of the desperate condition of his chief, because, under the impulse of his alarm, he committed the imprudence to write that threat: 'woe betide the young lady, if she has killed the governor!'" "but his friends were able to take him away afterward?" "when? your men have never left the ruins. and where could they have moved him to? at most, a few hundred yards away, for one doesn't let a dying man travel--and then you would have found him. no, i tell you, he is there. his friends would never have removed him from the safest of hiding-places. it was there that they brought the doctor, while the gendarmes were running to the fire like children." "but how is he living? how will he keep alive? to keep alive you need food and drink." "i can't say. i don't know. but he is there, i will swear it. he is there, because he can't help being there. i am as sure of it as if i saw as if i touched him. he is there." with his finger outstretched toward the ruins, he traced in the air a little circle which became smaller and smaller until it was only a point. and that point his two companions sought desperately, both leaning into space, both moved by the same faith in beautrelet and quivering with the ardent conviction which he had forced upon them. yes, arsene lupin was there. in theory and in fact, he was there: neither of them was now able to doubt it. and there was something impressive and tragic in knowing that the famous adventurer was lying in some dark shelter, below the ground, helpless, feverish and exhausted. "and if he dies?" asked m. filleul, in a low voice. "if he dies," said beautrelet, "and if his accomplices are sure of it, then see to the safety of mlle. de saint-veran. monsieur le juge d'instruction, for the vengeance will be terrible." * * * * * a few minutes later and in spite of the entreaties of m. filleul, who would gladly have made further use of this fascinating auxiliary, isidore beautrelet, whose holidays ended that day, went off by the dieppe road. he stepped from the train in paris at five o'clock and, at eight o'clock, returned to the lycee janson together with his schoolfellows. ganimard, after a minute, but utterly useless exploration of the ruins of ambrumesy, returned to paris by the fast night-train. on reaching his apartment in the rue pergolese, he found an express letter awaiting him: * * * * * monsieur l'inspecteur principal: finding that i had a little time to spare at the end of the day, i have succeeded in collecting a few additional particulars which are sure to interest you. arsene lupin has been living in paris for twelve months under the name of etienne de vaudreix. it is a name which you will often come across in the society notes or the sporting columns of the newspapers. he is a great traveler and is absent for long periods, during which, by his own account, he goes hunting tigers in bengal or blue foxes in siberia. he is supposed to be in business of some kind, although nobody is able to say for certain what his business is. his present address is , rue marbeuf; and i will call your attention to the fact that the rue marbeuf is close to post-office number . since thursday the twenty-third of april, the day before the burglary at ambrumesy, there has been no news at all of etienne de vaudreix. with very many thanks for the kindness which you have shown me, believe me to be, monsieur l'inspecteur principal, yours sincerely, isidore beautrelet. p.s.--please on no account think that it cost me any great trouble to obtain this information. on the very morning of the crime, while m. filleul was pursuing his examination before a few privileged persons, i had the fortunate inspiration to glance at the runaway's cap, before the sham flyman came to change it. the hatter's name was enough, as you may imagine, to enable me to find the clue that led to the identification of the purchaser and his address. * * * * * the next morning, ganimard called at , rue marbeuf. after questioning the concierge, he made him open the door of the ground-floor flat on the right, a very comfortable apartment, elegantly furnished, in which, however, he discovered nothing beyond some cinders in the fireplace. two friends had come, four days earlier, to burn all compromising papers. but, just as he was leaving, ganimard passed the postman, who was bringing a letter for m. de vaudreix. that afternoon, the public prosecutor was informed of the case and ordered the letter to be given up. it bore an american postmark and contained the following lines, in english: * * * * * dear sir: i write to confirm the answer which i gave your representative. as soon as you have m. de gesvres's four pictures in your possession, you can forward them as arranged. you may add the rest, if you are able to succeed, which i doubt. an unexpected business requires my presence in europe and i shall reach paris at the same time as this letter. you will find me at the grand hotel. yours faithfully, ephraim b. harlington. * * * * * that same day, ganimard applied for a warrant and took mr. e. b. harlington, an american citizen, to the police-station, on a charge of receiving and conspiracy. * * * * * thus, within the space of twenty-four hours, all the threads of the plot had been unraveled, thanks to the really unforeseen clues supplied by a schoolboy of seventeen. in twenty-four hours, what had seemed inexplicable became simple and clear. in twenty-four hours, the scheme devised by the accomplices to save their leader was baffled; the capture of arsene lupin, wounded and dying, was no longer in doubt, his gang was disorganized, the address of his establishment in paris and the name which he assumed were known and, for the first time, one of his cleverest and most carefully elaborated feats was seen through before he had been able to ensure its complete execution. an immense clamor of astonishment, admiration and curiosity arose among the public. already, the rouen journalist, in a very able article, had described the first examination of the sixth-form pupil, laying stress upon his personal charm, his simplicity of manner and his quiet assurance. the indiscretions of ganimard and m. filleul, indiscretions to which they yielded in spite of themselves, under an impulse that proved stronger than their professional pride, suddenly enlightened the public as to the part played by isidore beautrelet in recent events. he alone had done everything. to him alone the merit of the victory was due. the excitement was intense. isidore beautrelet awoke to find himself a hero; and the crowd, suddenly infatuated, insisted upon the fullest information regarding its new favorite. the reporters were there to supply it. they rushed to the assault of the lycee janson-de-sailly, waited for the day-boarders to come out after schoolhours and picked up all that related, however remotely, to beautrelet. it was in this way that they learned the reputation which he enjoyed among his schoolfellows, who called him the rival of holmlock shears. thanks to his powers of logical reasoning, with no further data than those which he was able to gather from the papers, he had, time after time, proclaimed the solution of very complicated cases long before they were cleared up by the police. it had become a game at the lycee janson to put difficult questions and intricate problems to beautrelet; and it was astonishing to see with what unhesitating and analytical power and by means of what ingenious deductions he made his way through the thickest darkness. ten days before the arrest of jorisse, the grocer, he showed what could be done with the famous umbrella. in the same way, he declared from the beginning, in the matter of the saint-cloud mystery, that the concierge was the only possible murderer. but most curious of all was the pamphlet which was found circulating among the boys at the school, a typewritten pamphlet signed by beautrelet and manifolded to the number of ten copies. it was entitled, arsene lupin and his method, showing in how far the latter is based upon tradition and in how far original. followed by a comparison between english humor and french irony. it contained a profound study of each of the exploits of arsene lupin, throwing the illustrious burglar's operations into extraordinary relief, showing the very mechanism of his way of setting to work, his special tactics, his letters to the press, his threats, the announcement of his thefts, in short, the whole bag of tricks which he employed to bamboozle his selected victim and throw him into such a state of mind that the victim almost offered himself to the plot contrived against him and that everything took place, as it were, with his own consent. and the work was so just, regarded as a piece of criticism, so penetrating, so lively and marked by a wit so clever and, at the same time, so cruel that the lawyers at once passed over to his side, that the sympathy of the crowd was summarily transferred from lupin to beautrelet and that, in the struggle engaged upon between the two, the schoolboy's victory was loudly proclaimed in advance. be this as it may, both m. filleul and the paris public prosecutor seemed jealously to reserve the possibility of this victory for him. on the one hand, they failed to establish mr. harlington's identity or to furnish a definite proof of his connection with lupin's gang. confederate or not, he preserved an obstinate silence. nay, more, after examining his handwriting, it was impossible to declare that he was the author of the intercepted letter. a mr. harlington, carrying a small portmanteau and a pocket-book stuffed with bank-notes, had taken up his abode at the grand hotel: that was all that could be stated with certainty. on the other hand, at dieppe, m. filleul lay down on the positions which beautrelet had won for him. he did not move a step forward. around the individual whom mlle. de saint-veran had taken for beautrelet, on the eve of the crime, the same mystery reigned as heretofore. the same obscurity also surrounded everything connected with the removal of the four rubens pictures. what had become of them? and what road had been taken by the motor car in which they were carried off during the night? evidence of its passing was obtained at luneray at yerville, at yvetot and at caudebec-en-caux, where it must have crossed the seine at daybreak in the steam-ferry. but, when the matter came to be inquired into more thoroughly, it was stated that the motor car was an uncovered one and that it would have been impossible to pack four large pictures into it unobserved by the ferryman. it was very probably the same car; but then the question cropped up again: what had become of the four rubenses? these were so many problems which m. filleul unanswered. every day, his subordinates searched the quadrilateral of the ruins. almost every day, he came to direct the explorations. but between that and discovering the refuge in which lupin lay dying--if it were true that beautrelet's opinion was correct--there was a gulf fixed which the worthy magistrate did not seem likely to cross. and so it was natural that they should turn once more to isidore beautrelet, as he alone had succeeded in dispelling shadows which, in his absence, gathered thicker and more impenetrable than ever. why did he not go on with the case? seeing how far he had carried it, he required but an effort to succeed. the question was put to him by a member of the staff of the grand journal, who had obtained admission to the lycee janson by assuming the name of bernod, the friend of beautrelet's father. and isidore very sensibly replied: "my dear sir, there are other things besides lupin in this world, other things besides stories about burglars and detectives. there is, for instance, the thing which is known as taking one's degree. now i am going up for my examination in july. this is may. and i don't want to be plucked. what would my worthy parent say?" "but what would he say if you delivered arsene lupin into the hands of the police?" "tut! there's a time for everything. in the next holidays--" "whitsuntide?" "yes--i shall go down on saturday the sixth of june by the first train." "and, on the evening of that saturday, lupin will be taken." "will you give me until the sunday?" asked beautrelet, laughing. "why delay?" replied the journalist, quite seriously. this inexplicable confidence, born of yesterday and already so strong, was felt with regard to the young man by one and all, even though, in reality, events had justified it only up to a certain point. no matter, people believed in him! nothing seemed difficult to him. they expected from him what they were entitled to expect at most from some phenomenon of penetration and intuition, of experience and skill. that day of the sixth of june was made to sprawl over all the papers. on the sixth of june, isidore beautrelet would take the fast train to dieppe: and lupin would be arrested on the same evening. "unless he escapes between this and then," objected the last remaining partisans of the adventurer. "impossible! every outlet is watched." "unless he has succumbed to his wounds, then," said the partisans, who would have preferred their hero's death to his capture. and the retort was immediate: "nonsense! if lupin were dead, his confederates would know it by now, and lupin would be revenged. beautrelet said so!" * * * * * and the sixth of june came. half a dozen journalists were looking out for isidore at the gare saint-lazare. two of them wanted to accompany him on his journey. he begged them to refrain. he started alone, therefore, in a compartment to himself. he was tired, thanks to a series of nights devoted to study, and soon fell asleep. he slept heavily. in his dreams, he had an impression that the train stopped at different stations and that people got in and out. when he awoke, within sight of rouen, he was still alone. but, on the back of the opposite seat, was a large sheet of paper, fastened with a pin to the gray cloth. it bore these words: "every man should mind his own business. do you mind yours. if not, you must take the consequences." "capital!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with delight. "things are going badly in the adversary's camp. that threat is as stupid and vulgar as the sham flyman's. what a style! one can see that it wasn't composed by lupin." the train threaded the tunnel that precedes the old norman city. on reaching the station, isidore took a few turns on the platform to stretch his legs. he was about to re-enter his compartment, when a cry escaped him. as he passed the bookstall, he had read, in an absent-minded way, the following lines on the front page of a special edition of the journal de rouen; and their alarming sense suddenly burst upon him: * * * * * stop-press news we hear by telephone from dieppe that the chateau d'ambrumesy was broken into last night by criminals, who bound and gagged mlle. de gesvres and carried off mlle. de saint-veran. traces of blood have been seen at a distance of five hundred yards from the house and a scarf has been found close by, which is also stained with blood. there is every reason to fear that the poor young girl has been murdered. * * * * * isidore beautrelet completed his journey to dieppe without moving a limb. bent in two, with his elbows on his knees and his hands plastered against his face, he sat thinking. at dieppe, he took a fly. at the door of ambrumesy, he met the examining magistrate, who confirmed the horrible news. "you know nothing more?" asked beautrelet. "nothing. i have only just arrived." at that moment, the sergeant of gendarmes came up to m. filleul and handed him a crumpled, torn and discolored piece of paper, which he had picked up not far from the place where the scarf was found. m. filleul looked at it and gave it to beautrelet, saying: "i don't suppose this will help us much in our investigations." isidore turned the paper over and over. it was covered with figures, dots and signs and presented the exact appearance reproduced below: [illustration: drawing of an outline of paper with writing and drawing on it--numbers, dots, some letters, signs and symbols, something like... . . .. .. . .. .. ... . . . . .. . . .. . ... .. . .. d df square f+ triangle triangle . .. .. . ] chapter three the corpse at six o'clock in the evening, having finished all he had to do, m. filluel, accompanied by m. bredoux, his clerk, stood waiting for the carriage which was to take him back to dieppe. he seemed restless, nervous. twice over, he asked: "you haven't seen anything of young beautrelet, i suppose?" "no, monsieur le juge d'instruction, i can't say i have." "where on earth can he be? i haven't set eyes on him all day!" suddenly, he had an idea, handed his portfolio to bredoux, ran round the chateau and made for the ruins. isidore beautrelet was lying near the cloisters, flat on his face, with one arm folded under his head, on the ground carpeted with pine-needles. he seemed drowsing. "hullo, young man, what are you doing here? are you asleep?" "i'm not asleep. i've been thinking." "ever since this morning?" "ever since this morning." "it's not a question of thinking! one must see into things first, study facts, look for clues, establish connecting links. the time for thinking comes after, when one pieces all that together and discovers the truth." "yes, i know.--that's the usual way, the right one, i dare say.--mine is different.--i think first, i try, above all, to get the general hang of the case, if i may so express myself. then i imagine a reasonable and logical hypothesis, which fits in with the general idea. and then, and not before, i examine the facts to see if they agree with my hypothesis." "that's a funny method and a terribly complicated one!" "it's a sure method, m. filleul, which is more than can be said of yours." "come, come! facts are facts." "with your ordinary sort of adversary, yes. but, given an enemy endowed with a certain amount of cunning, the facts are those which he happens to have selected. take the famous clues upon which you base your inquiry: why, he was at liberty to arrange them as he liked. and you see where that can lead you, into what mistakes and absurdities, when you are dealing with a man like arsene lupin. holmlock shears himself fell into the trap." "arsene lupin is dead." "no matter. his gang remains and the pupils of such a master are masters themselves." m. filleul took isidore by the arm and, leading him away: "words, young man, words. here is something of more importance. listen to me. ganimard is otherwise engaged at this moment and will not be here for a few days. on the other hand, the comte de gesvres has telegraphed to holmlock shears, who has promised his assistance next week. now don't you think, young man, that it would be a feather in our cap if we were able to say to those two celebrities, on the day of their arrival, 'awfully sorry, gentlemen, but we couldn't wait. the business is done'?" it was impossible for m. filleul to confess helplessness with greater candor. beautrelet suppressed a smile and, pretending not to see through the worthy magistrate, replied: "i confess. monsieur le juge d'instruction, that, if i was not present at your inquiry just now, it was because i hoped that you would consent to tell me the results. may i ask what you have learned?" "well, last night, at eleven o'clock, the three gendarmes whom sergeant quevillon had left on guard at the chateau received a note from the sergeant telling them to hasten with all speed to ouville, where they are stationed. they at once rode off, and when they arrived at ouville--" "they discovered that they had been tricked, that the order was a forgery and that there was nothing for them to do but return to ambrumesy." "this they did, accompanied by sergeant quevillon. but they were away for an hour and a half and, during this time, the crime was committed." "in what circumstances?" "very simple circumstances, indeed. a ladder was removed from the farm buildings and placed against the second story of the chateau. a pane of glass was cut out and a window opened. two men, carrying a dark lantern, entered mlle. de gesvres's room and gagged her before she could cry out. then, after binding her with cords, they softly opened the door of the room in which mlle. de saint-veran was sleeping. mlle. de gesvres heard a stifled moan, followed by the sound of a person struggling. a moment later, she saw two men carrying her cousin, who was also bound and gagged. they passed in front of her and went out through the window. then mlle. de gesvres, terrified and exhausted, fainted." "but what about the dogs? i thought m. de gesvres had bought two almost wild sheep-dogs, which were let loose at night?" "they were found dead, poisoned." "by whom? nobody could get near them." "it's a mystery. the fact remains that the two men crossed the ruins without let or hindrance and went out by the little door which we have heard so much about. they passed through the copsewood, following the line of the disused quarries. it was not until they were nearly half a mile from the chateau, at the foot of the tree known as the great oak, that they stopped--and executed their purpose." "if they came with the intention of killing mlle. de saint-veran, why didn't they murder her in her room?" "i don't know. perhaps the incident that settled their determination only occurred after they had left the house. perhaps the girl succeeded in releasing herself from her bonds. in my opinion, the scarf which was picked up was used to fasten her wrists. in any case, the blow was struck at the foot of the great oak. i have collected indisputable proofs--" "but the body?" "the body has not been found, but there is nothing excessively surprising in that. as a matter of fact, the trail which i followed brought me to the church at varengeville and the old cemetery perched on the top of the cliff. from there it is a sheer precipice, a fall of over three hundred feet to the rocks and the sea below. in a day or two, a stronger tide than usual will cast up the body on the beach." "obviously. this is all very simple." "yes, it is all very simple and doesn't trouble me in the least. lupin is dead, his accomplices heard of it and, to revenge themselves, have killed mlle. de saint-veran. these are facts which did not even require checking. but lupin?" "what about him?" "what has become of him? in all probability, his confederates removed his corpse at the same time that they carried away the girl; but what proof have we? none at all. any more than of his staying in the ruins, or of his death, or of his life. and that is the real mystery, m. beautrelet. the murder of mlle. raymonde solves nothing. on the contrary, it only complicates matters. what has been happening during the past two months at the chateau d'ambrumesy? if we don't clear up the riddle, young man, others will give us the go-by." "on what day are those others coming?" "wednesday--tuesday perhaps--" beautrelet seemed to be making an inward calculation and then declared: "monsieur le juge d'instruction, this is saturday. i have to be back at school on monday evening. well, if you will have the goodness to be here at ten o'clock exactly on monday morning, i will try to give you the key to the riddle." "really, m. beautrelet--do you think so? are you sure?" "i hope so, at any rate." "and where are you going now?" "i am going to see if the facts consent to fit in with the general theory which i am beginning to perceive." "and if they don't fit in?" "well, monsieur le juge d'instruction," said beautrelet, with a laugh, "then it will be their fault and i must look for others which, will prove more tractable. till monday, then?" "till monday." a few minutes later, m. filleul was driving toward dieppe, while isidore mounted a bicycle which he had borrowed from the comte de gesvres and rode off along the road to yerville and caudebec-en-caux. there was one point in particular on which the young man was anxious to form a clear opinion, because this just appeared to him to be the enemy's weakest point. objects of the size of the four rubens pictures cannot be juggled away. they were bound to be somewhere. granting that it was impossible to find them for the moment, might one not discover the road by which they had disappeared? what beautrelet surmised was that the four pictures had undoubtedly been carried off in the motor car, but that, before reaching caudebec, they were transferred to another car, which had crossed the seine either above caudebec or below it. now the first horse-boat down the stream was at quillebeuf, a greatly frequented ferry and, consequently, dangerous. up stream, there was the ferry-boat at la mailleraie, a large, but lonely market-town, lying well off the main road. by midnight, isidore had covered the thirty-five or forty miles to la mailleraie and was knocking at the door of an inn by the waterside. he slept there and, in the morning, questioned the ferrymen. they consulted the counterfoils in the traffic-book. no motor-car had crossed on thursday the rd of april. "a horse-drawn vehicle, then?" suggested beautrelet. "a cart? a van?" "no, not either." isidore continued his inquiries all through the morning. he was on the point of leaving for quillebeuf, when the waiter of the inn at which he had spent the night said: "i came back from my thirteen days' training on the morning of which you are speaking and i saw a cart, but it did not go across." "really?" "no, they unloaded it onto a flat boat, a barge of sorts, which was moored to the wharf." "and where did the cart come from?" "oh, i knew it at once. it belonged to master vatinel, the carter." "and where does he live?" "at louvetot." beautrelet consulted his military map. the hamlet of louvetot lay where the highroad between yvetot and caudebec was crossed by a little winding road that ran through the woods to la mailleraie. not until six o'clock in the evening did isidore succeed in discovering master vatinel, in a pothouse. master vatinel was one of those artful old normans who are always on their guard, who distrust strangers, but who are unable to resist the lure of a gold coin or the influence of a glass or two: "well, yes, sir, the men in the motor car that morning had told me to meet them at five o'clock at the crossroads. they gave me four great, big things, as high as that. one of them went with me and we carted the things to the barge." "you speak of them as if you knew them before." "i should think i did know them! it was the sixth time they were employing me." isidore gave a start: "the sixth time, you say? and since when?" "why every day before that one, to be sure! but it was other things then--great blocks of stone--or else smaller, longish ones, wrapped up in newspapers, which they carried as if they were worth i don't know what. oh, i mustn't touch those on any account!--but what's the matter? you've turned quite white." "nothing--the heat of the room--" beautrelet staggered out into the air. the joy, the surprise of the discovery made him feel giddy. he went back very quietly to varengeville, slept in the village, spent an hour at the mayor's offices with the school-master and returned to the chateau. there he found a letter awaiting him "care of m. le comte de gesvres." it consisted of a single line: "second warning. hold your tongue. if not--" "come," he muttered. "i shall have to make up my mind and take a few precautions for my personal safety. if not, as they say--" it was nine o'clock. he strolled about among the ruins and then lay down near the cloisters and closed his eyes. "well, young man, are you satisfied with the results of your campaign?" it was m. filleul. "delighted, monsieur le juge d'instruction." "by which you mean to say--?" "by which i mean to say that i am prepared to keep my promise--in spite of this very uninviting letter." he showed the letter to m. filleul. "pooh! stuff and nonsense!" cried the magistrate. "i hope you won't let that prevent you--" "from telling you what i know? no, monsieur le juge d'instruction. i have given my word and i shall keep it. in less than ten minutes, you shall know--a part of the truth." "a part?" "yes, in my opinion, lupin's hiding-place does not constitute the whole of the problem. far from it. but we shall see later on." "m. beautrelet, nothing that you do could astonish me now. but how were you able to discover--?" "oh, in a very natural way! in the letter from old man harlington to m. etienne de vaudreix, or rather to lupin--" "the intercepted letter?" "yes. there is a phrase which always puzzled me. after saying that the pictures are to be forwarded as arranged, he goes on to say, 'you may add the rest, if you are able to succeed, which i doubt.'" "yes, i remember." "what was this 'rest'? a work of art, a curiosity? the chateau contains nothing of any value besides the rubenses and the tapestries. jewelry? there is very little and what there is of it is not worth much. in that case, what could it be?--on the other hand, was it conceivable that people so prodigiously clever as lupin should not have succeeded in adding 'the rest,' which they themselves had evidently suggested? a difficult undertaking, very likely; exceptional, surprising, i dare say; but possible and therefore certain, since lupin wished it." "and yet he failed: nothing has disappeared." "he did not fail: something has disappeared." "yes, the rubenses--but--" "the rubenses and something besides--something which has been replaced by a similar thing, as in the case of the rubenses; something much more uncommon, much rarer, much more valuable than the rubenses." "well, what? you're killing me with this procrastination!" while talking, the two men had crossed the ruins, turned toward the little door and were now walking beside the chapel. beautrelet stopped: "do you really want to know, monsieur le juge d'instruction?" "of course, i do." beautrelet was carrying a walking-stick, a strong, knotted stick. suddenly, with a back stroke of this stick, he smashed one of the little statues that adorned the front of the chapel. "why, you're mad!" shouted m. filleul, beside himself, rushing at the broken pieces of the statue. "you're mad! that old saint was an admirable bit of work--" "an admirable bit of work!" echoed isidore, giving a whirl which brought down the virgin mary. m. filleul took hold of him round the body: "young man, i won't allow you to commit--" a wise man of the east came toppling to the ground, followed by a manger containing the mother and child. . . . "if you stir another limb, i fire!" the comte de gesvres had appeared upon the scene and was cocking his revolver. beautrelet burst out laughing: "that's right, monsieur le comte, blaze away!--take a shot at them, as if you were at a fair!--wait a bit--this chap carrying his head in his hands--" st. john the baptist fell, shattered to pieces. "oh!" shouted the count, pointing his revolver. "you young vandal!--those masterpieces!" "sham, monsieur le comte!" "what? what's that?" roared m. filleul, wresting the comte de gesvres's weapon from him. "sham!" repeated beautrelet. "paper-pulp and plaster!" "oh, nonsense! it can't be true!" "hollow plaster, i tell you! nothing at all!" the count stooped and picked up a sliver of a statuette. "look at it, monsieur le comte, and see for yourself: it's plaster! rusty, musty, mildewed plaster, made to look like old stone--but plaster for all that, plaster casts!--that's all that remains of your perfect masterpiece!--that's what they've done in just a few days!-that's what the sieur charpenais who copied the rubenses, prepared a year ago." he seized m. filleul's arm in his turn. "what do you think of it, monsieur le juge d'instruction? isn't it fine? isn't it grand? isn't it gorgeous? the chapel has been removed! a whole gothic chapel collected stone by stone! a whole population of statues captured and replaced by these chaps in stucco! one of the most magnificent specimens of an incomparable artistic period confiscated! the chapel, in short, stolen! isn't it immense? ah, monsieur le juge d'instruction, what a genius the man is!" "you're allowing yourself to be carried away, m. beautrelet." "one can't be carried away too much, monsieur, when one has to do with people like that. everything above the average deserves our admiration. and this man soars above everything. there is in his flight a wealth of imagination, a force and power, a skill and freedom that send a thrill through me!" "pity he's dead," said m. filleul, with a grin. "he'd have ended by stealing the towers of notre-dame." isidore shrugged his shoulders: "don't laugh, monsieur. he upsets you, dead though he may be." "i don't say not, i don't say not, m. beautrelet, i confess that i feel a certain excitement now that i am about to set eyes on him--unless, indeed, his friends have taken away the body." "and always admitting," observed the comte de gesvres, "that it was really he who was wounded by my poor niece." "it was he, beyond a doubt, monsieur le comte," declared beautrelet; "it was he, believe me, who fell in the ruins under the shot fired by mlle. de saint-veran; it was he whom she saw rise and who fell again and dragged himself toward the cloisters to rise again for the last time--this by a miracle which i will explain to you presently--to rise again for the last time and reach this stone shelter--which was to be his tomb." and beautrelet struck the threshold of the chapel with his stick. "eh? what?" cried m. filleul, taken aback. "his tomb?--do you think that that impenetrable hiding-place--" "it was here--there," he repeated. "but we searched it." "badly." "there is no hiding-place here," protested m. de gesvres. "i know the chapel." "yes, there is, monsieur le comte. go to the mayor's office at varengeville, where they have collected all the papers that used to be in the old parish of ambrumesy, and you will learn from those papers, which belong to the eighteenth century, that there is a crypt below the chapel. this crypt doubtless dates back to the roman chapel, upon the site of which the present one was built." "but how can lupin have known this detail?" asked m. filleul. "in a very simple manner: because of the works which he had to execute to take away the chapel." "come, come, m. beautrelet, you're exaggerating. he has not taken away the whole chapel. look, not one of the stones of this top course has been touched." "obviously, he cast and took away only what had a financial value: the wrought stones, the sculptures, the statuettes, the whole treasure of little columns and carved arches. he did not trouble about the groundwork of the building itself. the foundations remain." "therefore, m. beautrelet, lupin was not able to make his way into the crypt." at that moment, m. de gesvres, who had been to call a servant, returned with the key of the chapel. he opened the door. the three men entered. after a short examination beautrelet said: "the flag-stones on the ground have been respected, as one might expect. but it is easy to perceive that the high altar is nothing more than a cast. now, generally, the staircase leading to the crypt opens in front of the high altar and passes under it." "what do you conclude?" "i conclude that lupin discovered the crypt when working at the altar." the count sent for a pickaxe and beautrelet attacked the altar. the plaster flew to right and left. he pushed the pieces aside as he went on. "by jove!" muttered m. filleul, "i am eager to know--" "so am i," said beautrelet, whose face was pale with anguish. he hurried his blows. and, suddenly, his pickaxe, which, until then, had encountered no resistance, struck against a harder material and rebounded. there was a sound of something falling in; and all that remained of the altar went tumbling into the gap after the block of stone which had been struck by the pickaxe. beautrelet bent forward. a puff of cold air rose to his face. he lit a match and moved it from side to side over the gap: "the staircase begins farther forward than i expected, under the entrance-flags, almost. i can see the last steps, there, right at the bottom." "is it deep?" "three or four yards. the steps are very high--and there are some missing." "it is hardly likely," said m. filleul, "that the accomplices can have had time to remove the body from the cellar, when they were engaged in carrying off mlle. de saint-veran--during the short absence of the gendarmes. besides, why should they?--no, in my opinion, the body is here." a servant brought them a ladder. beautrelet let it down through the opening and fixed it, after groping among the fallen fragments. holding the two uprights firmly: "will you go down, m. filleul?" he asked. the magistrate, holding a candle in his hand, ventured down the ladder. the comte de gesvres followed him and beautrelet, in his turn, placed his foot on the first rung. mechanically, he counted eighteen rungs, while his eyes examined the crypt, where the glimmer of the candle struggled against the heavy darkness. but, at the bottom, his nostrils were assailed by one of those foul and violent smells which linger in the memory for many a long day. and, suddenly, a trembling hand seized him by the shoulder. "well, what is it?" "b-beautrelet," stammered m. filleul. "b-beau-trelet--" he could not get a word out for terror. "come, monsieur le juge d'instruction, compose yourself!" "beautrelet--he is there--" "eh?" "yes--there was something under the big stone that broke off the altar--i pushed the stone--and i touched--i shall never--shall never forget.--" "where is it?" "on this side.--don't you notice the smell?--and then look--see." he took the candle and held it towards a motionless form stretched upon the ground. "oh!" exclaimed beautrelet, in a horror-stricken tone. the three men bent down quickly. the corpse lay half-naked, lean, frightful. the flesh, which had the greenish hue of soft wax, appeared in places through the torn clothes. but the most hideous thing, the thing that had drawn a cry of terror from the young man's lips, was the head, the head which had just been crushed by the block of stone, the shapeless head, a repulsive mass in which not one feature could be distinguished. beautrelet took four strides up the ladder and fled into the daylight and the open air. m. filleul found him again lying flat on the around, with his hands glued to his face: "i congratulate you, beautrelet," he said. "in addition to the discovery of the hiding-place, there are two points on which i have been able to verify the correctness of your assertions. first of all, the man on whom mlle. de saint-veran fired was indeed arsene lupin, as you said from the start. also, he lived in paris under the name of etienne de vaudreix. his linen is marked with the initials e. v. that ought to be sufficient proof, i think: don't you?" isidore did not stir. "monsieur le comte has gone to have a horse put to. they're sending for dr. jouet, who will make the usual examination. in my opinion, death must have taken place a week ago, at least. the state of decomposition of the corpse--but you don't seem to be listening--" "yes, yes." "what i say is based upon absolute reasons. thus, for instance--" m. filleul continued his demonstrations, without, however, obtaining any more manifest marks of attention. but m. de gesvres's return interrupted his monologue. the comte brought two letters. one was to tell him that holmlock shears would arrive next morning. "capital!" cried m. filleul, joyfully. "inspector ganimard will be here too. it will be delightful." "the other letter is for you, monsieur le juge d'instruction," said the comte. "better and better," said m. filleul, after reading it. "there will certainly not be much for those two gentlemen to do. m. beautrelet, i hear from dieppe that the body of a young woman was found by some shrimpers, this morning, on the rocks." beautrelet gave a start: "what's that? the body--" "of a young woman.--the body is horribly mutilated, they say, and it would be impossible to establish the identity, but for a very narrow little gold curb-bracelet on the right arm which has become encrusted in the swollen skin. now mlle. de saint-veran used to wear a gold curb-bracelet on her right arm. evidently, therefore, monsieur le comte, this is the body of your poor niece, which the sea must have washed to that distance. what do you think, beautrelet?" "nothing--nothing--or, rather, yes--everything is connected, as you see--and there is no link missing in my argument. all the facts, one after the other, however contradictory, however disconcerting they may appear, end by supporting the supposition which i imagined from the first." "i don't understand." "you soon will. remember, i promised you the whole truth." "but it seems to me--" "a little patience, monsieur le juge d'instruction. so far, you have had no cause to complain of me. it is a fine day. go for a walk, lunch at the chateau, smoke your pipe. i shall be back by four o'clock. as for my school, well, i don't care: i shall take the night train." they had reached the out-houses at the back of the chateau. beautrelet jumped on his bicycle and rode away. at dieppe, he stopped at the office of the local paper, the vigie, and examined the file for the last fortnight. then he went on to the market-town of envermeu, six or seven miles farther. at envermeu, he talked to the mayor, the rector and the local policeman. the church-clock struck three. his inquiry was finished. he returned singing for joy. he pressed upon the two pedals turn by turn, with an equal and powerful rhythm; his chest opened wide to take in the keen air that blew from the sea. and, from time to time, he forgot himself to the extent of uttering shouts of triumph to the sky, when he thought of the aim which he was pursuing and of the success that was crowning his efforts. ambrumesy appeared in sight. he coasted at full speed down the slope leading to the chateau. the top rows of venerable trees that line the road seemed to run to meet him and to vanish behind him forthwith. and, all at once, he uttered a cry. in a sudden vision, he had seen a rope stretched from one tree to another, across the road. his machine gave a jolt and stopped short. beautrelet was flung three yards forward, with immense violence, and it seemed to him that only chance, a miraculous chance, caused him to escape a heap of pebbles on which, logically, he ought to have broken his head. he lay for a few seconds stunned. then, all covered with bruises, with the skin flayed from his knees, he examined the spot. on the right lay a small wood, by which his aggressor had no doubt fled. beautrelet untied the rope. to the tree on the left around which it was fastened a small piece of paper was fixed with string. beautrelet unfolded it and read: "the third and last warning." he went on to the chateau, put a few questions to the servants and joined the examining magistrate in a room on the ground floor, at the end of the right wing, where m. filleul used to sit in the course of his operations. m. filleul was writing, with his clerk seated opposite to him. at a sign from him, the clerk left the room; and the magistrate exclaimed: "why, what have you been doing to yourself, m. beautrelet? your hands are covered with blood." "it's nothing, it's nothing," said the young man. "just a fall occasioned by this rope, which was stretched in front of my bicycle. i will only ask you to observe that the rope comes from the chateau. not longer than twenty minutes ago, it was being used to dry linen on, outside the laundry." "you don't mean to say so!" "monsieur le juge d'instruction, i am being watched here, by some one in the very heart of the place, who can see me, who can hear me and who, minute by minute, observes my actions and knows my intentions." "do you think so?" "i am sure of it. it is for you to discover him and you will have no difficulty in that. as for myself, i want to have finished and to give you the promised explanations. i have made faster progress than our adversaries expected and i am convinced that they mean to take vigorous measures on their side. the circle is closing around me. the danger is approaching. i feel it." "nonsense, beautrelet--" "you wait and see! for the moment, let us lose no time. and, first, a question on a point which i want to have done with at once. have you spoken to anybody of that document which sergeant quevillon picked up and handed you in my presence?" "no, indeed; not to a soul. but do you attach any value--?" "the greatest value. it's an idea of mine, an idea, i confess, which does not rest upon a proof of any kind--for, up to the present, i have not succeeded in deciphering the document. and therefore i am mentioning it--so that we need not come back to it." beautrelet pressed his hand on m. filleul's and whispered: "don't speak--there's some one listening--outside--" the gravel creaked. beautrelet ran to the window and leaned out: "there's no one there--but the border has been trodden down--we can easily identify the footprints--" he closed the window and sat down again: "you see, monsieur le juge d'instruction, the enemy has even ceased to take the most ordinary precautions--he has not time left--he too feels that the hour is urgent. let us be quick, therefore, and speak, since they do not wish us to speak." he laid the document on the table and held it in position, unfolded: "one observation, monsieur le juge d'instruction, to begin with. the paper consists almost entirely of dots and figures. and in the first three lines and the fifth--the only ones with which we have to do at present, for the fourth seems to present an entirely different character--not one of those figures is higher than the figure . there is, therefore, a great chance that each of these figures represents one of the five vowels, taken in alphabetical order. let us put down the result." he wrote on a separate piece of paper: e . a . a . . e . . e . a . . a . . a . . . e . e . . e oi . e . . e . . ou . . e . o . . . e . . e . o . . e ai . ui . . e . . eu . e then he continued: "as you see, this does not give us much to go upon. the key is, at the same time, very easy, because the inventor has contented himself with replacing the vowels by figures and the consonants by dots, and very difficult, if not impossible, because he has taken no further trouble to complicate the problem." "it is certainly pretty obscure." "let us try to throw some light upon it. the second line is divided into two parts; and the second part appears in such a way that it probably forms one word. if we now seek to replace the intermediary dots by consonants, we arrive at the conclusion, after searching and casting about, that the only consonants which are logically able to support the vowels are also logically able to produce only one word, the word demoiselles." "that would refer to mlle. de gesvres and mlle. de saint-veran." "undoubtedly." "and do you see nothing more?" "yes. i also note an hiatus in the middle of the last line; and, if i apply a similar operation to the beginning of the line, i at once see that the only consonant able to take the place of the dot between the diphthongs fai and ui is the letter g and that, when i have thus formed the first five letters of the word, aigui, it is natural and inevitable that, with the two next dots and the final e, i should arrive at the word aiguille." "yes, the word aiguille forces itself upon us." "finally, for the last word, i have three vowels and three consonants. i cast about again, i try all the letters, one after the other, and, starting with the principle that the two first letters are necessary consonants, i find that three words apply: f*euve, preuve and creuse. i eliminate the words f*euve and preuve, as possessing no possible relation to a needle, and i keep the word creuse." "making 'hollow needle'! by jove! i admit that your solution is correct, because it needs must be; but how does it help us?" "not at all," said beautrelet, in a thoughtful tone. "not at all, for the moment.--later on, we shall see.--i have an idea that a number of things are included in the puzzling conjunction of those two words, aiguille creuse. what is troubling me at present is rather the material on which the document is written, the paper employed.--do they still manufacture this sort of rather coarse-grained parchment? and then this ivory color.--and those folds--the wear of those folds--and, lastly, look, those marks of red sealing-wax, on the back--" at that moment beautrelet, was interrupted by bredoux, the magistrate's clerk, who opened the door and announced the unexpected arrival of the chief public prosecutor. m. filleul rose: "anything new? is monsieur le procureur general downstairs?" "no, monsieur le juge d'instruction. monsieur le procureur general has not left his carriage. he is only passing through ambrumesy and begs you to be good enough to go down to him at the gate. he only has a word to say to you." "that's curious," muttered m. filleul. "however--we shall see. excuse me, beautrelet, i shan't be long." he went away. his footsteps sounded outside. then the clerk closed the door, turned the key and put it in his pocket. "hullo!" exclaimed beautrelet, greatly surprised. "what are you locking us in for?" "we shall be able to talk so much better," retorted bredoux. beautrelet rushed toward another door, which led to the next room. he had understood: the accomplice was bredoux, the clerk of the examining magistrate himself. bredoux grinned: "don't hurt your fingers, my young friend. i have the key of that door, too." "there's the window!" cried beautrelet. "too late," said bredoux, planting himself in front of the casement, revolver in hand. every chance of retreat was cut off. there was nothing more for isidore to do, nothing except to defend himself against the enemy who was revealing himself with such brutal daring. he crossed his arms. "good," mumbled the clerk. "and now let us waste no time." he took out his watch. "our worthy m. filleul will walk down to the gate. at the gate, he will find nobody, of course: no more public prosecutor than my eye. then he will come back. that gives us about four minutes. it will take me one minute to escape by this window, clear through the little door by the ruins and jump on the motor cycle waiting for me. that leaves three minutes, which is just enough." bredoux was a queer sort of misshapen creature, who balanced on a pair of very long spindle-legs a huge trunk, as round as the body of a spider and furnished with immense arms. a bony face and a low, small stubborn forehead pointed to the man's narrow obstinacy. beautrelet felt a weakness in the legs and staggered. he had to sit down: "speak," he said. "what do you want?" "the paper. i've been looking for it for three days." "i haven't got it." "you're lying. i saw you put it back in your pocket-book when i came in." "next?" "next, you must undertake to keep quite quiet. you're annoying us. leave us alone and mind your own business. our patience is at an end." he had come nearer, with the revolver still aimed at the young man's head, and spoke in a hollow voice, with a powerful stress on each syllable that he uttered. his eyes were hard, his smile cruel. beautrelet gave a shudder. it was the first time that he was experiencing the sense of danger. and such danger! he felt himself in the presence of an implacable enemy, endowed with blind and irresistible strength. "and next?" he asked, with less assurance in his voice. "next? nothing.--you will be free.--we will forget--" there was a pause. then bredoux resumed: "there is only a minute left. you must make up your mind. come, old chap, don't be a fool.--we are the stronger, you know, always and everywhere.--quick, the paper--" isidore did not flinch. with a livid and terrified face, he remained master of himself, nevertheless, and his brain remained clear amid the breakdown of his nerves. the little black hole of the revolver was pointing at six inches from his eyes. the finger was bent and obviously pressing on the trigger. it only wanted a moment-- "the paper," repeated bredoux. "if not--" "here it is," said beautrelet. he took out his pocket-book and handed it to the clerk, who seized it eagerly. "capital! we've come to our senses. i've no doubt there's something to be done with you.--you're troublesome, but full of common sense. i'll talk about it to my pals. and now i'm off. good-bye!" he pocketed his revolver and turned back the fastening of the window. there was a noise in the passage. "good-bye," he said again. "i'm only just in time." but the idea stopped him. with a quick movement, he examined the pocket-book: "damn and blast it!" he grated through his teeth. "the paper's not there.--you've done me--" he leaped into the room. two shots rang out. isidore, in his turn, had seized his pistol and fired. "missed, old chap!" shouted bredoux. "your hand's shaking.--you're afraid--" they caught each other round the body and came down to the floor together. there was a violent and incessant knocking at the door. isidore's strength gave way and he was at once over come by his adversary. it was the end. a hand was lifted over him, armed with a knife, and fell. a fierce pain burst into his shoulder. he let go. he had an impression of some one fumbling in the inside pocket of his jacket and taking the paper from it. then, through the lowered veil of his eyelids, he half saw the man stepping over the window-sill. * * * * * the same newspapers which, on the following morning, related the last episodes that had occurred at the chateau d'ambrumesy--the trickery at the chapel, the discovery of arsene lupin's body and of raymonde's body and, lastly, the murderous attempt made upon beautrelet by the clerk to the examining magistrate--also announced two further pieces of news: the disappearance of ganimard, and the kidnapping of holmlock shears, in broad daylight, in the heart of london, at the moment when he was about to take the train for dover. lupin's gang, therefore, which had been disorganized for a moment by the extraordinary ingenuity of a seventeen-year-old schoolboy, was now resuming the offensive and was winning all along the line from the first. lupin's two great adversaries, shears and ganimard, were put away. isidore beautrelet was disabled. the police were powerless. for the moment there was no one left capable of struggling against such enemies. chapter four face to face one evening, five weeks later, i had given my man leave to go out. it was the day before the th of july. the night was hot, a storm threatened and i felt no inclination to leave the flat. i opened wide the glass doors leading to my balcony, lit my reading lamp and sat down in an easy-chair to look through the papers, which i had not yet seen. it goes without saying that there was something about arsene lupin in all of them. since the attempt at murder of which poor isidore beautrelet had been the victim, not a day had passed without some mention of the ambrumesy mystery. it had a permanent headline devoted to it. never had public opinion been excited to that extent, thanks to the extraordinary series of hurried events, of unexpected and disconcerting surprises. m. filleul, who was certainly accepting the secondary part allotted to him with a good faith worthy of all praise, had let the interviewers into the secret of his young advisor's exploits during the memorable three days, so that the public was able to indulge in the rashest suppositions. and the public gave itself free scope. specialists and experts in crime, novelists and playwrights, retired magistrates and chief-detectives, erstwhile lecocqs and budding holmlock shearses, each had his theory and expounded it in lengthy contributions to the press. everybody corrected and supplemented the inquiry of the examining magistrate; and all on the word of a child, on the word of isidore beautrelet, a sixth-form schoolboy at the lycee janson-de-sailly! for really, it had to be admitted, the complete elements of the truth were now in everybody's possession. what did the mystery consist of? they knew the hiding-place where arsene lupin had taken refuge and lain a-dying; there was no doubt about it: dr. delattre, who continued to plead professional secrecy and refused to give evidence, nevertheless confessed to his intimate friends--who lost no time in blabbing--that he really had been taken to a crypt to attend a wounded man whom his confederates introduced to him by the name of arsene lupin. and, as the corpse of etienne de vaudreix was found in that same crypt and as the said etienne de vaudreix was none other than arsene lupin--as the official examination went to show--all this provided an additional proof, if one were needed, of the identity of arsene lupin and the wounded man. therefore, with lupin dead and mlle. de saint-veran's body recognized by the curb-bracelet on her wrist, the tragedy was finished. it was not. nobody thought that it was, because beautrelet had said the contrary. nobody knew in what respect it was not finished, but, on the word of the young man, the mystery remained complete. the evidence of the senses did not prevail against the statement of a beautrelet. there was something which people did not know, and of that something they were convinced that he was in position to supply a triumphant explanation. it is easy, therefore, to imagine the anxiety with which, at first, people awaited the bulletins issued by the two dieppe doctors to whose care the comte de gesvres entrusted his patient; the distress that prevailed during the first few days, when his life was thought to be in danger; and the enthusiasm of the morning when the newspapers announced that there was no further cause for fear. the least details excited the crowd. people wept at the thought of beautrelet nursed by his old father, who had been hurriedly summoned by telegram, and they also admired the devotion of mlle. suzanne de gesvres, who spent night after night by the wounded lad's bedside. next came a swift and glad convalescence. at last, the public were about to know! they would know what beautrelet had promised to reveal to m. filleul and the decisive words which the knife of the would-be assassin had prevented him from uttering! and they would also know everything, outside the tragedy itself, that remained impenetrable or inaccessible to the efforts of the police. with beautrelet free and cured of his wound, one could hope for some certainty regarding harlington, arsene lupin's mysterious accomplice, who was still detained at the sante prison. one would learn what had become, after the crime, of bredoux the clerk, that other accomplice, whose daring was really terrifying. with beautrelet free, one could also form a precise idea concerning the disappearance of ganimard and the kidnapping of shears. how was it possible for two attempts of this kind to take place? neither the english detectives nor their french colleagues possessed the slightest clue on the subject. on whit-sunday, ganimard did not come home, nor on the monday either, nor during the five weeks that followed. in london, on whit-monday, holmlock shears took a cab at eight o'clock in the evening to drive to the station. he had hardly stepped in, when he tried to alight, probably feeling a presentiment of danger. but two men jumped into the hansom, one on either side, flung him back on the seat and kept him there between them, or rather under them. all this happened in sight of nine or ten witnesses, who had no time to interfere. the cab drove off at a gallop. and, after that, nothing. nobody knew anything. perhaps, also, beautrelet would be able to give the complete explanation of the document, the mysterious paper to which. bredoux, the magistrate's clerk, attached enough importance to recover it, with blows of the knife, from the person in whose possession it was. the problem of the hollow needle it was called, by the countless solvers of riddles who, with their eyes bent upon the figures and dots, strove to read a meaning into them. the hollow needle! what a bewildering conjunction of two simple words! what an incomprehensible question was set by that scrap of paper, whose very origin and manufacture were unknown! the hollow needle! was it a meaningless expression, the puzzle of a schoolboy scribbling with pen and ink on the corner of a page? or were they two magic words which could compel the whole great adventure of lupin the great adventurer to assume its true significance? nobody knew. but the public soon would know. for some days, the papers had been announcing the approaching arrival of beautrelet. the struggle was on the point of recommencing; and, this time, it would be implacable on the part of the young man, who was burning to take his revenge. and, as it happened, my attention, just then, was drawn to his name, printed in capitals. the grand journal headed its front page with the following paragraph: * * * * * we have persuaded m. isidore beautrelet to give us the first right of printing his revelations. to-morrow, tuesday, before the police themselves are informed, the grand journal will publish the whole truth of the ambrumesy mystery. * * * * * "that's interesting, eh? what do you think of it, my dear chap?" i started from my chair. there was some one sitting beside me, some one i did not know. i cast my eyes round for a weapon. but, as my visitor's attitude appeared quite inoffensive, i restrained myself and went up to him. he was a young man with strongly-marked features, long, fair hair and a short, tawny beard, divided into two points. his dress suggested the dark clothes of an english clergyman; and his whole person, for that matter, wore an air of austerity and gravity that inspired respect. "who are you?" i asked. and, as he did not reply, i repeated, "who are you? how did you get in? what are you here for?" he looked at me and said: "don't you know me?" "no--no!" "oh, that's really curious! just search your memory--one of your friends--a friend of a rather special kind--however--" i caught him smartly by the arm: "you lie! you lie! no, you're not the man you say you are--it's not true." "then why are you thinking of that man rather than another?" he asked, with a laugh. oh, that laugh! that bright and clear young laugh, whose amusing irony had so often contributed to my diversion! i shivered. could it be? "no, no," i protested, with a sort of terror. "it cannot be." "it can't be i, because i'm dead, eh?" he retorted. "and because you don't believe in ghosts." he laughed again. "am i the sort of man who dies? do you think i would die like that, shot in the back by a girl? really, you misjudge me! as though i would ever consent to such a death as that!" "so it is you!" i stammered, still incredulous and yet greatly excited. "so it is you! i can't manage to recognize you." "in that case," he said, gaily, "i am quite easy. if the only man to whom i have shown myself in my real aspect fails to know me to-day, then everybody who will see me henceforth as i am to-day is bound not to know me either, when he sees me in my real aspect--if, indeed, i have a real aspect--" i recognized his voice, now that he was no longer changing its tone, and i recognized his eyes also and the expression of his face and his whole attitude and his very being, through the counterfeit appearance in which he had shrouded it: "arsene lupin!" i muttered. "yes, arsene lupin!" he cried, rising from his chair. "the one and only arsene lupin, returned from the realms of darkness, since it appears that i expired and passed away in a crypt! arsene lupin, alive and kicking, in the full exercise of his will, happy and free and more than ever resolved to enjoy that happy freedom in a world where hitherto he has received nothing but favors and privileges!" it was my turn to laugh: "well, it's certainly you, and livelier this time than on the day when i had the pleasure of seeing you, last year--i congratulate you." i was alluding to his last visit, the visit following on the famous adventure of the diadem,[ ] his interrupted marriage, his flight with sonia kirchnoff and the russian girl's horrible death. on that day, i had seen an arsene lupin whom i did not know, weak, down-hearted, with eyes tired with weeping, seeking for a little sympathy and affection. [ ] arsene lupin, play in three acts and four scenes, by maurice leblanc and francis de croisset. "be quiet," he said. "the past is far away." "it was a year ago," i observed. "it was ten years ago," he declared. "arsene lupin's years count for ten times as much as another man's." i did not insist and, changing the conversation: "how did you get in?" "why, how do you think? through the door, of course. then, as i saw nobody, i walked across the drawing room and out by the balcony, and here i am." "yes, but the key of the door--?" "there are no doors for me, as you know. i wanted your flat and i came in." "it is at your disposal. am i to leave you?" "oh, not at all! you won't be in the way. in fact, i can promise you an interesting evening." "are you expecting some one?" "yes. i have given him an appointment here at ten o'clock." he took out his watch. "it is ten now. if the telegram reached him, he ought to be here soon." the front-door bell rang. "what did i tell you? no, don't trouble to get up: i'll go." with whom on earth could he have made an appointment? and what sort of scene was i about to assist at: dramatic or comic? for lupin himself to consider it worthy of interest, the situation must be somewhat exceptional. he returned in a moment and stood back to make way for a young man, tall and thin and very pale in the face. without a word and with a certain solemnity about his movements that made me feel ill at ease. lupin switched on all the electric lamps, one after the other, till the room was flooded with light. then the two men looked at each other, exchanged profound and penetrating glances, as if, with all the effort of their gleaming eyes, they were trying to pierce into each other's souls. it was an impressive sight to see them thus, grave and silent. but who could the newcomer be? i was on the point of guessing the truth, through his resemblance to a photograph which had recently appeared in the papers, when lupin turned to me: "my dear chap, let me introduce m. isidore beautrelet." and, addressing the young man, he continued, "i have to thank you, m. beautrelet, first, for being good enough, on receipt of a letter from me, to postpone your revelations until after this interview and, secondly, for granting me this interview with so good a grace." beautrelet smiled: "allow me to remark that my good grace consists, above all, in obeying your orders. the threat which you made to me in the letter in question was the more peremptory in being aimed not at me, but at my father." "my word," said lupin laughing, "we must do the best we can and make use of the means of action vouchsafed to us. i knew by experience that your own safety was indifferent to you, seeing that you resisted the arguments of master bredoux. there remained your father--your father for whom you have a great affection--i played on that string." "and here i am," said beautrelet, approvingly. i motioned them to be seated. they consented and lupin resumed, in that tone of imperceptible banter which is all his own: "in any case, m. beautrelet, if you will not accept my thanks, you will at least not refuse my apologies." "apologies! bless my soul, what for?" "for the brutality which master bredoux showed you." "i confess that the act surprised me. it was not lupin's usual way of behaving. a stab--" "i assure you i had no hand in it. bredoux is a new recruit. my friends, during the time that they had the management of our affairs, thought that it might be useful to win over to our cause the clerk of the magistrate himself who was conducting the inquiry." "your friends were right." "bredoux, who was specially attached to your person, was, in fact, most valuable to us. but, with the ardor peculiar to any neophyte who wishes to distinguish himself, he pushed his zeal too far and thwarted my plans by permitting himself, on his own initiative, to strike you a blow." "oh, it was a little accident!" "not at all, not at all! and i have reprimanded him severely! i am bound, however, to say in his favor that he was taken unawares by the really unexpected rapidity of your investigation. if you had only left us a few hours longer, you would have escaped that unpardonable attempt." "and i should doubtless have enjoyed the enormous advantage of undergoing the same fate as m. ganimard and mr. holmlock shears?" "exactly," said lupin, laughing heartily. "and i should not have known the cruel terrors which your wound caused me. i have had an atrocious time because of it, believe me, and, at this moment, your pallor fills me with all the stings of remorse. can you ever forgive me?" "the proof of confidence which you have shown me in delivering yourself unconditionally into my hands--it would have been so easy for me to bring a few of ganimard's friends with me--that proof of confidence wipes out everything." was he speaking seriously? i confess frankly that i was greatly perplexed. the struggle between the two men was beginning in a manner which i was simply unable to understand. i had been present at the first meeting between lupin and holmlock shears, in the cafe near the gare montparnesse,[ ] and i could not help recalling the haughty carriage of the two combatants, the terrific clash of their pride under the politeness of their manners, the hard blows which they dealt each other, their feints, their arrogance. [ ] arsene lupin versus holmlock shears, by maurice leblanc. here, it was quite different. lupin, it is true, had not changed; he exhibited the same tactics, the same crafty affability. but what a strange adversary he had come upon! was it even an adversary? really, he had neither the tone of one nor the appearance. very calm, but with a real calmness, not one assumed to cloak the passion of a man endeavoring to restrain himself; very polite, but without exaggeration; smiling, but without chaff, he presented the most perfect contrast to arsene lupin, a contrast so perfect even that, to my mind, lupin appeared as much perplexed as myself. no, there was no doubt about it: in the presence of that frail stripling, with cheeks smooth as a girl's and candid and charming eyes, lupin was losing his ordinary self-assurance. several times over, i observed traces of embarrassment in him. he hesitated, did not attack frankly, wasted time in mawkish and affected phrases. it also looked as though he wanted something. he seemed to be seeking, waiting. what for? some aid? there was a fresh ring of the bell. he himself ran and opened the door. he returned with a letter: "will you allow me, gentlemen?" he asked. he opened the letter. it contained a telegram. he read it--and became as though transformed. his face lit up, his figure righted itself and i saw the veins on his forehead swell. it was the athlete who once more stood before me, the ruler, sure of himself, master of events and master of persons. he spread the telegram on the table and, striking it with his fist, exclaimed: "now, m. beautrelet, it's you and i!" beautrelet adopted a listening attitude and lupin began, in measured, but harsh and masterful tones: "let us throw off the mask--what say you?--and have done with hypocritical compliments. we are two enemies, who know exactly what to think of each other; we act toward each other as enemies; and therefore we ought to treat with each other as enemies." "to treat?" echoed beautrelet, in a voice of surprise. "yes, to treat. i did not use that word at random and i repeat it, in spite of the effort, the great effort, which it costs me. this is the first time i have employed it to an adversary. but also, i may as well tell you at once, it is the last. make the most of it. i shall not leave this flat without a promise from you. if i do, it means war." beautrelet seemed more and more surprised. he said very prettily: "i was not prepared for this--you speak so funnily! it's so different from what i expected! yes, i thought you were not a bit like that! why this display of anger? why use threats? are we enemies because circumstances bring us into opposition? enemies? why?" lupin appeared a little out of countenance, but he snarled and, leaning over the boy: "listen to me, youngster," he said. "it's not a question of picking one's words. it's a question of a fact, a positive, indisputable fact; and that fact is this: in all the past ten years, i have not yet knocked up against an adversary of your capacity. with ganimard and holmlock shears i played as if they were children. with you, i am obliged to defend myself, i will say more, to retreat. yes, at this moment, you and i well know that i must look upon myself as worsted in the fight. isidore beautrelet has got the better of arsene lupin. my plans are upset. what i tried to leave in the dark you have brought into the full light of day. you annoy me, you stand in my way. well, i've had enough of it--bredoux told you so to no purpose. i now tell you so again; and i insist upon it, so that you may take it to heart: i've had enough of it!" beautrelet nodded his head: "yes, but what do you want?" "peace! each of us minding his own business, keeping to his own side!" "that is to say, you free to continue your burglaries undisturbed, i free to return to my studies." "your studies--anything you please--i don't care. but you must leave me in peace--i want peace." "how can i trouble it now?" lupin seized his hand violently: "you know quite well! don't pretend not to know. you are at this moment in possession of a secret to which i attach the highest importance. this secret you were free to guess, but you have no right to give it to the public." "are you sure that i know it?" "you know it, i am certain: day by day, hour by hour, i have followed your train of thought and the progress of your investigations. at the very moment when bredoux struck you, you were about to tell all. subsequently, you delayed your revelations, out of solicitude for your father. but they are now promised to this paper here. the article is written. it will be set up in an hour. it will appear to-morrow." "quite right." lupin rose, and slashing the air with his hand, "it shall not appear!" he cried. "it shall appear!" said beautrelet, starting up in his turn. at last, the two men were standing up to each other. i received the impression of a shock, as if they had seized each other round the body. beautrelet seemed to burn with a sudden energy. it was as though a spark had kindled within him a group of new emotions: pluck, self-respect, the passion of fighting, the intoxication of danger. as for lupin, i read in the radiance of his glance the joy of the duellist who at length encounters the sword of his hated rival. "is the article in the printer's hands?" "not yet." "have you it there--on you?" "no fear! i shouldn't have it by now, in that case!" "then--" "one of the assistant editors has it, in a sealed envelope. if i am not at the office by midnight, he will have set it up." "oh, the scoundrel!" muttered lupin. "he has provided for everything!" his anger was increasing, visibly and frightfully. beautrelet chuckled, jeering in his turn, carried away by his success. "stop that, you brat!" roared lupin. "you're forgetting who i am--and that, if i wished--upon my word, he's daring to laugh!" a great silence fell between them. then lupin stepped forward and, in muttered tones, with his eyes on beautrelet's: "you shall go straight to the grand journal." "no." "tear up your article." "no." "see the editor." "no." "tell him you made a mistake." "no." "and write him another article, in which you will give the official version of the ambrumesy mystery, the one which every one has accepted." "no." lupin took up a steel ruler that lay on my desk and broke it in two without an effort. his pallor was terrible to see. he wiped away the beads of perspiration that stood on his forehead. he, who had never known his wishes resisted, was being maddened by the obstinacy of this child. he pressed his two hands on beautrelet's shoulder and, emphasizing every syllable, continued: "you shall do as i tell you, beautrelet. you shall say that your latest discoveries have convinced you of my death, that there is not the least doubt about it. you shall say so because i wish it, because it has to be believed that i am dead. you shall say so, above all, because, if you do not say so--" "because, if i do not say so--?" "your father will be kidnapped to-night, as ganimard and holmlock shears were." beautrelet gave a smile. "don't laugh--answer!" "my answer is that i am very sorry to disappoint you, but i have promised to speak and i shall speak." "speak in the sense which i have told you." "i shall speak the truth," cried beautrelet, eagerly. "it is something which you can't understand, the pleasure, the need, rather, of saying the thing that is and saying it aloud. the truth is here, in this brain which has guessed it and discovered it; and it will come out, all naked and quivering. the article, therefore, will be printed as i wrote it. the world shall know that lupin is alive and shall know the reason why he wished to be considered dead. the world shall know all." and he added, calmly, "and my father shall not be kidnapped." once again, they were both silent, with their eyes still fixed upon each other. they watched each other. their swords were engaged up to the hilt. and it was like the heavy silence that goes before the mortal blow. which of the two was to strike it? lupin said, between his teeth: "failing my instructions to the contrary, two of my friends have orders to enter your father's room to-night, at three o'clock in the morning, to seize him and carry him off to join ganimard and holmlock shears." a burst of shrill laughter interrupted him: "why, you highwayman, don't you understand," cried beautrelet, "that i have taken my precautions? so you think that i am innocent enough, ass enough, to have sent my father home to his lonely little house in the open country!" oh, the gay, bantering laughter that lit up the boy's face! it was a new sort of laugh on his lips, a laugh that showed the influence of lupin himself. and the familiar form of address which he adopted placed him at once on his adversary's level. he continued: "you see, lupin, your great fault is to believe your schemes infallible. you proclaim yourself beaten, do you? what humbug! you are convinced that you will always win the day in the end--and you forget that others can have their little schemes, too. mine is a very simple one, my friend." it was delightful to hear him talk. he walked up and down, with his hands in his pockets and with the easy swagger of a boy teasing a caged beast. really, at this moment, he was revenging, with the most terrible revenges, all the victims of the great adventurer. and he concluded: "lupin, my father is not in savoy. he is at the other end of france, in the centre of a big town, guarded by twenty of our friends, who have orders not to lose sight of him until our battle is over. would you like details? he is at cherbourg, in the house of one of the keepers of the arsenal. and remember that the arsenal is closed at night and that no one is allowed to enter it by day, unless he carries an authorization and is accompanied by a guide." he stopped in front of lupin and defied him, like a child making faces at his playmate: "what do you say to that, master?" for some minutes, lupin had stood motionless. not a muscle of his face had moved. what were his thoughts? upon what action was he resolving? to any one knowing the fierce violence of his pride the only possible solution was the total, immediate, final collapse of his adversary. his fingers twitched. for a second, i had a feeling that he was about to throw himself upon the boy and wring his neck. "what do you say to that, master?" beautrelet repeated. lupin took up the telegram that lay on the table, held it out and said, very calmly: "here, baby, read that." beautrelet became serious, suddenly, impressed by the gentleness of the movement. he unfolded the paper and, at once, raising his eyes, murmured: "what does it mean? i don't understand." "at any rate, you understand the first word," said lupin, "the first word of the telegram--that is to say, the name of the place from which it was sent--look--'cherbourg.'" "yes--yes," stammered beautrelet. "yes--i understand--'cherbourg'-and then?" "and then?--i should think the rest is quite plain: 'removal of luggage finished. friends left with it and will wait instructions till eight morning. all well.' is there anything there that seems obscure? the word 'luggage'? pooh, you wouldn't have them write 'm. beautrelet, senior'! what then? the way in which the operation was performed? the miracle by which your father was taken out of cherbourg arsenal, in spite of his twenty body-guards? pooh, it's as easy as a b c! and the fact remains that the luggage has been dispatched. what do you say to that, baby?" with all his tense being, with all his exasperated energy, isidore tried to preserve a good countenance. but i saw his lips quiver, his jaw shrink, his eyes vainly strive to fix upon a point. he lisped a few words, then was silent and, suddenly, gave way and, with his hands before his face, burst into loud sobs: "oh, father! father!" an unexpected result, which was certainly the collapse which lupin's pride demanded, but also something more, something infinitely touching and infinitely artless. lupin gave a movement of annoyance and took up his hat, as though this unaccustomed display of sentiment were too much for him. but, on reaching the door, he stopped, hesitated and then returned, slowly, step by step. the soft sound of the sobs rose like the sad wailing of a little child overcome with grief. the lad's shoulders marked the heart-rending rhythm. tears appeared through the crossed fingers. lupin leaned forward and, without touching beautrelet, said, in a voice that had not the least tone of pleasantry, nor even of the offensive pity of the victor: "don't cry, youngster. this is one of those blows which a man must expect when he rushes headlong into the fray, as you did. the worst disasters lie in wait for him. the destiny of fighters will have it so. we must suffer it as bravely as we can." then, with a sort of gentleness, he continued, "you were right, you see: we are not enemies. i have known it for long. from the very first, i felt for you, for the intelligent creature that you are, an involuntary sympathy--and admiration. and that is why i wanted to say this to you--don't be offended, whatever you do: i should be extremely sorry to offend you--but i must say it: well, give up struggling against me. i am not saying this out of vanity--nor because i despise you--but, you see, the struggle is too unequal. you do not know--nobody knows all the resources which i have at my command. look here, this secret of the hollow needle which you are trying so vainly to unravel: suppose, for a moment, that it is a formidable, inexhaustible treasure--or else an invisible, prodigious, fantastic refuge--or both perhaps. think of the superhuman power which i must derive from it! and you do not know, either, all the resources which i have within myself--all that my will and my imagination enable me to undertake and to undertake successfully. only think that my whole life--ever since i was born, i might almost say--has tended toward the same aim, that i worked like a convict before becoming what i am and to realize, in its perfection, the type which i wished to create--which i have succeeded in creating. that being so--what can you do? at that very moment when you think that victory lies within your grasp, it will escape you--there will be something of which you have not thought--a trifle--a grain of sand which i shall have put in the right place, unknown to you. i entreat you, give up--i should be obliged to hurt you; and the thought distresses me." and, placing his hand on the boy's forehead, he repeated, "once more, youngster, give up. i should only hurt you. who knows if the trap into which you will inevitably fall has not already opened under your footsteps?" beautrelet uncovered his face. he was no longer crying. had he heard lupin's words? one might have doubted it, judging by his inattentive air. for two or three minutes, he was silent. he seemed to weigh the decision which he was about to take, to examine the reasons for and against, to count up the favorable and unfavorable chances. at last, he said to lupin: "if i change the sense of the article, if i confirm the version of your death and if i undertake never to contradict the false version which i shall have sanctioned, do you swear that my father will be free?" "i swear it. my friends have taken your father by motor car to another provincial town. at seven o'clock to-morrow morning, if the article in the grand journal is what i want it to be, i shall telephone to them and they will restore your father to liberty." "very well," said beautrelet. "i submit to your conditions." quickly, as though he saw no object in prolonging the conversation after accepting his defeat, he rose, took his hat, bowed to me, bowed to lupin and went out. lupin watched him go, listened to the sound of the door closing and muttered: "poor little beggar!" * * * * * at eight o'clock the next morning, i sent my man out to buy the grand journal. it was twenty minutes before he brought me a copy, most of the kiosks being already sold out. i unfolded the paper with feverish hands. beautrelet's article appeared on the front page. i give it as it stood and as it was quoted in the press of the whole world: * * * * * the ambrumesy mystery i do not intend in these few sentences to set out in detail the mental processes and the investigations that have enabled me to reconstruct the tragedy--i should say the twofold tragedy--of ambrumesy. in my opinion, this sort of work and the judgments which it entails, deductions, inductions, analyses and so on, are only interesting in a minor degree and, in any case, are highly commonplace. no, i shall content myself with setting forth the two leading ideas which i followed; and, if i do that, it will be seen that, in so setting them forth and in solving the two problems which they raise, i shall have told the story just as it happened, in the exact order of the different incidents. it may be said that some of these incidents are not proved and that i leave too large a field to conjecture. that is quite true. but, in my view, my theory is founded upon a sufficiently large number of proved facts to be able to say that even those facts which are not proved must follow from the strict logic of events. the stream is so often lost under the pebbly bed: it is nevertheless the same stream that reappears at intervals and mirrors back the blue sky. the first riddle that confronted me, a riddle not in detail, but as a whole, was how came it that lupin, mortally wounded, one might say, managed to live for five or six weeks without nursing, medicine or food, at the bottom of a dark hole? let us start at the beginning. on thursday the sixteenth of april, at four o'clock in the morning, arsene lupin, surprised in the middle of one of his most daring burglaries, runs away by the path leading to the ruins and drops down shot. he drags himself painfully along, falls again and picks himself up in the desperate hope of reaching the chapel. the chapel contains a crypt, the existence of which he has discovered by accident. if he can burrow there, he may be saved. by dint of an effort, he approaches it, he is but a few yards away, when a sound of footsteps approaches. harassed and lost, he lets himself go. the enemy arrives. it is mlle. raymonde de saint-veran. this is the prologue or rather the first scene of the drama. what happened between them? this is the easier to guess inasmuch as the sequel of the adventure gives us all the necessary clues. at the girl's feet lies a wounded man, exhausted by suffering, who will be captured in two minutes. this man has been wounded by herself. will she also give him up? if he is jean daval's murderer, yes, she will let destiny take its course. but, in quick sentences, he tells her the truth about this awful murder committed by her uncle, m. de gesvres. she believes him. what will she do? nobody can see them. the footman victor is watching the little door. the other, albert, posted at the drawing-room window, has lost sight of both of them. will she give up the man she has wounded? the girl is carried away by a movement of irresistible pity, which any woman will understand. instructed by lupin, with a few movements she binds up the wound with his handkerchief, to avoid the marks which the blood would leave. then, with the aid of the key which he gives her, she opens the door of the chapel. he enters, supported by the girl. she locks the door again and walks away. albert arrives. if the chapel had been visited at that moment or at least during the next few minutes, before lupin had had time to recover his strength, to raise the flagstone and disappear by the stairs leading to the crypt, he would have been taken. but this visit did not take place until six hours later and then only in the most superficial way. as it is, lupin is saved; and saved by whom? by the girl who very nearly killed him. thenceforth, whether she wishes it or no, mlle. de saint-veran is his accomplice. not only is she no longer able to give him up, but she is obliged to continue her work, else the wounded man will perish in the shelter in which she has helped to conceal him. therefore she continues. for that matter, if her feminine instinct makes the task a compulsory one, it also makes it easy. she is full of artifice, she foresees and forestalls everything. it is she who gives the examining magistrate a false description of arsene lupin (the reader will remember the difference of opinion on this subject between the cousins). it is she, obviously, who, thanks to certain signs which i do not know of, suspects an accomplice of lupin's in the driver of the fly. she warns him. she informs him of the urgent need of an operation. it is she, no doubt, who substitutes one cap for the other. it is she who causes the famous letter to be written in which she is personally threatened. how, after that, is it possible to suspect her? it is she, who at that moment when i was about to confide my first impressions to the examining magistrate, pretends to have seen me, the day before, in the copsewood, alarms m. filleul on my score and reduces me to silence: a dangerous move, no doubt, because it arouses my attention and directs it against the person who assails me with an accusation which i know to be false; but an efficacious move, because the most important thing of all is to gain time and close my lips. lastly, it is she who, during forty days, feeds lupin, brings him his medicine (the chemist at ouville will produce the prescriptions which he made up for mlle. de saint-veran), nurses him, dresses his wound, watches over him and cures him. here we have the first of our two problems solved, at the same time that the ambrumesy mystery is set forth. arsene lupin found, close at hand, in the chateau itself, the assistance which was indispensable to him in order, first, not to be discovered and, secondly, to live. he now lives. and we come to the second problem, corresponding with the second ambrumesy mystery, the study of which served me as a conducting medium. why does lupin, alive, free, at the head of his gang, omnipotent as before, why does lupin make desperate efforts, efforts with which i am constantly coming into collision, to force the idea of his death upon the police and the public? we must remember that mlle. de saint-veran was a very pretty girl. the photographs reproduced in the papers after her disappearance give but an imperfect notion of her beauty. that follows which was bound to follow. lupin, seeing this lovely girl daily for five or six weeks, longing for her presence when she is not there, subjected to her charm and grace when she is there, inhaling the cool perfume of her breath when she bends over him, lupin becomes enamored of his nurse. gratitude turns to love, admiration to passion. she is his salvation, but she is also the joy of his eyes, the dream of his lonely hours, his light, his hope, his very life. he respects her sufficiently not to take advantage of the girl's devotion and not to make use of her to direct his confederates. there is, in fact, a certain lack of decision apparent in the acts of the gang. but he loves her also, his scruples weaken and, as mlle. de saint-veran refuses to be touched by a love that offends her, as she relaxes her visits when they become less necessary, as she ceases them entirely on the day when he is cured--desperate, maddened by grief, he takes a terrible resolve. he leaves his lair, prepares his stroke and, on saturday the sixth of june, assisted by his accomplices, he carries off the girl. this is not all. the abduction must not be known. all search, all surmises, all hope, even, must be cut short. mlle. de saint-veran must pass for dead. there is a mock murder: proofs are supplied for the police inquiries. there is doubt about the crime, a crime, for that matter, not unexpected, a crime foretold by the accomplices, a crime perpetrated to revenge the chief's death. and, through this very fact--observe the marvelous ingenuity of the conception--through this very fact, the belief in this death is, so to speak, stimulated. it is not enough to suggest a belief; it is necessary to compel a certainty. lupin foresees my interference. i am sure to guess the trickery of the chapel. i am sure to discover the crypt. and, as the crypt will be empty, the whole scaffolding will come to the ground. the crypt shall not be empty. in the same way, the death of mlle. de saint-veran will not be definite, unless the sea gives up her corpse. the sea shall give up the corpse of mlle. de saint-veran. the difficulty is tremendous. the double obstacle seems insurmountable. yes, to any one but lupin, but not to lupin. as he had foreseen, i guess the trickery of the chapel, i discover the crypt and i go down into the lair where lupin has taken refuge. his corpse is there! any person who had admitted the death of lupin as possible would have been baffled. but i had not admitted this eventuality for an instant (first, by intuition and, secondly, by reasoning). pretense thereupon became useless and every scheme vain. i said to myself at once that the block of stone disturbed by the pickaxe had been placed there with a very curious exactness, that the least knock was bound to make it fall and that, in falling, it must inevitably reduce the head of the false arsene lupin to pulp, in such a way as to make it utterly irrecognizable. another discovery: half an hour later, i hear that the body of mlle. de saint-veran has been found on the rocks at dieppe--or rather a body which is considered to be mlle. de saint-veran's, for the reason that the arm has a bracelet similar to one of that young lady's bracelets. this, however, is the only mark of identity, for the corpse is irrecognizable. thereupon i remember and i understand. a few days earlier, i happened to read in a number of the vigie de dieppe that a young american couple staying at envermeu had committed suicide by taking poison and that their bodies had disappeared on the very night of the death. i hasten to envermeu. the story is true, i am told, except in so far as concerns the disappearance, because the brothers of the victims came to claim the corpses and took them away after the usual formalities. the name of these brothers, no doubt, was arsene lupin & co. consequently, the thing is proved. we know why lupin shammed the murder of the girl and spread the rumor of his own death. he is in love and does not wish it known. and, to reach his ends, he shrinks from nothing, he even undertakes that incredible theft of the two corpses which he needs in order to impersonate himself and mlle. de saint-veran. in this way, he will be at ease. no one can disturb him. no one will ever suspect the truth which he wishes to suppress. no one? yes--three adversaries, at the most, might conceive doubts: ganimard, whose arrival is hourly expected; holmlock shears, who is about to cross the channel; and i, who am on the spot. this constitutes a threefold danger. he removes it. he kidnaps ganimard. he kidnaps holmlock shears. he has me stabbed by bredoux. one point alone remains obscure. why was lupin so fiercely bent upon snatching the document about the hollow needle from me? he surely did not imagine that, by taking it away, he could wipe out from my memory the text of the five lines of which it consists! then why? did he fear that the character of the paper itself, or some other clue, could give me a hint? be that as it may, this is the truth of the ambrumesy mystery. i repeat that conjecture plays a certain part in the explanation which i offer, even as it played a great part in my personal investigation. but, if one waited for proofs and facts to fight lupin, one would run a great risk either of waiting forever or else of discovering proofs and facts carefully prepared by lupin, which would lead in a direction immediately opposite to the object in view. i feel confident that the facts, when they are known, will confirm my surmise in every respect. * * * * * so isidore beautrelet, mastered for a moment by arsene lupin, distressed by the abduction of his father and resigned to defeat, isidore beautrelet, in the end, was unable to persuade himself to keep silence. the truth was too beautiful and too curious, the proofs which he was able to produce were too logical and too conclusive for him to consent to misrepresent it. the whole world was waiting for his revelations. he spoke. * * * * * on the evening of the day on which his article appeared, the newspapers announced the kidnapping of m. beautrelet, senior. isidore was informed of it by a telegram from cherbourg, which reached him at three o'clock. chapter five on the track young beautrelet was stunned by the violence of the blow. as a matter of fact, although, in publishing his article, he had obeyed one of those irresistible impulses which make a man despise every consideration of prudence, he had never really believed in the possibility of an abduction. his precautions had been too thorough. the friends at cherbourg not only had instructions to guard and protect beautrelet the elder: they were also to watch his comings and goings, never to let him walk out alone and not even to hand him a single letter without first opening it. no, there was no danger. lupin, wishing to gain time, was trying to intimidate his adversary. the blow, therefore, was almost unexpected; and isidore, because he was powerless to act, felt the pain of the shock during the whole of the remainder of the day. one idea alone supported him: that of leaving paris, going down there, seeing for himself what had happened and resuming the offensive. he telegraphed to cherbourg. he was at saint-lazare a little before nine. a few minutes after, he was steaming out of the station in the normandy express. it was not until an hour later, when he mechanically unfolded a newspaper which he had bought on the platform, that he became aware of the letter by which lupin indirectly replied to his article of that morning: * * * * * to the editor of the grand journal. sir: i cannot pretend but that my modest personality, which would certainly have passed unnoticed in more heroic times, has acquired a certain prominence in the dull and feeble period in which we live. but there is a limit beyond which the morbid curiosity of the crowd cannot go without becoming indecently indiscreet. if the walls that surround our private lives be not respected, what is to safeguard the rights of the citizen? will those who differ plead the higher interest of truth? an empty pretext in so far as i am concerned, because the truth is known and i raise no difficulty about making an official confession of the truth in writing. yes, mlle. de saint-veran is alive. yes, i love her. yes, i have the mortification not to be loved by her. yes, the results of the boy beautrelet's inquiry are wonderful in their precision and accuracy. yes, we agree on every point. there is no riddle left. there is no mystery. well, then, what? injured to the very depths of my soul, bleeding still from cruel wounds, i ask that my more intimate feelings and secret hopes may no longer be delivered to the malevolence of the public. i ask for peace, the peace which i need to conquer the affection of mlle. de saint-veran and to wipe out from her memory the thousand little injuries which she has had to suffer at the hands of her uncle and cousin--this has not been told--because of her position as a poor relation. mlle. de saint-veran will forget this hateful past. all that she can desire, were it the fairest jewel in the world, were it the most unattainable treasure, i shall lay at her feet. she will be happy. she will love me. but, if i am to succeed, once more, i require peace. that is why i lay down my arms and hold out the olive-branch to my enemies--while warning them, with every magnanimity on my part, that a refusal on theirs might bring down upon them the gravest consequences. one word more on the subject of mr. harlington. this name conceals the identity of an excellent fellow, who is secretary to cooley, the american millionaire, and instructed by him to lay hands upon every object of ancient art in europe which it is possible to discover. his evil star brought him into touch with my friend etienne de vaudreix, alias arsene lupin, alias myself. he learnt, in this way, that a certain m. de gesvres was willing to part with four pictures by rubens, ostensibly on the condition that they were replaced by copies and that the bargain to which he was consenting remained unknown. my friend vaudreix also undertook to persuade m. de gesvres to sell his chapel. the negotiations were conducted with entire good faith on the side of my friend vaudreix and with charming ingenuousness on the side of mr. harlington, until the day when the rubenses and the carvings from the chapel were in a safe place and mr. harlington in prison. there remains nothing, therefore, to be done but to release the unfortunate american, because he was content to play the modest part of a dupe; to brand the millionaire cooley, because, for fear of possible unpleasantness, he did not protest against his secretary's arrest; and to congratulate my friend etienne de vaudreix, because he is revenging the outraged morality of the public by keeping the hundred thousand francs which he was paid on account by that singularly unattractive person, cooley. pray, pardon the length of this letter and permit me to be, sir, your obedient servant, arsene lupin. * * * * * isidore weighed the words of this communication as minutely, perhaps, as he had studied the document concerning the hollow needle. he went on the principle, the correctness of which was easily proved, that lupin had never taken the trouble to send one of his amusing letters to the press without absolute necessity, without some motive which events were sure, sooner or later, to bring to light. what was the motive for this particular letter? for what hidden reason was lupin confessing his love and the failure of that love? was it there that beautrelet had to seek, or in the explanations regarding mr. harlington, or further still, between the lines, behind all those words whose apparent meaning had perhaps no other object than to suggest some wicked, perfidious, misleading little idea? for hours, the young man, confined to his compartment, remained pensive and anxious. the letter filled him with mistrust, as though it had been written for his benefit and were destined to lead him, personally, into error. for the first time and because he found himself confronted not with a direct attack, but with an ambiguous, indefinable method of fighting, he underwent a distinct sensation of fear. and, when he thought of his good old, easy-going father, kidnapped through his fault, he asked himself, with a pang, whether he was not mad to continue so unequal a contest. was the result not certain? had lupin not won the game in advance? it was but a short moment of weakness. when he alighted from his compartment, at six o'clock in the morning, refreshed by a few hours' sleep, he had recovered all his confidence. on the platform, froberval, the dockyard clerk who had given hospitality to m. beautrelet, senior, was waiting for him, accompanied by his daughter charlotte, an imp of twelve or thirteen. "well?" cried isidore. the worthy man beginning to moan and groan, he interrupted him, dragged him to a neighboring tavern, ordered coffee and began to put plain questions, without permitting the other the slightest digression: "my father has not been carried off, has he? it was impossible." "impossible. still, he has disappeared." "since when?" "we don't know." "what!" "no. yesterday morning, at six o'clock, as i had not seen him come down as usual, i opened his door. he was gone." "but was he there on the day before, two days ago?" "yes. on the day before yesterday, he did not leave his room. he was a little tired; and charlotte took his lunch up to him at twelve and his dinner at seven in the evening." "so it was between seven o'clock in the evening, on the day before yesterday, and six o'clock on yesterday morning that he disappeared?" "yes, during the night before last. only--" "only what?" "well, it's like this: you can't leave the arsenal at night." "do you mean that he has not left it?" "that's impossible! my friends and i have searched the whole naval harbor." "then he has left it!" "impossible, every outlet is guarded!" beautrelet reflected and then said: "what next?" "next, i hurried to the commandant's and informed the officer in charge." "did he come to your house?" "yes; and a gentleman from the public prosecutor's also. they searched all through the morning; and, when i saw that they were making no progress and that there was no hope left, i telegraphed to you." "was the bed disarranged in his room?" "no." "nor the room disturbed in any way?" "no. i found his pipe in its usual place, with his tobacco and the book which he was reading. there was even this little photograph of yourself in the middle of the book, marking the page." "let me see it." froberval passed him the photograph. beautrelet gave a start of surprise. he had recognized himself in the snapshot, standing, with his two hands in his pockets, on a lawn from which rose trees and ruins. froberval added: "it must be the last portrait of yourself which you sent him. look, on the back, you will see the date, april, the name of the photographer, r. de val, and the name of the town, lion--lion-sur-mer, perhaps." isidore turned the photograph over and read this little note, in his own handwriting: "r. de val.-- . --lion." he was silent for a few minutes and resumed: "my father hadn't shown you that snapshot yet?" "no--and that's just what astonished me when i saw it yesterday--for your father used so often to talk to us about you." there was a fresh pause, greatly prolonged. froberval muttered: "i have business at the workshop. we might as well go in--" he was silent. isidore had not taken his eyes from the photograph, was examining it from every point of view. at last, the boy asked: "is there such a thing as an inn called the lion d'or at a short league outside the town?" "yes, about a league from here." "on the route de valognes, is it?" "yes, on the route de valognes." "well, i have every reason to believe that this inn was the head-quarters of lupin's friends. it was from there that they entered into communication with my father." "what an idea! your father spoke to nobody. he saw nobody." "he saw nobody, but they made use of an intermediary." "what proof have you?" "this photograph." "but it's your photograph!" "it's my photograph, but it was not sent by me. i was not even aware of its existence. it was taken, without my knowledge, in the ruins of ambrumesy, doubtless by the examining-magistrate's clerk, who, as you know, was an accomplice of arsene lupin's." "and then?" "then this photograph became the passport, the talisman, by means of which they obtained my father's confidence." "but who? who was able to get into my house?" "i don't know, but my father fell into the trap. they told him and he believed that i was in the neighborhood, that i was asking to see him and that i was giving him an appointment at the golden lion." "but all this is nonsense! how can you assert--?" "very simply. they imitated my writing on the back of the photograph and specified the meeting-place: valognes road, kilometres , lion inn. my father came and they seized him, that's all." "very well," muttered froberval, dumbfounded, "very well. i admit it--things happened as you say--but that does not explain how he was able to leave during the night." "he left in broad daylight, though he waited until dark to go to the meeting-place." "but, confound it, he didn't leave his room the whole of the day before yesterday!" "there is one way of making sure: run down to the dockyard, froberval, and look for one of the men who were on guard in the afternoon, two days ago.--only, be quick, if you wish to find me here." "are you going?" "yes, i shall take the next train back." "what!--why, you don't know--your inquiry--" "my inquiry is finished. i know pretty well all that i wanted to know. i shall have left cherbourg in an hour." froberval rose to go. he looked at beautrelet with an air of absolute bewilderment, hesitated a moment and then took his cap: "are you coming, charlotte?" "no," said beautrelet, "i shall want a few more particulars. leave her with me. besides, i want to talk to her. i knew her when she was quite small." froberval went away. beautrelet and the little girl remained alone in the tavern smoking room. a few minutes passed, a waiter entered, cleared away some cups and left the room again. the eyes of the young man and the child met; and beautrelet placed his hand very gently on the little girl's hand. she looked at him for two or three seconds, distractedly, as though about to choke. then, suddenly hiding her head between her folded arms, she burst into sobs. he let her cry and, after a while, said: "it was you, wasn't it, who did all the mischief, who acted as go-between? it was you who took him the photograph? you admit it, don't you? and, when you said that my father was in his room, two days ago, you knew that it was not true, did you not, because you yourself had helped him to leave it--?" she made no reply. he asked: "why did you do it? they offered you money, i suppose--to buy ribbons with a frock--?" he uncrossed charlotte's arms and lifted up her head. he saw a poor little face all streaked with tears, the attractive, disquieting, mobile face of one of those little girls who seem marked out for temptation and weakness. "come," said beautrelet, "it's over, we'll say no more about it. i will not even ask you how it happened. only you must tell me everything that can be of use to me.--did you catch anything--any remark made by those men? how did they carry him off?" she replied at once: "by motor car. i heard them talking about it--" "and what road did they take?" "ah, i don't know that!" "didn't they say anything before you--something that might help us?" "no--wait, though: there was one who said, 'we shall have no time to lose--the governor is to telephone to us at eight o'clock in the morning--'" "where to?" "i can't say.--i've forgotten--" "try--try and remember. it was the name of a town, wasn't it?" "yes--a name--like chateau--" "chateaubriant?--chateau-thierry?--" "no-no--" "chateauroux?" "yes, that was it--chateauroux--" beautrelet did not wait for her to complete her sentence. already he was on his feet and, without giving a thought to froberval, without even troubling about the child, who stood gazing at him in stupefaction, he opened the door and ran to the station: "chateauroux, madame--a ticket for chateauroux--" "over mans and tours?" asked the booking-clerk. "of course--the shortest way. shall i be there for lunch?" "oh, no!" "for dinner? bedtime--?" "oh, no! for that, you would have to go over paris. the paris express leaves at nine o'clock. you're too late--" it was not too late. beautrelet was just able to catch the train. "well," said beautrelet, rubbing his hands, "i have spent only two hours or so at cherbourg, but they were well employed." he did not for a moment think of accusing charlotte of lying. weak, unstable, capable of the worst treacheries, those petty natures also obey impulses of sincerity; and beautrelet had read in her affrighted eyes her shame for the harm which she had done and her delight at repairing it in part. he had no doubt, therefore, that chateauroux was the other town to which lupin had referred and where his confederates were to telephone to him. on his arrival in paris, beautrelet took every necessary precaution to avoid being followed. he felt that it was a serious moment. he was on the right road that was leading him to his father: one act of imprudence might ruin all. he went to the flat of one of his schoolfellows and came out, an hour later, irrecognizable, rigged out as an englishman of thirty, in a brown check suit, with knickerbockers, woolen stockings and a cap, a high-colored complexion and a red wig. he jumped on a bicycle laden with a complete painter's outfit and rode off to the gare d'austerlitz. he slept that night at issoudun. the next morning, he mounted his machine at break of day. at seven o'clock, he walked into the chateauroux post-office and asked to be put on to paris. as he had to wait, he entered into conversation with the clerk and learnt that, two days before, at the same hour, a man dressed for motoring had also asked for paris. the proof was established. he waited no longer. by the afternoon, he had ascertained, from undeniable evidence, that a limousine car, following the tours road, had passed through the village of buzancais and the town of chateauroux and had stopped beyond the town, on the verge of the forest. at ten o'clock, a hired gig, driven by a man unknown, had stopped beside the car and then gone off south, through the valley of the bouzanne. there was then another person seated beside the driver. as for the car, it had turned in the opposite direction and gone north, toward issoudun. beautrelet easily discovered the owner of the gig, who, however, had no information to supply. he had hired out his horse and trap to a man who brought them back himself next day. lastly, that same evening, isidore found out that the motor car had only passed through issoudun, continuing its road toward orleans, that is to say, toward paris. from all this, it resulted, in the most absolute fashion, that m. beautrelet was somewhere in the neighborhood. if not, how was it conceivable that people should travel nearly three hundred miles across france in order to telephone from chateauroux and next to return, at an acute angle, by the paris road? this immense circuit had a more definite object: to move m. beautrelet to the place assigned to him. "and this place is within reach of my hand," said isidore to himself, quivering with hope and expectation. "my father is waiting for me to rescue him at ten or fifteen leagues from here. he is close by. he is breathing the same air as i." he set to work at once. taking a war-office map, he divided it into small squares, which he visited one after the other, entering the farmhouses making the peasants talk, calling on the schoolmasters, the mayors, the parish priests, chatting to the women. it seemed to him that he must attain his end without delay and his dreams grew until it was no longer his father alone whom he hoped to deliver, but all those whom lupin was holding captive: raymonde de saint-veran, ganimard, holmlock shears, perhaps, and others, many others; and, in reaching them, he would, at the same time, reach lupin's stronghold, his lair, the impenetrable retreat where he was piling up the treasures of which he had robbed the wide world. but, after a fortnight's useless searching, his enthusiasm ended by slackening and he very soon lost confidence. because success was slow in appearing, from one day to the next, almost, he ceased to believe in it; and, though he continued to pursue his plan of investigations, he would have felt a real surprise if his efforts had led to the smallest discovery. more days still passed by, monotonous days of discouragement. he read in the newspapers that the comte de gesvres and his daughter had left ambrumesy and gone to stay near nice. he also learnt that harlington had been released, that gentleman's innocence having become self-obvious, in accordance with the indications supplied by arsene lupin. isidore changed his head-quarters, established himself for two days at the chatre, for two days at argenton. the result was the same. just then, he was nearly throwing up the game. evidently, the gig in which his father had been carried off could only have furnished a stage, which had been followed by another stage, furnished by some other conveyance. and his father was far away. he was thinking of leaving, when, one monday morning, he saw, on the envelope of an unstamped letter, sent on to him from paris, a handwriting that set him trembling with emotion. so great was his excitement that, for some minutes, he dared not open the letter, for fear of a disappointment. his hand shook. was it possible? was this not a trap laid for him by his infernal enemy? he tore open the envelope. it was indeed a letter from his father, written by his father himself. the handwriting presented all the peculiarities, all the oddities of the hand which he knew so well. he read: * * * * * will these lines ever reach you, my dear son? i dare not believe it. during the whole night of my abduction, we traveled by motor car; then, in the morning, by carriage. i could see nothing. my eyes were bandaged. the castle in which i am confined should be somewhere in the midlands, to judge by its construction and the vegetation in the park. the room which i occupy is on the second floor: it is a room with two windows, one of which is almost blocked by a screen of climbing glycines. in the afternoon, i am allowed to walk about the park, at certain hours, but i am kept under unrelaxing observation. i am writing this letter, on the mere chance of its reaching you, and fastening it to a stone. perhaps, one day, i shall be able to throw it over the wall and some peasant will pick it up. but do not be distressed about me. i am treated with every consideration. your old father, who is very fond of you and very sad to think of the trouble he is giving you, beautrelet. * * * * * isidore at once looked at the postmarks. they read, "cuzion, indre." the indre! the department which he had been stubbornly searching for weeks! he consulted a little pocket-guide which he always carried. cuzion, in the canton of eguzon--he had been there too. for prudence's sake, he discarded his personality as an englishman, which was becoming too well known in the district, disguised himself as a workman and made for cuzion. it was an unimportant village. he would easily discover the sender of the letter. for that matter, chance served him without delay: "a letter posted on wednesday last?" exclaimed the mayor, a respectable tradesman in whom he confided and who placed himself at his disposal. "listen, i think i can give you a valuable clue: on saturday morning, gaffer charel, an old knife-grinder who visits all the fairs in the department, met me at the end of the village and asked, 'monsieur le maire, does a letter without a stamp on it go all the same?' 'of course,' said i. 'and does it get there?' 'certainly. only there's double postage to pay on it, that's all the difference.'" "and where does he live?" "he lives over there, all alone--on the slope--the hovel that comes next after the churchyard.--shall i go with you?" it was a hovel standing by itself, in the middle of an orchard surrounded by tall trees. as they entered the orchard, three magpies flew away with a great splutter and they saw that the birds were flying out of the very hole in which the watch-dog was fastened. and the dog neither barked nor stirred as they approached. beautrelet went up in great surprise. the brute was lying on its side, with stiff paws, dead. they ran quickly to the cottage. the door stood open. they entered. at the back of a low, damp room, on a wretched straw mattress, flung on the floor itself, lay a man fully dressed. "gaffer charel!" cried the mayor. "is he dead, too?" the old man's hands were cold, his face terribly pale, but his heart was still beating, with a faint, slow throb, and he seemed not to be wounded in any way. they tried to resuscitate him and, as they failed in their efforts, beautrelet went to fetch a doctor. the doctor succeeded no better than they had done. the old man did not seem to be suffering. he looked as if he were just asleep, but with an artificial slumber, as though he had been put to sleep by hypnotism or with the aid of a narcotic. in the middle of the night that followed, however, isidore, who was watching by his side, observed that the breathing became stronger and that his whole being appeared to be throwing off the invisible bonds that paralyzed it. at daybreak, he woke up and resumed his normal functions: ate, drank and moved about. but, the whole day long, he was unable to reply to the young man's questions and his brain seemed as though still numbed by an inexplicable torpor. the next day, he asked beautrelet: "what are you doing here, eh?" it was the first time that he had shown surprise at the presence of a stranger beside him. gradually, in this way, he recovered all his faculties. he talked. he made plans. but, when beautrelet asked him about the events immediately preceding his sleep, he seemed not to understand. and beautrelet felt that he really did not understand. he had lost the recollection of all that had happened since the friday before. it was like a sudden gap in the ordinary flow of his life. he described his morning and afternoon on the friday, the purchases he had made at the fair, the meals he had taken at the inn. then--nothing--nothing more. he believed himself to be waking on the morrow of that day. it was horrible for beautrelet. the truth lay there, in those eyes which had seen the walls of the park behind which his father was waiting for him, in those hands which had picked up the letter, in that muddled brain which had recorded the whereabouts of that scene, the setting, the little corner of the world in which the play had been enacted. and from those hands, from that brain he was unable to extract the faintest echo of the truth so near at hand! oh, that impalpable and formidable obstacle, against which all his efforts hurled themselves in vain, that obstacle built up of silence and oblivion! how clearly it bore the mark of arsene lupin! he alone, informed, no doubt, that m. beautrelet had attempted to give a signal, he alone could have struck with partial death the one man whose evidence could injure him. it was not that beautrelet felt himself to be discovered or thought that lupin, hearing of his stealthy attack and knowing that a letter had reached him, was defending himself against him personally. but what an amount of foresight and real intelligence it displayed to suppress any possible accusation on the part of that chance wayfarer! nobody now knew that within the walls of a park there lay a prisoner asking for help. nobody? yes, beautrelet. gaffer charel was unable to speak. very well. but, at least, one could find out which fair the old man had visited and which was the logical road that he had taken to return by. and, along this road, perhaps it would at last be possible to find-- isidore, as it was, had been careful not to visit gaffer charel's hovel except with the greatest precautions and in such a way as not to give an alarm. he now decided not to go back to it. he made inquiries and learnt that friday was market-day at fresselines, a fair-sized town situated a few leagues off, which could be reached either by the rather winding highroad or by a series of short cuts. on the friday, he chose the road and saw nothing that attracted his attention, no high walled enclosure, no semblance of an old castle. he lunched at an inn at fresselines and was on the point of leaving when he saw gaffer charel arrive and cross the square, wheeling his little knife-grinding barrow before him. he at once followed him at a good distance. the old man made two interminable waits, during which he ground dozens of knives. then, at last, he went away by a quite different road, which ran in the direction of crozant and the market-town of eguzon. beautrelet followed him along this road. but he had not walked five minutes before he received the impression that he was not alone in shadowing the old fellow. a man was walking along between them, stopping at the same time as charel and starting off again when he did, without, for that matter, taking any great precautions against being seen. "he is being watched," thought beautrelet. "perhaps they want to know if he stops in front of the walls--" his heart beat violently. the event was at hand. the three of them, one behind the other, climbed up and down the steep slopes of the country and arrived at crozant, famed for the colossal ruins of its castle. there charel made a halt of an hour's duration. next he went down to the riverside and crossed the bridge. but then a thing happened that took beautrelet by surprise. the other man did not cross the river. he watched the old fellow move away and, when he had lost sight of him, turned down a path that took him right across the fields. beautrelet hesitated for a few seconds as to what course to take, and then quietly decided. he set off in pursuit of the man. "he has made sure," he thought, "that gaffer charel has gone straight ahead. that is all he wanted to know and so he is going--where? to the castle?" he was within touch of the goal. he felt it by a sort of agonizing gladness that uplifted his whole being. the man plunged into a dark wood overhanging the river and then appeared once more in the full light, where the path met the horizon. when beautrelet, in his turn, emerged from the wood, he was greatly surprised no longer to see the man. he was seeking him with his eyes when, suddenly, he gave a stifled cry and, with a backward spring, made for the line of trees which he had just left. on his right, he had seen a rampart of high walls, flanked, at regular distances, by massive buttresses. it was there! it was there! those walls held his father captive! he had found the secret place where lupin confined his victim. he dared not quit the shelter which the thick foliage of the wood afforded him. slowly, almost on all fours, he bore to the right and in this way reached the top of a hillock that rose to the level of the neighboring trees. the walls were taller still. nevertheless, he perceived the roof of the castle which they surrounded, an old louis xiii. roof, surmounted by very slender bell-turrets arranged corbel-wise around a higher steeple which ran to a point. beautrelet did no more that day. he felt the need to reflect and to prepare his plan of attack without leaving anything to chance. he held lupin safe; and it was for beautrelet now to select the hour and the manner of the combat. he walked away. near the bridge, he met two country-girls carrying pails of milk. he asked: "what is the name of the castle over there, behind the trees?" "that's the chateau de l'aiguille, sir." he had put his question without attaching any importance to it. the answer took away his breath: "the chateau de l'aiguille?--oh!--but in what department are we? the indre?" "certainly not. the indre is on the other side of the river. this side, it's the creuse." isidore saw it all in a flash. the chateau de l'aiguille! the department of the creuse! l'aiguille creuse! the hollow needle! the very key to the document! certain, decisive, absolute victory! without another word, he turned his back on the two girls and went his way, tottering like a drunken man. chapter six an historic secret beautrelet's resolve was soon taken: he would act alone. to inform the police was too dangerous. apart from the fact that he could only offer presumptions, he dreaded the slowness of the police, their inevitable indiscretions, the whole preliminary inquiry, during which lupin, who was sure to be warned, would have time to effect a retreat in good order. at eight o'clock the next morning, with his bundle under his arm, he left the inn in which he was staying near cuzion, made for the nearest thicket, took off his workman's clothes, became once more the young english painter that he had been and went to call on the notary at eguzon, the largest place in the immediate neighborhood. he said that he liked the country and that he was thinking of taking up his residence there, with his relations, if he could find a suitable house. the notary mentioned a number of properties. beautrelet took note of them and let fall that some one had spoken to him of the chateau de l'aiguille, on the bank of the creuse. "oh, yes, but the chateau de l'aiguille, which has belonged to one of my clients for the last five years, is not for sale." "he lives in it, then?" "he used to live in it, or rather his mother did. but she did not care for it; found the castle rather gloomy. so they left it last year." "and is no one living there at present?" "yes, an italian, to whom my client let it for the summer season: baron anfredi." "oh, baron anfredi! a man still young, rather grave and solemn-looking--?" "i'm sure i can't say.--my client dealt with him direct. there was no regular agreement, just a letter--" "but you know the baron?" "no, he never leaves the castle.--sometimes, in his motor, at night, so they say. the marketing is done by an old cook, who talks to nobody. they are queer people--" "do you think your client would consent to sell his castle?" "i don't think so. it's an historic castle, built in the purest louis xiii. style. my client was very fond of it; and, unless he has changed his mind--" "can you give me his name and address?" "louis valmeras, , rue du mont-thabor." beautrelet took the train for paris at the nearest station. on the next day but one, after three fruitless calls, he at last found louis valmeras at home. he was a man of about thirty, with a frank and pleasing face. beautrelet saw no need to beat about the bush, stated who he was and described his efforts and the object of the step which he was now taking: "i have good reason to believe," he concluded, "that my father is imprisoned in the chateau de l'aiguille, doubtless in the company of other victims. and i have come to ask you what you know of your tenant, baron anfredi." "not much. i met baron anfredi last winter at monte carlo. he had heard by accident that i was the owner of the chateau de l'aiguille and, as he wished to spend the summer in france, he made me an offer for it." "he is still a young man--" "yes, with very expressive eyes, fair hair--" "and a beard?" "yes, ending in two points, which fall over a collar fastened at the back, like a clergyman's. in fact, he looks a little like an english parson." "it's he," murmured beautrelet, "it's he, as i have seen him: it's his exact description." "what! do you think--?" "i think, i am sure that your tenant is none other than arsene lupin." the story amused louis valmeras. he knew all the adventures of arsene lupin and the varying fortunes of his struggle with beautrelet. he rubbed his hands: "ha, the chateau de l'aiguille will become famous!--i'm sure i don't mind, for, as a matter of fact, now that my mother no longer lives in it, i have always thought that i would get rid of it at the first opportunity. after this, i shall soon find a purchaser. only--" "only what?" "i will ask you to act with the most extreme prudence and not to inform the police until you are quite sure. can you picture the situation, supposing my tenant were not arsene lupin?" beautrelet set forth his plan. he would go alone at night; he would climb the walls; he would sleep in the park-- louis valmeras stopped him at once: "you will not climb walls of that height so easily. if you do, you will be received by two huge sheep-dogs which belonged to my mother and which i left behind at the castle." "pooh! a dose of poison--" "much obliged. but suppose you escaped them. what then? how would you get into the castle? the doors are massive, the windows barred. and, even then, once you were inside, who would guide you? there are eighty rooms." "yes, but that room with two windows, on the second story--" "i know it, we call it the glycine room. but how will you find it? there are three staircases and a labyrinth of passages. i can give you the clue and explain the way to you, but you would get lost just the same." "come with me," said beautrelet, laughing. "i can't. i have promised to go to my mother in the south." beautrelet returned to the friend with whom he was staying and began to make his preparations. but, late in the day, as he was getting ready to go, he received a visit from valmeras. "do you still want me?" "rather!" "well, i'm coming with you. yes, the expedition fascinates me. i think it will be very amusing and i like being mixed up in this sort of thing.--besides, my help will be of use to you. look, here's something to start with." he held up a big key, all covered with rust and looking very old. "what does the key open?" asked beautrelet. "a little postern hidden between two buttresses and left unused since centuries ago. i did not even think of pointing it out to my tenant. it opens straight on the country, just at the verge of the wood." beautrelet interrupted him quickly: "they know all about that outlet. it was obviously by this way that the man whom i followed entered the park. come, it's fine game and we shall win it. but, by jupiter, we must play our cards carefully!" * * * * * two days later, a half-famished horse dragged a gipsy caravan into crozant. its driver obtained leave to stable it at the end of the village, in an old deserted cart-shed. in addition to the driver, who was none other than valmeras, there were three young men, who occupied themselves in the manufacture of wicker-work chairs: beautrelet and two of his janson friends. they stayed there for three days, waiting for a propitious, moonless night and roaming singly round the outskirts of the park. once beautrelet saw the postern. contrived between two buttresses placed very close together, it was almost merged, behind the screen of brambles that concealed it, in the pattern formed by the stones of the wall. at last, on the fourth evening, the sky was covered with heavy black clouds and valmeras decided that they should go reconnoitring, at the risk of having to return again, should circumstances prove unfavorable. all four crossed the little wood. then beautrelet crept through the heather, scratched his hands at the bramble-hedge and, half raising himself, slowly, with restrained movements, put the key into the lock. he turned it gently. would the door open without an effort? was there no bolt closing it on the other side? he pushed: the door opened, without a creak or jolt. he was in the park. "are you there, beautrelet?" asked valmeras. "wait for me. you two chaps, watch the door and keep our line of retreat open. at the least alarm, whistle." he took beautrelet's hand and they plunged into the dense shadow of the thickets. a clearer space was revealed to them when they reached the edge of the central lawn. at the same moment a ray of moonlight pierced the clouds; and they saw the castle, with its pointed turrets arranged around the tapering spire to which, no doubt, it owed its name. there was no light in the windows; not a sound. valmeras grasped his companion's arm: "keep still!" "what is it?" "the dogs, over there--look--" there was a growl. valmeras gave a low whistle. two white forms leapt forward and, in four bounds, came and crouched at their master's feet. "gently--lie down--that's it--good dogs--stay there." and he said to beautrelet: "and now let us push on. i feel more comfortable." "are you sure of the way?" "yes. we are near the terrace." "and then?" "i remember that, on the left, at a place where the river terrace rises to the level of the ground-floor windows, there is a shutter which closes badly and which can be opened from the outside." they found, when they came to it, that the shutter yielded to pressure. valmeras removed a pane with a diamond which he carried. he turned the window-latch. first one and then the other stepped over the balcony. they were now in the castle, at the end of a passage which divided the left wing into two. "this room," said valmeras, "opens at the end of a passage. then comes an immense hall, lined with statues, and at the end of the hall a staircase which ends near the room occupied by your father." he took a step forward. "are you coming, beautrelet?" "yes, yes." "but no, you're not coming--what's the matter with you?" he seized him by the hand. it was icy cold and he perceived that the young man was cowering on the floor. "what's the matter with you?" he repeated. "nothing--it'll pass off--" "but what is it?" "i'm afraid--" "you're afraid?" "yes," beautrelet confessed, frankly, "it's my nerves giving way--i generally manage to control them--but, to-day, the silence--the excitement--and then, since i was stabbed by that magistrate's clerk--but it will pass off--there, it's passing now--" he succeeded in rising to his feet and valmeras dragged him out of the room. they groped their way along the passage, so softly that neither could hear a sound made by the other. a faint glimmer, however, seemed to light the hall for which they were making. valmeras put his head round the corner. it was a night-light placed at the foot of the stairs, on a little table which showed through the frail branches of a palm tree. "halt!" whispered valmeras. near the night-light, a man stood sentry, carrying a gun. had he seen them? perhaps. at least, something must have alarmed him, for he brought the gun to his shoulder. beautrelet had fallen on his knees, against a tub containing a plant, and he remained quite still, with his heart thumping against his chest. meanwhile, the silence and the absence of all movement reassured the man. he lowered his weapon. but his head was still turned in the direction of the tub. terrible minutes passed: ten minutes, fifteen. a moonbeam had glided through a window on the staircase. and, suddenly, beautrelet became aware that the moonbeam was shifting imperceptibly, and that, before fifteen, before ten more minutes had elapsed, it would be shining full in his face. great drops of perspiration fell from his forehead on his trembling hands. his anguish was such that he was on the point of getting up and running away--but, remembering that valmeras was there, he sought him with his eyes and was astounded to see him, or rather to imagine him, creeping in the dark, under cover of the statues and plants. he was already at the foot of the stairs, within a few steps of the man. what was he going to do? to pass in spite of all? to go upstairs alone and release the prisoner? but could he pass? beautrelet no longer saw him and he had an impression that something was about to take place, something that seemed foreboded also by the silence, which hung heavier, more awful than before. and, suddenly, a shadow springing upon the man, the night-light extinguished, the sound of a struggle--beautrelet ran up. the two bodies had rolled over on the flagstones. he tried to stoop and see. but he heard a hoarse moan, a sigh; and one of the adversaries rose to his feet and seized him by the arm: "quick!--come along!" it was valmeras. they went up two storys and came out at the entrance to a corridor, covered by a hanging. "to the right," whispered valmeras. "the fourth room on the left." they soon found the door of the room. as they expected, the captive was locked in. it took them half an hour, half an hour of stifled efforts, of muffled attempts, to force open the lock. the door yielded at last. beautrelet groped his way to the bed. his father was asleep. he woke him gently: "it's i--isidore--and a friend--don't be afraid--get up--not a word." the father dressed himself, but, as they were leaving the room, he whispered: "i am not alone in the castle--" "ah? who else? ganimard? shears?" "no--at least, i have not seen them." "who then?" "a young girl." "mlle. de saint-veran, no doubt." "i don't know--i saw her several times at a distance, in the park--and, when i lean out of my window, i can see hers. she has made signals to me." "do you know which is her room?" "yes, in this passage, the third on the right." "the blue room," murmured valmeras. "it has folding doors: they won't give us so much trouble." one of the two leaves very soon gave way. old beautrelet undertook to tell the girl. ten minutes later, he left the room with her and said to his son: "you were right--mlle. de saint-veran--;" they all four went down the stairs. when they reached the bottom, valmeras stopped and bent over the man. then, leading them to the terrace-room: "he is not dead," he said. "he will live." "ah!" said beautrelet, with a sigh of relief. "no, fortunately, the blade of my knife bent: the blow is not fatal. besides, in any case, those rascals deserve no pity." outside, they were met by the dogs, which accompanied them to the postern. here, beautrelet found his two friends and the little band left the park. it was three o'clock in the morning. * * * * * this first victory was not enough to satisfy beautrelet. as soon as he had comfortably settled his father and mlle. de saint-veran, he asked them about the people who lived at the castle, and, particularly, about the habits of arsene lupin. he thus learnt that lupin came only every three or four days, arriving at night in his motor car and leaving again in the morning. at each of his visits, he called separately upon his two prisoners, both of whom agreed in praising his courtesy and his extreme civility. for the moment, he was not at the castle. apart from him, they had seen no one except an old woman, who ruled over the kitchen and the house, and two men, who kept watch over them by turns and never spoke to them: subordinates, obviously, to judge by their manners and appearance. "two accomplices, for all that," said beautrelet, in conclusion, "or rather three, with the old woman. it is a bag worth having. and, if we lose no time--" he jumped on his bicycle, rode to eguzon, woke up the gendarmerie, set them all going, made them sound the boot and saddle and returned to crozant at eight o'clock, accompanied by the sergeant and eight gendarmes. two of the men were posted beside the gipsy-van. two others took up their positions outside the postern-door. the last four, commanded by their chief and accompanied by beautrelet and valmeras, marched to the main entrance of the castle. too late. the door was wide open. a peasant told them that he had seen a motor car drive out of the castle an hour before. indeed, the search led to no result. in all probability, the gang had installed themselves there picnic fashion. a few clothes were found, a little linen, some household implements; and that was all. what astonished beautrelet and valmeras more was the disappearance of the wounded man. they could not see the faintest trace of a struggle, not even a drop of blood on the flagstones of the hall. all said, there was no material evidence to prove the fleeting presence of lupin at the chateau de l'aiguille; and the authorities would have been entitled to challenge the statements of beautrelet and his father, of valmeras and mlle. de saint-veran, had they not ended by discovering, in a room next to that occupied by the young girl, some half-dozen exquisite bouquets with arsene lupin's card pinned to them, bouquets scorned by her, faded and forgotten--one of them, in addition to the card, contained a letter which raymonde had not seen. that afternoon, when opened by the examining magistrate, it was found to contain page upon page of prayers, entreaties, promises, threats, despair, all the madness of a love that has encountered nothing but contempt and repulsion. and the letter ended: i shall come on tuesday evening, raymonde. reflect between now and then. as for me, i will wait no longer. i am resolved on all. * * * * * tuesday evening was the evening of the very day on which beautrelet had released mlle. de saint-veran from her captivity. the reader will remember the extraordinary explosion of surprise and enthusiasm that resounded throughout the world at the news of that unexpected issue: mlle. de saint-veran free! the pretty girl whom lupin coveted, to secure whom he had contrived his most machiavellian schemes, snatched from his claws! free also beautrelet's father, whom lupin had chosen as a hostage in his extravagant longing for the armistice demanded by the needs of his passion! they were both free, the two prisoners! and the secret of the hollow needle was known, published, flung to the four corners of the world! the crowd amused itself with a will. ballads were sold and sung about the defeated adventurer: lupin's little love-affairs!--arsene's piteous sobs!--the lovesick burglar! the pickpocket's lament!--they were cried on the boulevards and hummed in the artists' studios. raymonde, pressed with questions and pursued by interviewers, replied with the most extreme reserve. but there was no denying the letter, or the bouquets of flowers, or any part of the pitiful story! then and there, lupin, scoffed and jeered at, toppled from his pedestal. and beautrelet became the popular idol. he had foretold everything, thrown light on everything. the evidence which mlle. de saint-veran gave before the examining magistrate confirmed, down to the smallest detail, the hypothesis imagined by isidore. reality seemed to submit, in every point, to what he had decreed beforehand. lupin had found his master.-- * * * * * beautrelet insisted that his father, before returning to his mountains in savoy, should take a few months' rest in the sunshine, and himself escorted him and mlle. de saint-veran to the outskirts of nice, where the comte de gesvres and his daughter suzanne were already settled for the winter. two days later, valmeras brought his mother to see his new friends and they thus composed a little colony grouped around the villa de gesvres and watched over day and night by half a dozen men engaged by the comte. early in october, beautrelet, once more the sixth-form pupil, returned to paris to resume the interrupted course of his studies and to prepare for his examinations. and life began again, calmer, this time, and free from incident. what could happen, for that matter. was the war not over? lupin, on his side, must have felt this very clearly, must have felt that there was nothing left for him but to resign himself to the accomplished fact; for, one fine day, his two other victims, ganimard and holmlock shears, made their reappearance. their return to the life of this planet, however, was devoid of any sort of glamor or fascination. an itinerant rag-man picked them up on the quai des orfevres, opposite the headquarters of police. both of them were gagged, bound and fast asleep. after a week of complete bewilderment, they succeeded in recovering the control of their thought and told--or rather ganimard told, for shears wrapped himself in a fierce and stubborn silence--how they had made a voyage of circumnavigation round the coast of africa on board the yacht hirondelle, a voyage combining amusement with instruction, during which they could look upon themselves as free, save for a few hours which they spent at the bottom of the hold, while the crew went on shore at outlandish ports. as for their landing on the quai des orfevres, they remembered nothing about it and had probably been asleep for many days before. this liberation of the prisoners was the final confession of defeat. by ceasing to fight, lupin admitted it without reserve. one incident, moreover, made it still more glaring, which was the engagement of louis valmeras and mlle. de saint-veran. in the intimacy created between them by the new conditions under which they lived, the two young people fell in love with each other. valmeras loved raymonde's melancholy charm; and she, wounded by life, greedy for protection, yielded before the strength and energy of the man who had contributed so gallantly to her preservation. the wedding day was awaited with a certain amount of anxiety. would lupin not try to resume the offensive? would he accept with a good grace the irretrievable loss of the woman he loved? twice or three times, suspicious-looking people were seen prowling round the villa; and valmeras even had to defend himself one evening against a so-called drunken man, who fired a pistol at him and sent a bullet through his hat. but, in the end, the ceremony was performed at the appointed hour and day and raymonde de saint-veran became mme. louis valmeras. it was as though fate herself had taken sides with beautrelet and countersigned the news of victory. this was so apparent to the crowd that his admirers now conceived the notion of entertaining him at a banquet to celebrate his triumph and lupin's overthrow. it was a great idea and aroused general enthusiasm. three hundred tickets were sold in less than a fortnight. invitations were issued to the public schools of paris, to send two sixth-form pupils apiece. the press sang paeans. the banquet was what it could not fail to be, an apotheosis. but it was a charming and simple apotheosis, because beautrelet was its hero. his presence was enough to bring things back to their due proportion. he showed himself modest, as usual, a little surprised at the excessive cheering, a little embarrassed by the extravagant panegyrics in which he was pronounced greater than the most illustrious detectives--a little embarrassed, but also not a little touched. he said as much in a few words that pleased all his hearers and with the shyness of a child that blushes when you look at it. he spoke of his delight, of his pride. and really, reasonable and self-controlled as he was, this was for him a moment of never-to-be-forgotten exultation. he smiled to his friends, to his fellow-jansonians, to valmeras, who had come specially to give him a cheer, to m. de gesvres, to his father. when he had finished speaking; and while he still held his glass in his hand, a sound of voices came from the other end of the room and some one was gesticulating and waving a newspaper. silence was restored and the importunate person sat down again: but a thrill of curiosity ran round the table, the newspaper was passed from hand to hand and, each time that one of the guests cast his eyes upon the page at which it was opened, exclamations followed: "read it! read it!" they cried from the opposite side. the people were leaving their seats at the principal table. m. beautrelet went and took the paper and handed it to his son. "read it out! read it out!" they cried, louder. and others said: "listen! he's going to read it! listen!" beautrelet stood facing his audience, looked in the evening paper which his father had given him for the article that was causing all this uproar and, suddenly, his eyes encountering a heading underlined in blue pencil, he raised his hand to call for silence and began in a loud voice to read a letter addressed to the editor by m. massiban, of the academy of inscriptions and belles-lettres. his voice broke and fell, little by little, as he read those stupefying revelations, which reduced all his efforts to nothing, upset his notions concerning the hollow needle and proved the vanity of his struggle with arsene lupin: * * * * * sir: on the th of march, , there appeared a little book with the following title: the mystery of the hollow needle. the whole truth now first exhibited. one hundred copies printed by myself for the instruction of the court. at nine o'clock on the morning of that day, the author, a very young man, well-dressed, whose name has remained unknown, began to leave his book on the principal persons at court. at ten o'clock, when he had fulfilled four of these errands, he was arrested by a captain in the guards, who took him to the king's closet and forthwith set off in search of the four copies distributed. when the hundred copies were got together, counted, carefully looked through and verified, the king himself threw them into the fire and burnt them, all but one, which he kept for his own purposes. then he ordered the captain of the guards to take the author of the book to m. de saint-mars, who confined his prisoner first at pignerol and then in the fortress of the ile sainte-marguerite. this man was obviously no other than the famous man with the iron mask. the truth would never have been known, or at least a part of the truth, if the captain in the guards had not been present at the interview and if, when the king's back was turned, he had not been tempted to withdraw another of the copies from the chimney, before the fire got to it. six months later, the captain was found dead on the highroad between gaillon and mantes. his murderers had stripped him of all his apparel, forgetting, however, in his right boot a jewel which was discovered there afterward, a diamond of the first water and of considerable value. among his papers was found a sheet in his handwriting, in which he did not speak of the book snatched from the flames, but gave a summary of the earlier chapters. it referred to a secret which was known to the kings of england, which was lost by them when the crown passed from the poor fool, henry vi., to the duke of york, which was revealed to charles vii., king of france, by joan of arc and which, becoming a state secret, was handed down from sovereign to sovereign by means of a letter, sealed anew on each occasion, which was found in the deceased monarch's death-bed with this superscription: "for the king of france." this secret concerned the existence and described the whereabouts of a tremendous treasure, belonging to the kings, which increased in dimensions from century to century. one hundred and fourteen years later, louis xvi., then a prisoner in the temple, took aside one of the officers whose duty it was to guard the royal family, and asked: "monsieur, had you not an ancestor who served as a captain under my predecessor, the great king?" "yes, sire." "well, could you be relied upon--could you be relied upon--" he hesitated. the officer completed the sentence: "not to betray your majesty! oh, sire!--" "then listen to me." he took from his pocket a little book of which he tore out one of the last pages. but, altering his mind: "no, i had better copy it--" he seized a large sheet of paper and tore it in such a way as to leave only a small rectangular space, on which he copied five lines of dots, letters and figures from the printed page. then, after burning the latter, he folded the manuscript sheet in four, sealed it with red wax, and gave it to the officer. "monsieur, after my death, you must hand this to the queen and say to her, 'from the king, madame--for your majesty and for your son.' if she does not understand--" "if she does not understand, sire--" "you must add, 'it concerns the secret, the secret of the needle.' the queen will understand." when he had finished speaking, he flung the book into the embers glowing on the hearth. he ascended the scaffold on the st of january. it took the officer several months, in consequence of the removal of the queen to the conciergerie, before he could fulfil the mission with which he was entrusted. at last, by dint of cunning intrigues, he succeeded, one day, in finding himself in the presence of marie antoinette. speaking so that she could just hear him, he said: "madame, from the late king, your husband, for your majesty and your son." and he gave her the sealed letter. she satisfied herself that the jailers could not see her, broke the seals, appeared surprised at the sight of those undecipherable lines and then, all at once, seemed to understand. she smiled bitterly and the officer caught the words: "why so late?" she hesitated. where should she hide this dangerous document? at last, she opened her book of hours and slipped the paper into a sort of secret pocket contrived between the leather of the binding and the parchment that covered it. "why so late?" she had asked. it is, in fact, probable that this document, if it could have saved her, came too late, for, in the month of october next, queen marie antoinette ascended the scaffold in her turn. now the officer, when going through his family papers, came upon his ancestor's manuscript. from that moment, he had but one idea, which was to devote his leisure to elucidating this strange problem. he read all the latin authors, studied all the chronicles of france and those of the neighboring countries, visited the monasteries, deciphered account-books, cartularies, treaties; and, in this way, succeeded in discovering certain references scattered over the ages. in book iii of caesar's commentaries on the gallic war (ms. edition, alexandria), it is stated that, after the defeat of veridovix by g. titullius sabinus, the chief of the caleti was brought before caesar and that, for his ransom, he revealed the secret of the needle-- the treaty of saint-clair-sur-epte, between charles the simple and rollo, the chief of the norse barbarians, gives rollo's name followed by all his titles, among which we read that of master of the secret of the needle. the saxon chronicle (gibson's edition, page ), speaking of william the conqueror, says that the staff of his banner ended in a steel point pierced with an eye, like a needle. in a rather ambiguous phrase in her examination, joan of arc admits that she has still a great secret to tell the king of france. to which her judges reply, "yes, we know of what you speak; and that, joan, is why you shall die the death." philippe de comines mentions it in connection with louis xi., and, later, sully in connection with henry iv.: "by the virtue of the needle!" the good king sometimes swears. between these two, francis i., in a speech addressed to the notables of the havre, in , uttered this phrase, which has been handed down in the diary of a honfleur burgess; "the kings of france carry secrets that often decide the conduct of affairs and the fate of towns." all these quotations, all the stories relating to the iron mask, the captain of the guards and his descendant, i have found to-day in a pamphlet written by this same descendant and published in the month of june, , just before or just after the battle of waterloo, in a period, therefore, of great upheavals, in which the revelations which it contained were likely to pass unperceived. what is the value of this pamphlet? nothing, you will tell me, and we must attach no credit to it. and this is the impression which i myself would have carried away, if it had not occurred to me to open caesar's commentaries at the chapter given. what was my astonishment when i came upon the phrase quoted in the little book before me! and it was the same thing with the treaty of saint-clair-sur-epte, with the saxon chronicle, with the examination of joan of arc, in short, with all that i have been able to verify up to the present. lastly, there is an even more precise fact related by the author of the pamphlet of . during the french campaign, he being then an officer under napoleon, his horse dropped dead, one evening, and he rang at the door of a castle where he was received by an old knight of st. louis. and, in the course of conversation with the old man, he learnt that this castle, standing on the bank of the creuse, was called the chateau de l'aiguille, that it had been built and christened by louis xiv., and that, by his express order, it was adorned with turrets and with a spire which represented the needle. as its date it bore, it must still bear, the figure . ! one year after the publication of the book and the imprisonment of the iron mask! everything was now explained: louis xiv., foreseeing that the secret might be noised abroad, had built and named that castle so as to offer the quidnuncs a natural explanation of the ancient mystery. the hollow needle! a castle with pointed bell-turrets standing on the bank of the creuse and belonging to the king. people would at once think that they had the key to the riddle and all enquiries would cease. the calculation was just, seeing that, more than two centuries later, m. beautrelet fell into the trap. and this, sir, is what i was leading up to in writing this letter. if lupin, under the name of anfredi, rented from m. valmeras the chateau de l'aiguille on the bank of the creuse; if, admitting the success of the inevitable investigations of m. beautrelet, he lodged his two prisoners there, it was because he admitted the success of the inevitable researches made by m. beautrelet and because, with the object of obtaining the peace for which he had asked, he laid for m. beautrelet precisely what we may call the historic trap of louis xiv. and hence we come to this undeniable conclusion, that he, lupin, by his unaided lights, without possessing any other facts than those which we possess, managed by means of the witchcraft of a really extraordinary genius, to decipher the undecipherable document; and that he, lupin, the last heir of the kings of france, knows the royal mystery of the hollow needle! * * * * * here ended the letter. but, for some minutes, from the passage that referred to the chateau de l'aiguille onward, it was not beautrelet's but another voice that read it aloud. realizing his defeat, crushed under the weight of his humiliation, isidore had dropped the newspaper and sunk into his chair, with his face buried in his hands. panting, shaken with excitement by this incredible story, the crowd had come gradually nearer and was now pressing round. with a thrill of anguish, they waited for the words which he would say in reply, the objections which he would raise. he did not stir. valmeras gently uncrossed his hands and raised his head. isidore beautrelet was weeping. chapter seven the treatise of the needle it is four o'clock in the morning. isidore has not returned to the lycee janson. he has no intention of returning before the end of the war of extermination which he has declared against lupin. this much he swore to himself under his breath, while his friends drove off with him, all faint and bruised, in a cab. a mad oath! an absurd and illogical war! what can he do, a single, unarmed stripling, against that phenomenon of energy and strength? on which side is he to attack him? he is unassailable. where to wound him? he is invulnerable. where to get at him? he is inaccessible. four o'clock in the morning. isidore has again accepted his schoolfellow's hospitality. standing before the chimney in his bedroom, with his elbows flat on the mantel-shelf and his two fists under his chin, he stares at his image in the looking-glass. he is not crying now, he can shed no more tears, nor fling himself about on his bed, nor give way to despair, as he has been doing for the last two hours and more. he wants to think, to think and understand. and he does not remove his eyes from those same eyes reflected in the glass, as though he hoped to double his powers of thought by contemplating his pensive image, as though he hoped to find at the back of that mirrored beautrelet the unsolvable solution of what he does not find within himself. he stands thus until six o'clock, and, little by little, the question presents itself to his mind with the strictness of an equation, bare and dry and cleared of all the details that complicate and obscure it. yes, he has made a mistake. yes, his reading of the document is all wrong. the word aiguille does not point to the castle on the creuse. also, the word demoiselles cannot be applied to raymonde de saint-veran and her cousin, because the text of the document dates back for centuries. therefore, all must be done over again, from the beginning. how? one piece of evidence alone would be incontestible: the book published under louis xiv. now of those hundred copies printed by the person who was presumed to be the man with the iron mask only two escaped the flames. one was purloined by the captain of the guards and lost. the other was kept by louis xiv., handed down to louis xv., and burnt by louis xvi. but a copy of the essential page, the page containing the solution of the problem, or at least a cryptographic solution, was conveyed to marie antoinette, who slipped it into the binding of her book of hours. what has become of this paper? is it the one which beautrelet has held in his hands and which lupin recovered from him through bredoux, the magistrate's clerk? or is it still in marie antoinette's book of hours? and the question resolves itself into this: what has become of the queen's book of hours? * * * * * after taking a short rest, beautrelet consulted his friend's father, an old and experienced collector, who was often called upon officially to give an expert opinion and who had quite lately been invited to advise the director of one of our museums on the drawing up of the catalogue. "marie antoinette's book of hours?" he exclaimed. "why, the queen left it to her waiting-woman, with secret instructions to forward it to count fersen. after being piously preserved in the count's family, it has been, for the last five years, in a glass case--" "a glass case?" "in the musee carnavalet, quite simply." "when will the museum be open?" "at twenty minutes from now, as it is every morning." * * * * * isidore and his friend jumped out of a cab at the moment when the doors of madame de sevigne's old mansion were opening. "hullo! m. beautrelet!" a dozen voices greeted his arrival. to his great surprise, he recognized the whole crowd of reporters who were following up "the mystery of the hollow needle." and one of them exclaimed: "funny, isn't it, that we should all have had the same idea? take care, arsene lupin may be among us!" they entered the museum together. the director was at once informed, placed himself entirely at their disposal, took them to the glass case and showed them a poor little volume, devoid of all ornament, which certainly had nothing royal about it. nevertheless, they were overcome by a certain emotion at the sight of this object which the queen had touched in those tragic days, which her eyes, red with tears, had looked upon--and they dared not take it and hunt through it: it was as though they feared lest they should be guilty of a sacrilege-- "come, m. beautrelet, it's your business!" he took the book with an anxious gesture. the description corresponded with that given by the author of the pamphlet. outside was a parchment cover, dirty, stained and worn in places, and under it, the real binding, in stiff leather. with what a thrill beautrelet felt for the hidden pocket! was it a fairy tale? or would he find the document written by louis xvi. and bequeathed by the queen to her fervent admirer? at the first page, on the upper side of the book, there was no receptacle. "nothing," he muttered. "nothing," they echoed, palpitating with excitement. but, at the last page, forcing back the book a little, he at once saw that the parchment was not stuck to the binding. he slipped his fingers in between--there was something--yes, he felt something--a paper-- "oh!" he gasped, in an accent almost of pain. "here--is it possible?" "quick, quick!" they cried. "what are you waiting for?" he drew out a sheet folded in two. "well, read it!--there are words in red ink--look!--it might be blood--pale, faded blood--read it!--" * * * * * he read: to you, fersen. for my son. october, . marie antoinette. * * * * * and suddenly beautrelet gave a cry of stupefaction. under the queen's signature there were--there were two words, in black ink, underlined with a flourish--two words: arsene lupin. all, in turns, took the sheet of paper and the same cry escaped from the lips of all of them: "marie antoinette!--arsene lupin!" a great silence followed. that double signature: those two names coupled together, discovered hidden in the book of hours; that relic in which the poor queen's desperate appeal had slumbered for more than a century: that horrible date of the th of october, , the day on which the royal head fell: all of this was most dismally and disconcertingly tragic. "arsene lupin!" stammered one of the voices, thus emphasizing the scare that underlay the sight of that demoniacal name at the foot of the hallowed page. "yes, arsene lupin," repeated beautrelet. "the queen's friend was unable to understand her desperate dying appeal. he lived with the keepsake in his possession which the woman whom he loved had sent him and he never guessed the reason of that keepsake. lupin discovered everything, on the other hand--and took it." "took what?" "the document, of course! the document written by louis xvi.; and it is that which i held in my hands. the same appearance, the same shape, the same red seals. i understand why lupin would not leave me a document which i could turn to account by merely examining the paper, the seals and so on." "and then?" "well, then, since the document is genuine, since i have, with my own eyes, seen the marks of the red seals, since marie antoinette herself assures me, by these few words in her hand, that the whole story of the pamphlet, as printed by m. massiban, is correct, because a problem of the hollow needle really exists, i am now certain to succeed." "but how? whether genuine or not, the document is of no use to you if you do not manage to decipher it, because louis xvi. destroyed the book that gave the explanation." "yes, but the other copy, which king louis xvi.'s captain of the guards snatched from the flames, was not destroyed." "how do you know?" "prove the contrary." after uttering this defiance, beautrelet was silent for a time and then, slowly, with his eyes closed, as though trying to fix and sum up his thoughts, he said: "possessing the secret, the captain of the guards begins by revealing it bit by bit in the journal found by his descendant. then comes silence. the answer to the riddle is withheld. why? because the temptation to make use of the secret creeps over him little by little and he gives way to it. a proof? his murder. a further proof? the magnificent jewel found upon him, which he must undoubtedly have taken from some royal treasure the hiding-place of which, unknown to all, would just constitute the mystery of the hollow needle. lupin conveyed as much to me; lupin was not lying." "then what conclusion do you draw, beautrelet?" "i draw this conclusion, my friends, that it be a good thing to advertise this story as much as possible, so that people may know, through all the papers, that we are looking for a book entitled the treatise of the needle. it may be fished out from the back shelves of some provincial library." the paragraph was drawn up forthwith; and beautrelet set to work at once, without even waiting for it to produce a result. a first scent suggested itself: the murder was committed near gaillon. he went there that same day. certainly, he did not hope to reconstruct a crime perpetrated two hundred years ago. but, all the same, there are crimes that leave traces in the memories, in the traditions of a countryside. they are recorded in the local chronicles. one day, some provincial archaeologist, some lover of old legends, some student of the minor incidents of the life of the past makes them the subject of an article in a newspaper or of a communication to the academy of his departmental town. beautrelet saw three or four of these archaeologists. with one of them in particular, an old notary, he examined the prison records, the ledgers of the old bailiwicks and the parish registers. there was no entry referring to the murder of a captain of the guards in the seventeenth century. he refused to be discouraged and continued his search in paris, where the magistrate's examination might have taken place. his efforts came to nothing. but the thought of another track sent him off in a fresh direction. was there no chance of finding out the name of that captain whose descendant served in the armies of the republic and was quartered in the temple during the imprisonment of the royal family? by dint of patient working, he ended by making out a list in which two names at least presented an almost complete resemblance: m. de larbeyrie, under louis xiv., and citizen larbrie, under the terror. this already was an important point. he stated it with precision in a note which he sent to the papers, asking for any information concerning this larbeyrie or his descendants. it was m. massiban, the massiban of the pamphlet, the member of the institute, who replied to him: * * * * * sir: allow me to call your attention to the following passage of voltaire, which i came upon in his manuscript of le siecle de louis xiv. (chapter xxv: particularites et anecdotes du regne). the passage has been suppressed in all the printed editions: "i have heard it said by the late m. de caumartin, intendant of finance, who was a friend of chamillard the minister, that the king one day left hurriedly in his carriage at the news that m. de larbeyrie had been murdered and robbed of some magnificent jewels. he seemed greatly excited and repeated: "'all is lost--all is lost--' "in the following year, the son of this larbeyrie and his daughter, who had married the marquis de velines, were banished to their estates in provence and brittany. we cannot doubt that there is something peculiar in this." i, in my turn, will add that we can doubt it all the less inasmuch as m. de chamillard, according to voltaire, was the last minister who possessed the strange secret of the iron mask. you will see for yourself, sir, the profit that can be derived from this passage and the evident link established between the two adventures. as for myself, i will not venture to imagine any very exact surmise as regards the conduct, the suspicions, and the apprehensions of louis xiv. in these circumstances; but, on the other hand, seeing that m. de larbeyrie left a son, who was probably the grandfather of larbrie the citizen-officer, and also a daughter, is it not permissible to suppose that a part of the papers left by larbeyrie came to the daughter and that among these papers was the famous copy which the captain of the guards saved from the flames? i have consulted the country-house year-book. there is a baron de velines living not far from rennes. could he be a descendant of the marquis? at any rate, i wrote to him yesterday, on chance, to ask if he had not in his possession a little old book bearing on its title-page the word aiguille; and i am awaiting his reply. it would give me the greatest pleasure to talk of all these matters with you. if you can spare the time, come and see me. i am, sir, etc., etc. p.s.--of course, i shall not communicate these little discoveries to the press. now that you are near the goal, discretion is essential. * * * * * beautrelet absolutely agreed. he even went further: to two journalists who were worrying him that morning he gave the most fanciful particulars as to his plans and his state of mind. in the afternoon, he hurried round to see massiban, who lived at , quai voltaire. to his great surprise, he was told that m. massiban had gone out of town unexpectedly, leaving a note for him in case he should call. isidore opened it and read: i have received a telegram which gives me some hope. so i am leaving town and shall sleep at rennes. you might take the evening train and, without stopping at rennes, go on to the little station of velines. we would meet at the castle, which is two miles and a half from the station. the programme appealed to beautrelet, and especially the idea that he would reach the castle at almost the same time as massiban, for he feared some blunder on the part of that inexperienced man. he went back to his friend and spent the rest of the day with him. in the evening, he took the brittany express and got out at velines as six o'clock in the morning. he did the two and a half miles, between bushy woods, on foot. he could see the castle, perched on a height, from a distance: it was a hybrid edifice, a mixture of the renascence and louis philippe styles, but it bore a stately air, nevertheless, with its four turrets and its ivy-mantled draw-bridge. isidore felt his heart beat as he approached. was he really nearing the end of his race? did the castle contain the key to the mystery? he was not without fear. it all seemed too good to be true; and he asked himself if he was not once more acting in obedience to some infernal plan contrived by lupin, if massiban was not for instance, a tool in the hands of his enemy. he burst out laughing: "tut, tut, i'm becoming absurd! one would really think that lupin was an infallible person who foresees everything, a sort of divine omnipotence against whom nothing can prevail! dash it all, lupin makes his mistakes; lupin, too, is at the mercy of circumstances; lupin has an occasional slip! and it is just because of his slip in losing the document that i am beginning to have the advantage of him. everything starts from that. and his efforts, when all is said, serve only to repair the first blunder." and blithely, full of confidence, beautrelet rang the bell. "yes, sir?" said the servant who opened the door. "can i see the baron de velines?" and he gave the man his card. "monsieur le baron is not up yet, but, if monsieur will wait--" "has not some one else been asking for him, a gentleman with a white beard and a slight stoop?" asked beautrelet, who knew massiban's appearance from the photographs in the newspapers. "yes, the gentleman came about ten minutes ago; i showed him into the drawing room. if monsieur will come this way--" the interview between massiban and beautrelet was of the most cordial character. isidore thanked the old man for the first-rate information which he owed to him and massiban expressed his admiration for beautrelet in the warmest terms. then they exchanged impressions on the document, on their prospects of discovering the book; and massiban repeated what he had heard at rennes regarding m. de velines. the baron was a man of sixty, who had been left a widower many years ago and who led a very retired life with his daughter, gabrielle de villemon. this lady had just suffered a cruel blow through the loss of her husband and her eldest son, both of whom had died as the result of a motor-car accident. "monsieur le baron begs the gentlemen to be good enough to come upstairs." the servant led the way to the first floor, to a large, bare-walled room, very simply furnished with desks, pigeon-holes and tables covered with papers and account-books. the baron received them very affably and with the volubility often displayed by people who live too much alone. they had great difficulty in explaining the object of their visit. "oh, yes, i know, you wrote to me about it, m. massiban. it has something to do with a book about a needle, hasn't it, a book which is supposed to have come down to me from my ancestors?" "just so." "i may as well tell you that my ancestors and i have fallen out. they had funny ideas in those days. i belong to my own time. i have broken with the past." "yes," said beautrelet, impatiently, "but have you no recollection of having seen the book?--" "certainly, i said so in my telegram," he exclaimed, addressing m. massiban, who, in his annoyance, was walking up and down the room and looking out of the tall windows. "certainly--or, at least, my daughter thought she had seen the title among the thousands of books that lumber up the library, upstairs--for i don't care about reading myself--i don't even read the papers. my daughter does, sometimes, but only when there is nothing the matter with georges, her remaining son! as for me, as long as my tenants pay their rents and my leases are kept up--! you see my account-books: i live in them, gentlemen; and i confess that i know absolutely nothing whatever about that story of which you wrote to me in your letter, m. massiban--" isidore beautrelet, nerve-shattered at all this talk, interrupted him bluntly: "i beg your pardon, monsieur, but the book--" "my daughter has looked for it. she looked for it all day yesterday." "well?" "well, she found it; she found it a few hours ago. when you arrived--" "and where is it?" "where is it? why, she put it on that table--there it is--over there--" isidore gave a bound. at one end of the table, on a muddled heap of papers, lay a little book bound in red morocco. he banged his fist down upon it, as though he were forbidding anybody to touch it--and also a little as though he himself dared not take it up. "well!" cried massiban, greatly excited. "i have it--here it is--we're there at last!" "but the title--are you sure?--" "why, of course: look!" "are you convinced? have we mastered the secret at last?" "the front page--what does the front page say?" "read: the whole truth now first exhibited. one hundred copies printed by myself for the instruction of the court." "that's it, that's it," muttered massiban, in a hoarse voice. "it's the copy snatched from the flames! it's the very book which louis xiv. condemned." they turned over the pages. the first part set forth the explanations given by captain de larbeyrie in his journal. "get on, get on!" said beautrelet, who was in a hurry to come to the solution. "get on? what do you mean? not at all! we know that the man with the iron mask was imprisoned because he knew and wished to divulge the secret of the royal house of france. but how did he know it? and why did he wish to divulge it? lastly, who was that strange personage? a half-brother of louis xiv., as voltaire maintained, or mattioli, the italian minister, as the modern critics declare? hang it, those are questions of the very first interest!" "later, later," protested beautrelet, feverishly turning the pages, as though he feared that the book would fly out of his hands before he had solved the riddle. "but--" said massiban, who doted on historical details. "we have plenty of time--afterward--let's see the explanation first--" suddenly beautrelet stopped. the document! in the middle of a left-hand page, his eyes saw the five mysterious lines of dots and figures! he made sure, with a glance, that the text was identical with that which he had studied so long; the same arrangement of the signs, the same intervals that permitted of the isolation of the word demoiselles and the separation of the two words aiguille and creuse. a short note preceded it: all the necessary indications, it appears, were reduced by king louis xiii. into a little table which i transcribe below. here followed the table of dots and figures. then came the explanation of the document itself. beautrelet read, in a broken voice: * * * * * as will be seen, this table, even after we have changed the figures into vowels, affords no light. one might say that, in order to decipher the puzzle, we must first know it. it is, at most, a clue given to those who know the paths of the labyrinth. let us take this clue and proceed. i will guide you. the fourth line first. the fourth line contains measurements and indications. by complying with the indications and noting the measurements set down, we inevitably attain our object, on condition, be it understood, that we know where we are and whither we are going, in a word, that we are enlightened as to the real meaning of the hollow needle. this is what we may learn from the first three lines. the first is so conceived to revenge myself on the king; i had warned him, for that matter-- * * * * * beautrelet stopped, nonplussed. "what? what is it?" said massiban. "the words don't make sense." "no more they do," replied massiban. "'the first is so conceived to revenge myself on the king--' what can that mean?" "damn!" yelled beautrelet. "well?" "torn! two pages! the next two pages! look at the marks!" he trembled, shaking with rage and disappointment. massiban bent forward. "it is true--there are the ends of two pages left, like bookbinders' guards. the marks seem pretty fresh. they've not been cut, but torn out--torn out with violence. look, all the pages at the end of the book have been rumpled." "but who can have done it? who?" moaned isidore, wringing his hands. "a servant? an accomplice?" "all the same, it may date back to a few months since," observed massiban. "even so--even so--some one must have hunted out and taken the book--tell me, monsieur," cried beautrelet, addressing the baron, "is there no one whom you suspect?" "we might ask my daughter." "yes--yes--that's it--perhaps she will know." m. de velines rang for the footman. a few minutes later, mme. de villemon entered. she was a young woman, with a sad and resigned face. beautrelet at once asked her: "you found this volume upstairs, madame, in the library?" "yes, in a parcel of books that had not been uncorded." "and you read it?" "yes, last night." "when you read it, were those two pages missing? try and remember: the two pages following this table of figures and dots?" "no, certainly not," she said, greatly astonished. "there was no page missing at all." "still, somebody has torn--" "but the book did not leave my room last night." "and this morning?" "this morning, i brought it down here myself, when m. massiban's arrival was announced." "then--?" "well, i don't understand--unless--but no." "what?" "georges--my son--this morning--georges was playing with the book." she ran out headlong, accompanied by beautrelet, massiban and the baron. the child was not in his room. they hunted in every direction. at last, they found him playing behind the castle. but those three people seemed so excited and called him so peremptorily to account that he began to yell aloud. everybody ran about to right and left. the servants were questioned. it was an indescribable tumult. and beautrelet received the awful impression that the truth was ebbing away from him, like water trickling through his fingers. he made an effort to recover himself, took mme. de villemon's arm, and, followed by the baron and massiban, led her back to the drawing room and said: "the book is incomplete. very well. there are two pages torn out; but you read them, did you not, madame?" "yes." "you know what they contained?" "yes." "could you repeat it to us?" "certainly. i read the book with a great deal of curiosity, but those two pages struck me in particular because the revelations were so very interesting." "well, then, speak madame, speak, i implore you! those revelations are of exceptional importance. speak, i beg of you: minutes lost are never recovered. the hollow needle--" "oh, it's quite simple. the hollow needle means--" at that moment, a footman entered the room: "a letter for madame." "oh, but the postman has passed!" "a boy brought it." mme. de villemon opened the letter, read it, and put her hand to her heart, turning suddenly livid and terrified, ready to faint. the paper had slipped to the floor. beautrelet picked it up and, without troubling to apologize, read: not a word! if you say a word, your son will never wake again. "my son--my son!" she stammered, too weak even to go to the assistance of the threatened child. beautrelet reassured her: "it is not serious--it's a joke. come, who could be interested?" "unless," suggested massiban, "it was arsene lupin." beautrelet made him a sign to hold his tongue. he knew quite well, of course, that the enemy was there, once more, watchful and determined; and that was just why he wanted to tear from mme. de villemon the decisive words, so long awaited, and to tear them from her on the spot, that very moment: "i beseech you, madame, compose yourself. we are all here. there is not the least danger." would she speak? he thought so, he hoped so. she stammered out a few syllables. but the door opened again. this time, the nurse entered. she seemed distraught: "m. georges--madame--m. georges--!" suddenly, the mother recovered all her strength. quicker than any of them, and urged by an unfailing instinct, she rushed down the staircase, across the hall and on to the terrace. there lay little georges, motionless, on a wicker chair. "well, what is it? he's asleep!--" "he fell asleep suddenly, madame," said the nurse. "i tried to prevent him, to carry him to his room. but he was fast asleep and his hands--his hands were cold." "cold!" gasped the mother. "yes--it's true. oh dear, oh dear--if he only wakes up!" beautrelet put his hand in his trousers pocket, seized the butt of his revolver, cocked it with his forefinger, then suddenly produced the weapon and fired at massiban. massiban, as though he were watching the boy's movements, had avoided the shot, so to speak, in advance. but already beautrelet had sprung upon him, shouting to the servants: "help! it's lupin!" massiban, under the weight of the impact, fell back into one of the wicker chairs. in a few seconds, he rose, leaving beautrelet stunned, choking; and, holding the young man's revolver in his hands: "good!--that's all right!--don't stir--you'll be like that for two or three minutes--no more. but, upon my word, you took your time to recognize me! was my make-up as old massiban so good as all that?" he was now standing straight up on his legs, his body squared, in a formidable attitude, and he grinned as he looked at the three petrified footmen and the dumbfounded baron: "isidore, you've missed the chance of a lifetime. if you hadn't told them i was lupin, they'd have jumped on me. and, with fellows like that, what would have become of me, by jove, with four to one against me?" he walked up to them: "come, my lads, don't be afraid--i shan't hurt you. wouldn't you like a sugar-stick apiece to screw your courage up? oh, you, by the way, hand me back my hundred-franc note, will you? yes, yes, i know you! you're the one i bribed just now to give the letter to your mistress. come hurry, you faithless servant." he took the blue bank-note which the servant handed him and tore it into tiny shreds: "the price of treachery! it burns my fingers." he took off his hat and, bowing very low before mme. de villemon: "will you forgive me, madame? the accidents of life--of mine especially--often drive one to acts of cruelty for which i am the first to blush. but have no fear for your son: it's a mere prick, a little puncture in the arm which i gave him while we were questioning him. in an hour, at the most, you won't know that it happened. once more, all my apologies. but i had to make sure of your silence." he bowed again, thanked m. de velines for his kind hospitality, took his cane, lit a cigarette, offered one to the baron, gave a circular sweep with his hat and, in a patronizing tone, said to beautrelet: "good-bye, baby." and he walked away quietly, puffing the smoke of his cigarette into the servants' faces. beautrelet waited for a few minutes. mme. de villemon, now calmer, was watching by her son. he went up to her, with the intention of making one last appeal to her. their eyes met. he said nothing. he had understood that she would never speak now, whatever happened. there, once more, in that mother's brain, the secret of the hollow needle lay buried as deeply as in the night of the past. then he gave up and went away. it was half-past ten. there was a train at eleven-fifty. he slowly followed the avenue in the park and turned into the road that led to the station. "well, what do you say to that?" it was massiban, or rather lupin, who appeared out of the wood adjoining the road. "was it pretty well contrived, or was it not? is your old friend great on the tight-rope, or is he not? i'm sure that you haven't got over it, eh, and that you're asking yourself whether the so-called massiban, member of the academy of inscriptions and belles-lettres, ever existed. but, of course, he exists. i'll even show him to you, if you're good. but, first, let me give you back your revolver. you're looking to see if it's loaded? certainly, my lad. there are five charges left, one of which would be enough to send me ad patres.--well, so you're putting it in your pocket? quite right. i prefer that to what you did up there.--a nasty little impulse, that, of yours!--still, you're young, you suddenly see--in a flash!--that you've once more been done by that confounded lupin and that he is standing there in front of you, at three steps from you--and bang! you fire!--i'm not angry with you, bless your little heart! to prove it, i offer you a seat in my h.p. car. will that suit you?" he put his fingers to his mouth and whistled. the contrast was delicious between the venerable appearance of this elderly massiban and the schoolboy ways and accent which lupin was putting on. beautrelet could not help laughing. "he's laughed! he's laughed!" cried lupin, jumping for joy. "you see, baby, what you fall short in is the power of smiling; you're a trifle serious for your age. you're a very likeable boy, you have a charming candor and simplicity--but you have no sense of humor." he placed himself in front of him. "look here, bet you i make you cry! do you know how i was able to follow up all your inquiry, how i knew of the letter massiban wrote you and his appointment to meet you this morning at the chateau de velines? through the prattle of your friend, the one you're staying with. you confide in that idiot and he loses no time, but goes and tells everything to his best girl. and his best girl has no secrets for lupin.--what did i tell you? i've made you feel, anyhow; your eyes are quite wet!--friendship betrayed: that upsets you, eh? upon my word, you're wonderful! i could take you in my arms and hug you! you always wear that look of astonishment which goes straight to my heart.--i shall never forget the other evening at gaillon, when you consulted me.--yes, i was the old notary!--but why don't you laugh, youngster? as i said, you have no sense of a joke. look here, what you want is--what shall i call it?--imagination, imaginative impulse. now, i'm full of imaginative impulse." a motor was heard panting not far off. lupin seized beautrelet roughly by the arm and in a cold voice, looking him straight in the eyes: "you're going to keep quiet now, aren't you? you can see there's nothing to be done. then what's the use of wasting your time and energy? there are plenty of highway robbers in the world. run after them and let me be--if not!--it's settled, isn't it?" he shook him as though to enforce his will upon him. then he grinned: "fool that i am! you leave me alone? you're not one of those who let go! oh, i don't know what restrains me! in half a dozen turns of the wrist, i could have you bound and gagged--and, in two hours, safe under lock and key, for some months to come. and then i could twist my thumbs in all security, withdraw to the peaceful retreat prepared for me by my ancestors, the kings of france, and enjoy the treasures which they have been good enough to accumulate for me. but no, it is doomed that i must go on blundering to the end. i can't help it, we all have our weaknesses--and i have one for you. besides, it's not done yet. from now until you put your finger into the hollow of the needle, a good deal of water will flow under the bridges. dash it all, it took me ten days! me! lupin! you will want ten years, at least! there's that much distance between us, after all!" the motor arrived, an immense closed car. lupin opened the door and beautrelet gave a cry. there was a man inside and that man was lupin, or rather massiban. suddenly understanding, he burst out laughing. lupin said: "don't be afraid, he's sound asleep. i promised that you should see him. do you grasp the situation now? at midnight, i knew of your appointment at the castle. at seven in the morning, i was there. when massiban passed, i had only to collect him--give him a tiny prick with a needle--and the thing--was done. sleep old chap, sleep away. we'll set you down on the slope. that's it--there--capital--right in the sun, then you won't catch cold--good! and our hat in our hand.--spare a copper, kind gentleman!--oh. my dear old massiban, so you were after arsene lupin!" it was really a huge joke to see the two massibans face to face, one asleep with his head on his chest, the other seriously occupied in paying him every sort of attention and respect: "pity a poor blind man! there, massiban, here's two sous and my visiting-card. and now, my lads, off we go at the fourth speed. do you hear, driver? you've got to do seventy-five miles an hour. jump in, isidore. there's a full sitting of the institute to-day, and massiban is to read a little paper, on i don't know what, at half-past three. well, he'll read them his little paper. i'll dish them up a complete massiban, more real than the real one, with my own ideas, on the lacustrine inscriptions. i don't have an opportunity of lecturing at the institute ever day!--faster, chauffeur: we're only doing seventy-one and a half!--are you afraid? remember you're with lupin!--ah, isidore, and then people say that life is monotonous! why, life's an adorable thing, my boy; only one has to know--and i know--. wasn't it enough to make a man jump out of his skin for joy, just now, at the castle, when you were chattering with old velines and i, up against the window, was tearing out the pages of the historic book? and then, when you were questioning the dame de villemon about the hollow needle! would she speak? yes, she would--no, she wouldn't--yes--no. it gave me gooseflesh, i assure you.--if she spoke, i should have to build up my life anew, the whole scaffolding was destroyed.--would the footman come in time? yes--no--there he is.--but beautrelet will unmask me! never! he's too much of a flat! yes, though--no--there, he's done it--no, he hasn't--yes--he's eyeing me--that's it--he's feeling for his revolver!--oh, the delight of it!--isidore, you're talking too much, you'll hurt yourself!--let's have a snooze, shall we?--i'm dying of sleep.--good night." beautrelet looked at him. he seemed almost asleep already. he slept. the motor-car, darting through space, rushed toward a horizon that was constantly reached and as constantly retreated. there was no impression of towns, villages, fields or forests; simply space, space devoured, swallowed up. beautrelet looked at his traveling companion, for a long time, with eager curiosity and also with a keen wish to fathom his real character through the mask that covered it. and he thought of the circumstances that confined them, like that, together, in the close contact of that motor car. but, after the excitement and disappointment of the morning, tired in his turn, he too fell asleep. when he woke, lupin was reading. beautrelet leant over to see the title of the book. it was the epistolae ad lucilium of seneca the philosopher. chapter eight from caesar to lupin dash it all, it took me ten days! me! lupin! you will want ten years, at least!-- these words, uttered by lupin after leaving the chateau de velines, had no little influence on beautrelet's conduct. though very calm in the main and invariably master of himself, lupin, nevertheless, was subject to moments of exaltation, of a more or less romantic expansiveness, at once theatrical and good-humored, when he allowed certain admissions to escape him, certain imprudent speeches which a boy like beautrelet could easily turn to profit. rightly or wrongly, beautrelet read one of these involuntary admissions into that phrase. he was entitled to conclude that, if lupin drew a comparison between his own efforts and beautrelet's in pursuit of the truth about the hollow needle, it was because the two of them possessed identical means of attaining their object, because lupin had no elements of success different from those possessed by his adversary. the chances were alike. now, with the same chances, the same elements of success, the same means, ten days had been enough for lupin. what were those elements, those means, those chances? they were reduced, when all was said, to a knowledge of the pamphlet published in , a pamphlet which lupin, no doubt, like massiban, had found by accident and thanks to which he had succeeded in discovering the indispensable document in marie antoinette's book of hours. therefore, the pamphlet and the document were the only two fundamental facts upon which lupin had relied. with these he had built up the whole edifice. he had had no extraneous aid. the study of the pamphlet and the study of the document--full stop--that was all. well, could not beautrelet confine himself to the same ground? what was the use of an impossible struggle? what was the use of those vain investigations, in which, even supposing that he avoided the pitfalls that were multiplied under his feet, he was sure, in the end, to achieve the poorest of results? his decision was clear and immediate; and, in adopting it, he had the happy instinct that he was on the right path. he began by leaving his janson-de-sailly schoolfellow, without indulging in useless recriminations, and, taking his portmanteau with him, went and installed himself, after much hunting about, in a small hotel situated in the very heart of paris. this hotel he did not leave for days. at most, he took his meals at the table d'hote. the rest of the time, locked in his room, with the window-curtains close-drawn, he spent in thinking. "ten days," arsene lupin had said. beautrelet, striving to forget all that he had done and to remember only the elements of the pamphlet and the document, aspired eagerly to keep within the limit of those ten days. however the tenth day passed and the eleventh and the twelfth; but, on the thirteenth day, a gleam lit up his brain and, very soon, with the bewildering rapidity of those ideas which develop in us like miraculous plants, the truth emerged, blossomed, gathered strength. on the evening of the thirteenth day, he certainly did not know the answer to the problem, but he knew, to a certainty, one of the methods which lupin had, beyond a doubt, employed. it was a very simple method, hinging on this one question: is there a link of any sort uniting all the more or less important historic events with which the pamphlet connects the mystery of the hollow needle? the great diversity of these events made the question difficult to answer. still, the profound examination to which beautrelet applied himself ended by pointing to one essential characteristic which was common to them all. each one of them, without exception, had happened within the boundaries of the old kingdom of neustria, which correspond very nearly with those of our present-day normandy. all the heroes of the fantastic adventure are norman, or become norman, or play their part in the norman country. what a fascinating procession through the ages! what a rousing spectacle was that of all those barons, dukes and kings, starting from such widely opposite points to meet in this particular corner of the world! beautrelet turned the pages of history at haphazard: it was rolf, or rou, or rollo, first duke of normandy, who was master of the secret of the needle, according to the treaty of saint-clair-sur-epte! it was william the conqueror, duke of normandy and king of england, whose bannerstaff was pierced like a needle! it was at rouen that the english burnt joan of arc, mistress of the secret! and right at the beginning of the adventure, who is that chief of the caleti who pays his ransom to caesar with the secret of the needle but the chief of the men of the caux country, which lies in the very heart of normandy? the supposition becomes more definite. the field narrows. rouen, the banks of the seine, the caux country: it really seems as though all roads lead in that direction. two kings of france are mentioned more particularly, after the secret is lost by the dukes of normandy and their heirs, the kings of england, and becomes the royal secret of france; and these two are king henry iv., who laid siege to rouen and won the battle of arques, near dieppe, and francis i., who founded the havre and uttered that suggestive phrase: "the kings of france carry secrets that often decide the fate of towns!" rouen, dieppe, the havre: the three angles of the triangle, the three large towns that occupy the three points. in the centre, the caux country. the seventeenth century arrives. louis xiv. burns the book in which a person unknown reveals the truth. captain de larbeyrie masters a copy, profits by the secret thus obtained, steals a certain number of jewels and dies by the hand of highway murderers. now at which spot is the ambush laid? at gaillon! at gaillon, a little town on the road leading from havre, rouen or dieppe to paris! a year later, louis xiv. buys a domain and builds the chateau de l'aiguille. where does he select his site? in the midlands of france, with the result that the curious are thrown off the scent and do not hunt about in normandy. rouen, dieppe, the havre--the cauchois triangle--everything lies there. on one side, the sea; on another, the seine: on the third, the two valleys that lead from rouen to dieppe. a light flashed across beautrelet's mind. that extent of ground, that country of the high tablelands which run from the cliffs of the seine to the cliffs of the channel almost invariably constituted the field of operations of arsene lupin. for ten years, it was just this district which he parcelled out for his purposes, as though he had his haunt in the very centre of the region with which, the legend of the hollow needle was most closely connected. the affair of baron cahorn?[ ] or the banks of the seine, between rouen and the havre. [ ] the seven of hearts, by maurice leblanc. ii; arsene lupin in prison the thibermenil case?[ ] at the other end of the tableland, between rouen and dieppe. [ ] the seven of hearts. ix: holmlock shears arrives too late. the gruchet, montigny, crasville burglaries? in the midst of the caux country. where was lupin going when he was attacked and bound hand and foot, in his compartment by pierre onfrey, the auteuil murderer?[ ] to rouen. [ ] the seven of hearts. iv: the mysterious railway-passenger. where was holmlock shears, lupin's prisoner, put on board ship?[ ] near the havre. [ ] arsene lupin versus holmlock shears, by maurice leblanc, chapter v: kidnapped. and what was the scene of the whole of the present tragedy? ambrumesy, on the road between the havre and dieppe. rouen, dieppe, the havre: always the cauchois triangle. and so, a few years earlier, possessing the pamphlet and knowing the hiding-place in which marie antoinette had concealed the document, arsene lupin had ended by laying his hand on the famous book of hours. once in possession of the document, he took the field, "found" and settled down as in a conquered country. beautrelet took the field. he set out in genuine excitement, thinking of the same journey which lupin had taken, of the same hopes with which he must have throbbed when he thus went in search of the tremendous secret which was to arm him with so great a power. would his, beautrelet's efforts have the same victorious results? he left rouen early in the morning, on foot, with his face very much disguised and his bag at the end of a stick on his shoulder, like an apprentice doing his round of france. he walked straight to duclair, where he lunched. on leaving this town, he followed the seine and practically did not lose sight of it again. his instinct, strengthened, moreover, by numerous influences, always brought him back to the sinuous banks of the stately river. when the chateau du malaquis was robbed, the objects stolen from baron cahorn's collection were sent by way of the seine. the old carvings removed from the chapel at ambrumesy were carried to the seine bank. he pictured the whole fleet of pinnaces performing a regular service between rouen and the havre and draining the works of art and treasures from a countryside to dispatch them thence to the land of millionaires. "i'm burning! i'm burning!" muttered the boy, gasping under the truth, which came to him in a mighty series of shocks and took away his breath. the checks encountered on the first few days, did not discourage him. he had a firm and profound belief in the correctness of the supposition that was guiding him. it was bold, perhaps, and extravagant; no matter: it was worthy of the adversary pursued. the supposition was on a level with the prodigious reality that bore the name of lupin. with a man like that, of what good could it be to look elsewhere than in the domain of the enormous, the exaggerated, the superhuman? jumieges, the mailleraye, saint-wandrille, caudebec, tancarville, quillebeuf were places filled with his memories. how often he must have contemplated the glory of their gothic steeples or the splendor of their immense ruins! but the havre, the neighborhood of the havre drew isidore like a beacon-fire. "the kings of france carry secrets that often decide the fate of towns!" cryptic words which, suddenly, for beautrelet, shone bright with clearness! was this not an exact statement of the reasons that determined francis i. to create a town on this spot and was not the fate of the havre-de-grace linked with the very secret of the needle? "that's it, that's it," stammered beautrelet, excitedly. "the old norman estuary, one of the essential points, one of the original centres around which our french nationality was formed, is completed by those two forces, one in full view, alive, known to all, the new port commanding the ocean and opening on the world; the other dim and obscure, unknown and all the more alarming, inasmuch as it is invisible and impalpable. a whole side of the history of france and of the royal house is explained by the needle, even as it explains the whole story of arsene lupin. the same sources of energy and power supply and renew the fortunes of kings and of the adventurer." beautrelet ferreted and snuffed from village to village, from the river to the sea, with his nose in the wind, his ears pricked, trying to compel the inanimate things to surrender their deep meaning. ought this hill-slope to be questioned? or that forest? or the houses of this hamlet? or was it among the insignificant phrases spoken by that peasant yonder that he might hope to gather the one little illuminating word? one morning, he was lunching at an inn, within sight of honfleur, the old city of the estuary. opposite him was sitting one of those heavy, red-haired norman horse-dealers who do the fairs of the district, whip in hand and clad in a long smock-frock. after a moment, it seemed to beautrelet that the man was looking at him with a certain amount of attention, as though he knew him or, at least, was trying to recognize him. "pooh," he thought, "there's some mistake: i've never seen that merchant before, nor he me." as a matter of fact, the man appeared to take no further interest in him. he lit his pipe, called for coffee and brandy, smoked and drank. when beautrelet had finished his meal, he paid and rose to go. a group of men entered just as he was about to leave and he had to stand for a few seconds near the table at which the horse-dealer sat. he then heard the man say in a low voice: "good-afternoon, m. beautrelet." without hesitation, isidore sat down beside the man and said: "yes, that is my name--but who are you? how did you know me?" "that's not difficult--and yet i've only seen your portrait in the papers. but you are so badly--what do you call it in french--so badly made-up." he had a pronounced foreign accent and beautrelet seemed to perceive, as he looked at him, that he too wore a facial disguise that entirely altered his features. "who are you?" he repeated. "who are you?" the stranger smiled: "don't you recognize me?" "no, i never saw you before." "nor i you. but think. the papers print my portrait also--and pretty often. well, have you got it?" "no." "holmlock shears." it was an amusing and, at the same time, a significant meeting. the boy at once saw the full bearing of it. after an exchange of compliments, he said to shears: "i suppose that you are here--because of 'him'?" "yes." "so--so--you think we have a chance--in this direction." "i'm sure of it." beautrelet's delight at finding that shears's opinion agreed with his own was not unmingled with other feelings. if the englishman attained his object, it meant that, at the very best, the two would share the victory; and who could tell that shears would not attain it first? "have you any proofs? any clues?" "don't be afraid," grinned the englishman, who understood his uneasiness. "i am not treading on your heels. with you, it's the document, the pamphlet: things that do not inspire me with any great confidence." "and with you?" "with me, it's something different." "should i be indiscreet, if--?" "not at all. you remember the story of the coronet, the story of the duc de charmerac?"[ ] [ ] arsene lupin, play in four acts, by maurice leblanc and francis de croisset. "yes." "you remember victoire, lupin's old foster-mother, the one whom my good friend ganimard allowed to escape in a sham prison-van?" "yes." "i have found victoire's traces. she lives on a farm, not far from national road no. . national road no. is the road from the havre to lille. through victoire i shall easily get at lupin." "it will take long." "no matter! i have dropped all my cases. this is the only one i care about. between lupin and me, it's a fight--a fight to the death." he spoke these words with a sort of ferocity that betrayed all his bitterness at the humiliations which he had undergone, all his fierce hatred of the great enemy who had tricked him so cruelly. "go away, now," he whispered, "we are observed. it's dangerous. but mark my words: on the day when lupin and i meet face to face, it will be--it will be tragic." beautrelet felt quite reassured on leaving shears: he need not fear that the englishman would gain on him. and here was one more proof which this chance interview had brought him: the road from the havre to lille passes through dieppe! it is the great seaside road of the caux country, the coast road commanding the channel cliffs! and it was on a farm near this road that victoire was installed, victoire, that is to say, lupin, for one did not move without the other, the master without the blindly devoted servant. "i'm burning! i'm burning!" he repeated to himself. "whenever circumstances bring me a new element of information, it confirms my supposition. on the one hand, i have the absolute certainty of the banks of the seine; on the other, the certainty of the national road. the two means of communication meet at the havre, the town of francis i., the town of the secret. the boundaries are contracting. the caux country is not large; and, even so, i have only the western portion of the caux country to search." he set to work with renewed stubbornness: "anything that lupin has found," he kept on saying to himself, "there is no reason for my not finding." certainly, lupin had some great advantage over him, perhaps a thorough acquaintance with the country, a precise knowledge of the local legends, or less than that, a memory: invaluable advantages these, for he, beautrelet, knew nothing, was totally ignorant of the country, which he had first visited at the time of the ambrumesy burglary and then only rapidly, without lingering. but what did it matter? though he had to devote ten years of his life to this investigation, he would carry it to a successful issue. lupin was there. he could see him, he could feel him there. he expected to come upon him at the next turn of the road, on the skirt of the next wood, outside the next village. and, though continually disappointed, he seemed to find in each disappointment a fresh reason for persisting. often, he would fling himself on the slope by the roadside and plunge into wild examination of the copy of the document which he always carried on him, a copy, that is to say, with vowels taking the place of the figures: e . a . a . . e . . e . a . . a . . a . . . e . e . . e . oi . e . . e . . ou . . e . o . . . e . . e . o . . e [illustration: drawing of an outline of paper with writing and drawing on it--numbers, dots, some letters, signs and symbols...] ai . ui . . e . . eu . e often, also, according to his habit, he would lie down flat on his stomach in the tall grass and think for hours. he had time enough. the future belonged to him. with wonderful patience, he tramped from the seine to the sea, and from the sea to the seine, going gradually farther, retracing his steps and never quitting the ground until, theoretically speaking, there was not a chance left of gathering the smallest particle upon it. he studied and explored montivilliers and saint-romani and octeville and gonneville and criquetot. at night, he knocked at the peasants' doors and asked for a lodging. after dinner, they smoked together and chatted. he made them tell him the stories which they told one another on the long winter nights. and he never omitted to insinuate, slily: "what about the needle? the legend of the hollow needle? don't you know that?" "upon my word, i don't--never heard of it--" "just think--an old wives' tale--something that has to do with a needle. an enchanted needle, perhaps.--i don't know--" nothing. no legend, no recollection. and the next morning he walked blithely away again. one day, he passed through the pretty village of saint-jouin, which overlooks the sea, and descending among the chaos of rocks that have slipped from cliffs, he climbed up to the tableland and went in the direction of the dry valley of bruneval, cap d'antifer and the little creek of belle-plage. he was walking gaily and lightly, feeling a little tired, perhaps, but glad to be alive, so glad, even, that he forgot lupin and the mystery of the hollow needle and victoire and shears, and interested himself in the sight of nature: the blue sky, the great emerald sea, all glittering in the sunshine. some straight slopes and remains of brick walls, in which he seemed to recognize the vestiges of a roman camp, interested him. then his eyes fell upon a sort of little castle, built in imitation of an ancient fort, with cracked turrets and gothic windows. it stood on a jagged, rugged, rising promontory, almost detached from the cliff. a barred gate, flanked by iron hand-rails and bristling spikes, guarded the narrow passage. beautrelet succeeded in climbing over, not without some difficulty. over the pointed door, which was closed with an old rusty lock, he read the words: fort de frefosse he did not attempt to enter, but, turning to the right, after going down a little slope, he embarked upon a path that ran along a ridge of land furnished with a wooden handrail. right at the end was a cave of very small dimensions, forming a sort of watch-tower at the point of the rock in which it was hollowed out, a rock falling abruptly into the sea. there was just room to stand up in the middle of the cave. multitudes of inscriptions crossed one another on the walls. an almost square hole, cut in the stone, opened like a dormer window on the land side, exactly opposite fort frefosse, the crenellated top of which appeared at thirty or forty yards' distance. beautrelet threw off his knapsack and sat down. he had had a hard and tiring day. he fell asleep for a little. then the cool wind that blew inside the cave woke him up. he sat for a few minutes without moving, absent-minded, vague-eyed. he tried to reflect, to recapture his still torpid thoughts. and, as he recovered his consciousness, he was on the point of rising, when he received the impression that his eyes, suddenly fixed, suddenly wide-open, saw-- a thrill shook him from head to foot. his hands clutched convulsively and he felt the beads of perspiration forming at the roots of his hair: "no, no," he stammered. "it's a dream, an hallucination. let's look: it's not possible!" he plunged down on his knees and stooped over. two huge letters, each perhaps a foot long, appeared cut in relief in the granite of the floor. those two letters, clumsily, but plainly carved, with their corners rounded and their surface smoothed by the wear and tear of centuries, were a d and an f. d and f! oh, bewildering miracle! d and f: just two letters of the document! oh, beautrelet had no need to consult it to bring before his mind that group of letters in the fourth line, the line of the measurements and indications! he knew them well! they were inscribed for all time at the back of his pupils, encrusted for good and all in the very substance of his brain! he rose to his feet, went down the steep road, climbed back along the old fort, hung on to the spikes of the rail again, in order to pass, and walked briskly toward a shepherd whose flock was grazing some way off on a dip in the tableland: "that cave, over there--that cave--" his lips trembled and he tried to find the words that would not come. the shepherd looked at him in amazement. at last, isidore repeated: "yes, that cave--over there--to the right of the fort. has it a name?" "yes, i should think so. all the etretat folk like to call it the demoiselles." "what?--what?--what's that you say?" "why, of course--it's the chambre des demoiselles." isidore felt like flying at his throat, as though all the truth lived in that man and he hoped to get it from him at one swoop, to tear it from him. the demoiselles! one of the words, one of the only three known words of the document! a whirlwind of madness shook beautrelet where he stood. and it rose all around him, blew upon him like a tempestuous squall that came from the sea, that came from the land, that came from every direction and whipped him with great lashes of the truth. he understood. the document appeared to him in its real sense. the chambre des demoiselles--etretat-- "that's it," he thought, his brain filled with light, "it must be that. but why didn't i guess earlier?" he said to the shepherd, in a low voice: "that will do--go away--you can go--thank you." the man, not knowing what to think, whistled to his dog and went. left alone, beautrelet returned to the fort. he had almost passed it when, suddenly, he dropped to the ground and lay cowering against a piece of wall. and, wringing his hands, he thought: "i must be mad! if 'he' were to see me! or his accomplices! i've been moving about for an hour--!" he did not stir another limb. the sun went down. little by little, the night mingled with the day, blurring the outline of things. then, with little imperceptible movements, flat on his stomach, gliding, crawling, he crept along one of the points of the promontory to the extreme edge of the cliff. he reached it. stretching out his hands, he pushed aside some tufts of grass and his head appeared over the precipice. opposite him, almost level with the cliff, in the open sea rose an enormous rock, over eighty yards high, a colossal obelisk, standing straight on its granite base, which showed at the surface of the water, and tapering toward the summit, like the giant tooth of a monster of the deep. white with the dirty gray white of the cliff, the awful monolith was streaked with horizontal lines marked by flint and displaying the slow work of the centuries, which had heaped alternate layers of lime and pebble-stone one atop of the other. here and there, a fissure, a break; and, wherever these occurred, a scrap of earth, with grass and leaves. and all this was mighty and solid and formidable, with the look of an indestructible thing against which the furious assault of the waves and storms could not prevail. and it was definite and permanent and grand, despite the grandeur of the cliffy rampart that commanded it, despite the immensity of the space in which it stood. beautrelet's nails dug into the soil like the claws of an animal ready to leap upon its prey. his eyes penetrated the wrinkled texture of the rock, penetrated its skin, so it seemed to him, its very flesh. he touched it, felt it, took cognizance and possession of it, absorbed and assimilated it. the horizon turned crimson with all the flames of the vanished sun; and long, red clouds, set motionless in the sky, formed glorious landscapes, fantastic lagoons, fiery plains, forests of gold, lakes of blood, a whole glowing and peaceful phantasmagoria. the blue of the sky grew darker. venus shone with a marvelous brightness; then other stars lit up, timid as yet. and beautrelet suddenly closed his eyes and convulsively pressed his folded arms to his forehead. over there--oh, he felt as though he would die for joy, so great was the cruel emotion that wrung his heart!--over there, almost at the top of the needle of etretat, a little below the extreme point round which the sea-mews fluttered, a thread of smoke came filtering through a crevice, as though from an invisible chimney, a thread of smoke rose in slow spirals in the calm air of the twilight. chapter nine open, sesame! the etretat needle was hollow! was it a natural phenomenon, an excavation produced by internal cataclysms or by the imperceptible action of the rushing sea and the soaking rain? or was it a superhuman work executed by human beings, gauls, celts, prehistoric men? these, no doubt, were insoluble questions; and what did it matter? the essence of the thing was contained in this fact: the needle was hollow. at forty or fifty yards from that imposing arch which is called the porte d'aval and which shoots out from the top of the cliff, like the colossal branch of a tree, to take root in the submerged rocks, stands an immense limestone cone; and this cone is no more than the shell of a pointed cap poised upon the empty waters! a prodigious revelation! after lupin, here was beautrelet discovering the key to the great riddle that had loomed over more than twenty centuries! a key of supreme importance to whoever possessed it in the days of old, in those distant times when hordes of barbarians rode through and overran the old world! a magic key that opens the cyclopean cavern to whole tribes fleeing before the enemy! a mysterious key that guards the door of the most inviolable shelter! an enchanted key that gives power and ensures preponderance! because he knows this key, caesar is able to subdue gaul. because they know it, the normans force their sway upon the country and, from there, later, backed by that support, conquer the neighboring island, conquer sicily, conquer the east, conquer the new world! masters of the secret, the kings of england lord it over france, humble her, dismember her, have themselves crowned at paris. they lose the secret; and the rout begins. masters of the secret, the kings of france push back and overstep the narrow limits of their dominion, gradually founding a great nation and radiating with glory and power. they forget it or know not how to use it; and death, exile, ruin follow. an invisible kingdom, in mid-water and at ten fathoms from land! an unknown fortress, taller than the towers of notre dame and built upon a granite foundation larger than a public square! what strength and what security! from paris to the sea, by the seine. there, the havre, the new town, the necessary town. and, sixteen miles thence, the hollow needle, the impregnable sanctuary! it is a sanctuary and also a stupendous hiding-place. all the treasures of the kings, increasing from century to century, all the gold of france, all that they extort from the people, all that they snatch from the clergy, all the booty gathered on the battle-fields of europe lie heaped up in the royal cave. old merovingian gold sous, glittering crown-pieces, doubloons, ducats, florins, guineas; and the precious stones and the diamonds; and all the jewels and all the ornaments: everything is there. who could discover it? who could ever learn the impenetrable secret of the needle? nobody. and lupin becomes that sort of really disproportionate being whom we know, that miracle incapable of explanation so long as the truth remains in the shadow. infinite though the resources of his genius be, they cannot suffice for the mad struggle which he maintains against society. he needs other, more material resources. he needs a sure place of retreat, he needs the certainty of impunity, the peace that allows of the execution of his plans. without the hollow needle, lupin is incomprehensible, a myth, a character in a novel, having no connection with reality. master of the secret--and of such a secret!--he becomes simply a man like another, but gifted with the power of wielding in a superior manner the extraordinary weapon with which destiny has endowed him. * * * * * so the needle was hollow. it remained to discover how one obtained access to it. from the sea, obviously. there must be, on the side of the offing, some fissure where boats could land at certain hours of the tide. but on the side of the land? beautrelet lay until ten o'clock at night hanging over the precipice, with his eyes riveted on the shadowy mass formed by the pyramid, thinking and pondering with all the concentrated effort of his mind. then he went down to etretat, selected the cheapest hotel, dined, went up to his room and unfolded the document. it was the merest child's play to him now to establish its exact meaning. he at once saw that the three vowels of the word etretat occurred in the first line, in their proper order and at the necessary intervals. this first line now read as follows: e . a . a .. etretat . a .. what words could come before etretat? words, no doubt, that referred to the position of the needle with regard to the town. now the needle stood on the left, on the west--he ransacked his memory and, recollecting that westerly winds are called vents d'aval on the coast and that the nearest porte was known as the porte d'aval, he wrote down: "en aval d'etretat . a .." the second line was that containing the word demoiselles and, at once seeing, in front of that word, the series of all the vowels that form part of the words la chambre des, he noted the two phrases: "en aval d'etretat. la chambre des demoiselles." the third line gave him more trouble; and it was not until some groping that, remembering the position, near the chambre des demoiselles, of the fort de frefosse, he ended by almost completely reconstructing the document: "en aval d'etretat. la chambre des demoiselles. sous le fort de frefosse. l'aiguille creuse." these were the four great formulas, the essential and general formulas which you had to know. by means of them, you turned en aval, that is to say, below or west of etretat, entered the chambre des demoiselles, in all probability passed under fort frefosse and thus arrived at the needle. how? by means of the indications and measurements that constituted the fourth line: [illustration: drawing of an outline of paper with writing and drawing on it--numbers, dots, some letters, signs and symbols...] these were evidently the more special formulas to enable you to find the outlet through which you made your way and the road that led to the needle. beautrelet at once presumed--and his surmise was no more than the logical consequence of the document--that, if there really was a direct communication between the land and the obelisk of the needle, the underground passage must start from the chambre des demoiselles, pass under fort frefosse, descend perpendicularly the three hundred feet of cliff and, by means of a tunnel contrived under the rocks of the sea, end at the hollow needle. which was the entrance to the underground passage? did not the two letters d and f, so plainly cut, point to it and admit to it, with the aid, perhaps, of some ingenious piece of mechanism? the whole of the next morning, isidore strolled about etretat and chatted with everybody he met, in order to try and pick up useful information. at last, in the afternoon, he went up the cliff. disguised as a sailor, he had made himself still younger and, in a pair of trousers too short for him and a fishing jersey, he looked a mere scape-grace of twelve or thirteen. as soon as he entered the cave, he knelt down before the letters. here a disappointment awaited him. it was no use his striking them, pushing them, manipulating them in every way: they refused to move. and it was not long, in fact, before he became aware that they were really unable to move and that, therefore, they controlled no mechanism. and yet--and yet they must mean something! inquiries which he had made in the village went to show that no one had ever been able to explain their existence and that the abbe cochet, in his valuable little book on etretat,[ ] had also tried in vain to solve this little puzzle. but isidore knew what the learned norman archaeologist did not know, namely, that the same two letters figured in the document, on the line containing the indications. was it a chance coincidence: impossible. well, then--? [ ] les origines d'etretat. the abbe cochet seems to conclude, in the end, that the two letters are the initials of a passer-by. the revelations now made prove the fallacy of the theory. an idea suddenly occurred to him, an idea so reasonable, so simple that he did not doubt its correctness for a second. were not that d and that f the initials of the two most important words in the document, the words that represented--together with the needle--the essential stations on the road to be followed: the chambre des demoiselles and fort frefosse: d for demoiselles, f for frefosse: the connection was too remarkable to be a mere accidental fact. in that case, the problem stood thus: the two letters d f represent the relation that exists between the chambre des demoiselles and fort frefosse, the single letter d, which begins the line, represents the demoiselles, that is to say, the cave in which you have to begin by taking up your position, and the single letter f, placed in the middle of the line, represents frefosse, that is to say, the probable entrance to the underground passage. between these various signs, are two more: first, a sort of irregular rectangle, marked with a stripe in the left bottom corner, and, next, the figure , signs which obviously indicate to those inside the cave the means of penetrating beneath the fort. the shape of this rectangle puzzled isidore. was there around him, on the walls of the cave, or at any rate within reach of his eyes, an inscription, anything whatever, affecting a rectangular shape? he looked for a long time and was on the point of abandoning that particular scent when his eyes fell upon the little opening, pierced in the rock, that acted as a window to the chamber. now the edges of this opening just formed a rectangle: corrugated, uneven, clumsy, but still a rectangle; and beautrelet at once saw that, by placing his two feet on the d and the f carved in the stone floor--and this explained the stroke that surmounted the two letters in the document--he found himself at the exact height of the window! he took up his position in this place and gazed out. the window looking landward, as we know, he saw, first, the path that connected the cave with the land, a path hung between two precipices; and, next, he caught sight of the foot of the hillock on which the fort stood. to try and see the fort, beautrelet leaned over to the left and it was then that he understood the meaning of the curved stripe, the comma that marked the left bottom corner in the document: at the bottom on the left-hand side of the window, a piece of flint projected and the end of it was curved like a claw. it suggested a regular shooter's mark. and, when a man applied his eye to this mark, he saw cut out, on the slope of the mound facing him, a restricted surface of land occupied almost entirely by an old brick wall, a remnant of the original fort frefosse or of the old roman oppidum built on this spot. beautrelet ran to this piece of wall, which was, perhaps, ten yards long. it was covered with grass and plants. there was no indication of any kind visible. and yet that figure ? he returned to the cave, took from his pocket a ball of string and a tape-measure, tied the string to the flint corner, fastened a pebble at the nineteenth metre and flung it toward the land side. the pebble at most reached the end of the path. "idiot that i am!" thought beautrelet. "who reckoned by metres in those days? the figure means fathoms[ ] or nothing!" [ ] the toise, or fathom, measured . metres.--translator's note. having made the calculation, he ran out the twine, made a knot and felt about on the piece of wall for the exact and necessarily one point at which the knot, formed at metres from the window of the demoiselles, should touch the frefosse wall. in a few moments, the point of contact was established. with his free hand, he moved aside the leaves of mullein that had grown in the interstices. a cry escaped him. the knot, which he held pressed down with his fore-finger, was in the centre of a little cross carved in relief on a brick. and the sign that followed on the figure in the document was a cross! it needed all his will-power to control the excitement with which he was overcome. hurriedly, with convulsive fingers, he clutched the cross and, pressing upon it, turned it as he would have turned the spokes of a wheel. the brick heaved. he redoubled his effort; it moved no further. then, without turning, he pressed harder. he at once felt the brick give way. and, suddenly, there was the click of a bolt that is released, the sound of a lock opening and, on the right of the brick, to the width of about a yard, the wall swung round on a pivot and revealed the orifice of an underground passage. like a madman, beautrelet seized the iron door in which the bricks were sealed, pulled it back, violently and closed it. astonishment, delight, the fear of being surprised convulsed his face so as to render it unrecognizable. he beheld the awful vision of all that had happened there, in front of that door, during twenty centuries; of all those people, initiated into the great secret, who had penetrated through that issue: celts, gauls, romans, normans, englishmen, frenchmen, barons, dukes, kings--and, after all of them, arsene lupin--and, after lupin, himself, beautrelet. he felt that his brain was slipping away from him. his eyelids fluttered. he fell fainting and rolled to the bottom of the slope, to the very edge of the precipice. * * * * * his task was done, at least the task which he was able to accomplish alone, with his unaided resources. that evening, he wrote a long letter to the chief of the detective service, giving a faithful account of the results of his investigations and revealing the secret of the hollow needle. he asked for assistance to complete his work and gave his address. while waiting for the reply, he spent two consecutive nights in the chambre des demoiselles. he spent them overcome with fear, his nerves shaken with a terror which was increased by the sounds of the night. at every moment, he thought he saw shadows approach in his direction. people knew of his presence in the cave--they were coming--they were murdering him! his eyes, however, staring madly before them, sustained by all the power of his will, clung to the piece of wall. on the first night, nothing stirred; but, on the second, by the light of the stars and a slender crescent-moon, he saw the door open and figures emerge from the darkness: he counted two, three, four, five of them. it seemed to him that those five men were carrying fairly large loads. he followed them for a little way. they cut straight across the fields to the havre road; and he heard the sound of a motor car driving away. he retraced his steps, skirting a big farm. but, at the turn of the road that ran beside it, he had only just time to scramble up a slope and hide behind some trees. more men passed--four, five men--all carrying packages. and, two minutes later, another motor snorted. this time, he had not the strength to return to his post; and he went back to bed. when he woke and had finished dressing, the hotel waiter brought him a letter. he opened it. it contained ganimard's card. "at last!" cried beautrelet, who, after so hard a campaign, was really feeling the need of a comrade-in-arms. he ran downstairs with outstretched hands. ganimard took them, looked at him for a moment and said: "you're a fine fellow, my lad!" "pooh!" he said. "luck has served me." "there's no such thing as luck with 'him,'" declared the inspector, who always spoke of lupin in a solemn tone and without mentioning his name. he sat down: "so we've got him!" "just as we've had him twenty times over," said beautrelet, laughing. "yes, but to-day--" "to-day, of course, the case is different. we know his retreat, his stronghold, which means, when all is said, that lupin is lupin. he can escape. the etretat needle cannot." "why do you suppose that he will escape?" asked ganimard, anxiously. "why do you suppose that he requires to escape?" replied beautrelet. "there is nothing to prove that he is in the needle at present. last night, eleven of his men left it. he may be one of the eleven." ganimard reflected: "you are right. the great thing is the hollow needle. for the rest, let us hope that chance will favor us. and now, let us talk." he resumed his serious voice, his self-important air and said: "my dear beautrelet, i have orders to recommend you to observe the most absolute discretion in regard to this matter." "orders from whom?" asked beautrelet, jestingly. "the prefect of police?" "higher than that." "the prime minister?" "higher." "whew!" ganimard lowered his voice: "beautrelet, i was at the elysee last night. they look upon this matter as a state secret of the utmost gravity. there are serious reasons for concealing the existence of this citadel--reasons of military strategy, in particular. it might become a revictualling centre, a magazine for new explosives, for lately-invented projectiles, for anything of that sort: the secret arsenal of france, in fact." "but how can they hope to keep a secret like this? in the old days, one man alone held it: the king. to-day, already, there are a good few of us who know it, without counting lupin's gang." "still, if we gained only ten years', only five years' silence! those five years may be--the saving of us." "but, in order to capture this citadel, this future arsenal, it will have to be attacked, lupin must be dislodged. and all this cannot be done without noise." "of course, people will guess something, but they won't know. besides, we can but try." "all right. what's your plan?" "here it is, in two words. to begin with, you are not isidore beautrelet and there's no question of arsene lupin either. you are and you remain a small boy of etretat, who, while strolling about the place, caught some fellows coming out of an underground passage. this makes you suspect the existence of a flight of steps which cuts through the cliff from top to bottom." "yes, there are several of those flights of steps along the coast. for instance, to the right of etretat, opposite benouville, they showed me the devil's staircase, which every bather knows. and i say nothing of the three or four tunnels used by the fishermen." "so you will guide me and one-half of my men. i shall enter alone, or accompanied, that remains to be seen. this much is certain, that the attack must be delivered that way. if lupin is not in the needle, we shall fix up a trap in which he will be caught sooner or later. if he is there--" "if he is there, he will escape from the needle by the other side, the side overlooking the sea." "in that case, he will at once be arrested by the other half of my men." "yes, but if, as i presume, you choose a moment when the sea is at low ebb, leaving the base of the needle uncovered, the chase will be public, because it will take place before all the men and women fishing for mussels, shrimps and shell-fish who swarm on the rocks round about." "that is why i just mean to select the time when the sea is full." "in that case, he will make off in a boat." "ah, but i shall have a dozen fishing-smacks, each of which will be commanded by one of my men, and we shall collar him--" "if he doesn't slip through your dozen smacks, like a fish through the meshes." "all right, then i'll sink him." "the devil you will! shall you have guns?" "why, of course! there's a torpedo-boat at the havre at this moment. a telegram from me will bring her to the needle at the appointed hour." "how proud lupin will be! a torpedo-boat! well, m. ganimard, i see that you have provided for everything. we have only to go ahead. when do we deliver the assault?" "to-morrow." "at night?" "no, by daylight, at the flood-tide, as the clock strikes ten in the morning." "capital." * * * * * under his show of gaiety, beautrelet concealed a real anguish of mind. he did not sleep until the morning, but lay pondering over the most impracticable schemes, one after the other. ganimard had left him in order to go to yport, six or seven miles from etretat, where, for prudence's sake, he had told his men to meet him, and where he chartered twelve fishing smacks, with the ostensible object of taking soundings along the coast. at a quarter to ten, escorted by a body of twelve stalwart men, he met isidore at the foot of the road that goes up the cliff. at ten o'clock exactly, they reached the skirt of wall. it was the decisive moment. at ten o'clock exactly. "why, what's the matter with you, beautrelet?" jeered ganimard. "you're quite green in the face!" "it's as well you can't see yourself, ganimard," the boy retorted. "one would think your last hour had come!" they both had to sit down and ganimard swallowed a few mouthfuls of rum. "it's not funk," he said, "but, by jove, this is an exciting business! each time that i'm on the point of catching him, it takes me like that in the pit of the stomach. a dram of rum?" "no." "and if you drop behind?" "that will mean that i'm dead." "b-r-r-r-r! however, we'll see. and now, open, sesame! no danger of our being observed, i suppose?" "no. the needle is not so high as the cliff, and, besides, there's a bend in the ground where we are." beautrelet went to the wall and pressed upon the brick. the bolt was released and the underground passage came in sight. by the gleam of the lanterns which they lit, they saw that it was cut in the shape of a vault and that both the vaulting and the floor itself were entirely covered with bricks. they walked for a few seconds and, suddenly, a staircase appeared. beautrelet counted forty-five brick steps, which the slow action of many footsteps had worn away in the middle. "blow!" said ganimard, holding his head and stopping suddenly, as though he had knocked against something. "what is it?" "a door." "bother!" muttered beautrelet, looking at it. "and not an easy one to break down either. it's just a solid block of iron." "we are done," said ganimard. "there's not even a lock to it." "exactly. that's what gives me hope." "why?" "a door is made to open; and, as this one has no lock, that means that there is a secret way of opening it." "and, as we don't know the secret--" "i shall know it in a minute." "how?" "by means of the document. the fourth line has no other object but to solve each difficulty as and when it crops up. and the solution is comparatively easy, because it's not written with a view to throwing searchers off the scent, but to assisting them." "comparatively easy! i don't agree with you," cried ganimard, who had unfolded the document. "the number and a triangle with a dot in it: that doesn't tell us much!" "yes, yes, it does! look at the door. you see it's strengthened, at each corner, with a triangular slab of iron; and the slabs are fixed with big nails. take the left-hand bottom slab and work the nail in the corner: i'll lay ten to one we've hit the mark." "you've lost your bet," said ganimard, after trying. "then the figure must mean--" in a low voice, reflecting as he spoke, beautrelet continued: "let me see--ganimard and i are both standing on the bottom step of the staircase--there are . why , when the figure in the document is ? a coincidence? no. in all this business, there is no such thing as a coincidence, at least not an involuntary one. ganimard, be so good as to move one step higher up. that's it, don't leave this forty-fourth step. and now i will work the iron nail. and the trick's done, or i'll eat my boots!" the heavy door turned on its hinges. a fairly spacious cavern appeared before their eyes. "we must be exactly under fort frefosse," said beautrelet. "we have passed through the different earthy layers by now. there will be no more brick. we are in the heart of the solid limestone." the room was dimly lit by a shaft of daylight that came from the other end. going up to it, they saw that it was a fissure in the cliff, contrived in a projecting wall and forming a sort of observatory. in front of them, at a distance of fifty yards, the impressive mass of the needle loomed from the waves. on the right, quite close, was the arched buttress of the porte d'aval and, on the left, very far away, closing the graceful curve of a large inlet, another rocky gateway, more imposing still, was cut out of the cliff; the manneporte,[ ] which was so wide and tall that a three-master could have passed through it with all sail set. behind and everywhere, the sea. [ ] magna porta. "i don't see our little fleet," said beautrelet. "i know," said ganimard. "the porte d'aval hides the whole of the coast of etretat and yport. but look, over there, in the offing, that black line, level with the water--" "well?" "that's our fleet of war, torpedo-boat no. . with her there, lupin is welcome to break loose--if he wants to study the landscape at the bottom of the sea." a baluster marked the entrance to the staircase, near the fissure. they started on their way down. from time to time, a little window pierced the wall of the cliff; and, each time, they caught sight of the needle, whose mass seemed to them to grow more and more colossal. a little before reaching high-water level, the windows ceased and all was dark. isidore counted the steps aloud. at the three hundred and fifty-eight, they emerged into a wider passage, which was barred by another iron door strengthened with slabs and nails. "we know all about this," said beautrelet. "the document gives us and a triangle dotted on the right. we have only to repeat the performance." the second door obeyed like the first. a long, a very long tunnel appeared, lit up at intervals by the gleam of a lantern swung from the vault. the walls oozed moisture and drops of water fell to the ground, so that, to make walking easier a regular pavement of planks had been laid from end to end. "we are passing under the sea," said beautrelet. "are you coming, ganimard?" without replying, the inspector ventured into the tunnel, followed the wooden foot-plank and stopped before a lantern, which he took down. "the utensils may date back to the middle ages, but the lighting is modern," he said. "our friends use incandescent mantles." he continued his way. the tunnel ended in another and a larger cave, with, on the opposite side, the first steps of a staircase that led upward. "it's the ascent of the needle beginning," said ganimard. "this is more serious." but one of his men called him: "there's another flight here, sir, on the left." and, immediately afterward, they discovered a third, on the right. "the deuce!" muttered the inspector. "this complicates matters. if we go by this way, they'll make tracks by that." "shall we separate?" asked beautrelet. "no, no--that would mean weakening ourselves. it would be better for one of us to go ahead and scout." "i will, if you like--" "very well, beautrelet, you go. i will remain with my men--then there will be no fear of anything. there may be other roads through the cliff than that by which we came and several roads also through the needle. but it is certain that, between the cliff and the needle, there is no communication except the tunnel. therefore they must pass through this cave. and so i shall stay here till you come back. go ahead, beautrelet, and be prudent: at the least alarm, scoot back again." isidore disappeared briskly up the middle staircase. at the thirtieth step, a door, an ordinary wooden door, stopped him. he seized the handle turned it. the door was not locked. he entered a room that seemed to him very low owing to its immense size. lit by powerful lamps and supported by squat pillars, with long vistas showing between them, it had nearly the same dimensions as the needle itself. it was crammed with packing cases and miscellaneous objects--pieces of furniture, oak settees, chests, credence-tables, strong-boxes--a whole confused heap of the kind which one sees in the basement of an old curiosity shop. on his right and left, beautrelet perceived the wells of two staircases, the same, no doubt, that started from the cave below. he could easily have gone down, therefore, and told ganimard. but a new flight of stairs led upward in front of him and he had the curiosity to pursue his investigations alone. thirty more steps. a door and then a room, not quite so large as the last, beautrelet thought. and again, opposite him, an ascending flight of stairs. thirty steps more. a door. a smaller room. beautrelet grasped the plan of the works executed inside the needle. it was a series or rooms placed one above the other and, therefore, gradually decreasing in size. they all served as store-rooms. in the fourth, there was no lamp. a little light filtered in through clefts in the walls and beautrelet saw the sea some thirty feet below him. at that moment, he felt himself so far from ganimard that a certain anguish began to take hold of him and he had to master his nerves lest he should take to his heels. no danger threatened him, however, and the silence around him was even so great that he asked himself whether the whole needle had not been abandoned by lupin and his confederates. "i shall not go beyond the next floor," he said to himself. thirty stairs again and a door. this door was lighter in construction and modern in appearance. he pushed it open gently, quite prepared for flight. there was no one there. but the room differed from the others in its purpose. there were hangings on the walls, rugs on the floor. two magnificent sideboards, laden with gold and silver plate, stood facing each other. the little windows contrived in the deep, narrow cleft were furnished with glass panes. in the middle of the room was a richly-decked table, with a lace-edged cloth, dishes of fruits and cakes, champagne in decanters and flowers, heaps of flowers. three places were laid around the table. beautrelet walked up. on the napkins were cards with the names of the party. he read first: "arsene lupin." "mme. arsene lupin." he took up the third card and started back with surprise. it bore his own name: "isidore beautrelet!" chapter ten the treasures of the kings of france a curtain was drawn back. "good morning, my dear beautrelet, you're a little late. lunch was fixed for twelve. however, it's only a few minutes--but what's the matter? don't you know me? have i changed so much?" in the course of his fight with lupin, beautrelet had met with many surprises and he was still prepared, at the moment of the final catastrophe, to experience any number of further emotions; but the shock which he received this time was utterly unexpected. it was not astonishment, but stupefaction, terror. the man who stood before him, the man whom the brutal force of events compelled him to look upon as arsene lupin, was--valmeras! valmeras, the owner of the chateau de l'aiguille! valmeras, the very man to whom he had applied for assistance against arsene lupin! valmeras, his companion on the expedition to crozant! valmeras, the plucky friend who had made raymonde's escape possible by felling one of lupin's accomplices, or pretending to fell him, in the dusk of the great hall! and valmeras was lupin! "you--you--so it's you!" he stammered. "why not?" exclaimed lupin. "did you think that you knew me for good and all because you had seen me in the guise of a clergyman or under the features of m. massiban? alas, when a man selects the position in society which i occupy, he must needs make use of his little social gifts! if lupin were not able to change himself, at will, into a minister of the church of england or a member of the academy of inscriptions and belles-lettres, it would be a bad lookout for lupin! now lupin, the real lupin, is here before you, beautrelet! take a good look at him." "but then--if it's you--then--mademoiselle--" "yes, beautrelet, as you say--" he again drew back the hanging, beckoned and announced: "mme. arsene lupin." "ah," murmured the lad, confounded in spite of everything, "mlle. de saint-veran!" "no, no," protested lupin. "mme. arsene lupin, or rather, if you prefer, mme. louis valmeras, my wedded wife, married to me in accordance with the strictest forms of law; and all thanks to you, my dear beautrelet." he held out his hand to him. "all my acknowledgements--and no ill will on your side, i trust?" strange to say, beautrelet felt no ill will at all, no sense of humiliation, no bitterness. he realized so strongly the immense superiority of his adversary that he did not blush at being beaten by him. he pressed the offered hand. "luncheon is served, ma'am." a butler had placed a tray of dishes on the table. "you must excuse us, beautrelet: my chef is away and we can only give you a cold lunch." beautrelet felt very little inclined to eat. he sat down, however, and was enormously interested in lupin's attitude. how much exactly did he know? was he aware of the danger he was running? was he ignorant of the presence of ganimard and his men? and lupin continued: "yes, thanks to you, my dear friend. certainly, raymonde and i loved each other from the first. just so, my boy--raymonde's abduction, her imprisonment, were mere humbug: we loved each other. but neither she nor i, when we were free to love, would allow a casual bond at the mercy of chance, to be formed between us. the position, therefore, was hopeless for lupin. fortunately, it ceased to be so if i resumed my identity as the louis valmeras that i had been from a child. it was then that i conceived the idea, as you refused to relinquish your quest and had found the chateau de l'aiguille, of profiting by your obstinacy." "and my silliness." "pooh! any one would have been caught as you were!" "so you were really able to succeed because i screened you and assisted you?" "of course! how could any one suspect valmeras of being lupin, when valmeras was beautrelet's friend and after valmeras had snatched from lupin's clutches the girl whom lupin loved? and how charming it was! such delightful memories! the expedition to crozant! the bouquets we found! my pretended love letter to raymonde! and, later, the precautions which i, valmeras, had to take against myself, lupin, before my marriage! and the night of your great banquet, beautrelet, when you fainted in my arms! oh, what memories!" there was a pause. beautrelet watched raymonde. she had listened to lupin without saying a word and looked at him with eyes in which he read love, passion and something else besides, something which the lad could not define, a sort of anxious embarrassment and a vague sadness. but lupin turned his eyes upon her and she gave him an affectionate smile. their hands met over the table. "what do you say to the way i have arranged my little home, beautrelet?" cried lupin. "there's a style about it, isn't there? i don't pretend that it's as comfortable as it might be. and yet, some have been quite satisfied with it; and not the least of mankind, either!--look at the list of distinguished people who have owned the needle in their time and who thought it an honor to leave a mark of their sojourn." on the walls, one below the other, were carved the following names: julius caesar charlemagne rollo william the conqueror richard coeur-de-leon louis xi. francis i. henry iv. louis xiv. arsene lupin "whose name will figure after ours?" he continued. "alas, the list is closed! from caesar to lupin--and there it ends. soon the nameless mob will come to visit the strange citadel. and to think that, but for lupin, all this would have remained for ever unknown to men! ah beautrelet, what a feeling of pride was mine on the day when i first set foot on this abandoned soil. to have found the lost secret and become its master, its sole master! to inherit such an inheritance! to live in the needle, after all those kings!--" he was interrupted by a gesture of his wife's. she seemed greatly agitated. "there is a noise," she said. "underneath us.--you can hear it." "it's the lapping of the water," said lupin. "no, indeed it's not. i know the sound of the waves. this is something different." "what would you have it be, darling?" said lupin, smiling. "i invited no one to lunch except beautrelet." and, addressing the servant, "charolais, did you lock the staircase doors behind the gentleman?" "yes, sir, and fastened the bolts." lupin rose: "come, raymonde, don't shake like that. why, you're quite pale!" he spoke a few words to her in an undertone, as also to the servant, drew back the curtain and sent them both out of the room. the noise below grew more distinct. it was a series of dull blows, repeated at intervals. beautrelet thought: "ganimard has lost patience and is breaking down the doors." lupin resumed the thread of his conversation, speaking very calmly and as though he had really not heard: "by jove, the needle was badly damaged when i succeeded in discovering it! one could see that no one had possessed the secret for more than a century, since louis xvi. and the revolution. the tunnel was threatening to fall in. the stairs were in a shocking state. the water was trickling in from the sea. i had to prop up and strengthen and rebuild the whole thing." beautrelet could not help asking: "when you arrived, was it empty?" "very nearly. the kings did not use the needle, as i have done, as a warehouse." "as a place of refuge, then?" "yes, no doubt, in times of invasion and during the civil wars. but its real destination was to be--how shall i put it?--the strong-room or the bank of the kings of france." the sound of blows increased, more distinctly now. ganimard must have broken down the first door and was attacking the second. there was a short silence and then more blows, nearer still. it was the third door. two remained. through one of the windows, beautrelet saw a number of fishing-smacks sailing round the needle and, not far away, floating on the waters like a great black fish, the torpedo-boat. "what a row!" exclaimed lupin. "one can't hear one's self speak! let's go upstairs, shall we? it may interest you to look over the needle." they climbed to the floor above, which was protected, like the others, by a door which lupin locked behind him. "my picture gallery," he said. the walls were covered with canvases on which beautrelet recognized the most famous signatures. there were raphael's madonna of the agnus dei, andrea del sarto's portrait of lucrezia fede, titian's salome, botticelli's madonna and angels and numbers of tintorettos, carpaccios, rembrandts, velasquez. "what fine copies!" said beautrelet, approvingly. lupin looked at him with an air of stupefaction: "what! copies! you must be mad! the copies are in madrid, my dear fellow, in florence, venice, munich, amsterdam." "then these--" "are the original pictures, my lad, patiently collected in all the museums of europe, where i have replaced them, like an honest man, with first-rate copies." "but some day or other--" "some day or other, the fraud will be discovered? well, they will find my signature on each canvas--at the back--and they will know that it was i who have endowed my country with the original masterpieces. after all, i have only done what napoleon did in italy.--oh, look, beautrelet: here are m. de gesvres's four rubenses!--" the knocking continued within the hollow of the needle without ceasing. "i can't stand this!" said lupin. "let's go higher." a fresh staircase. a fresh door. "the tapestry-room," lupin announced. the tapestries were not hung on the walls, but rolled, tied up with cord, ticketed; and, in addition, there were parcels of old fabrics which lupin unfolded: wonderful brocades, admirable velvets, soft, faded silks, church vestments woven with silver and gold-- they went higher still and beautrelet saw the room containing the clocks and other time-pieces, the book-room--oh, the splendid bindings, the precious, undiscoverable volumes, the unique copies stolen from the great public libraries--the lace-room, the knicknack-room. and each time the circumference of the room grew smaller. and each time, now, the sound of knocking was more distant. ganimard was losing ground. "this is the last room," said lupin. "the treasury." this one was quite different. it was round also, but very high and conical in shape. it occupied the top of the edifice and its floor must have been fifteen or twenty yards below the extreme point of the needle. on the cliff side there was no window. but on the side of the sea, whence there were no indiscreet eyes to fear, two glazed openings admitted plenty of light. the ground was covered with a parqueted flooring of rare wood, forming concentric patterns. against the walls stood glass cases and a few pictures. "the pearls of my collection," said lupin. "all that you have seen so far is for sale. things come and things go. that's business. but here, in this sanctuary, everything is sacred. there is nothing here but choice, essential pieces, the best of the best, priceless things. look at these jewels, beautrelet: chaldean amulets, egyptian necklaces, celtic bracelets, arab chains. look at these statuettes, beautrelet, at this greek venus, this corinthian apollo. look at these tanagras, beautrelet: all the real tanagras are here. outside this glass case, there is not a single genuine tanagra statuette in the whole wide world. what a delicious thing to be able to say!--beautrelet, do you remember thomas and his gang of church-pillagers in the south--agents of mine, by the way? well, here is the ambazac reliquary, the real one, beautrelet! do you remember the louvre scandal, the tiara which was admitted to be false, invented and manufactured by a modern artist? here is the tiara of saitapharnes, the real one, beautrelet! look, beautrelet, look with all your eyes: here is the marvel of marvels, the supreme masterpiece, the work of no mortal brain; here is leonardo's gioconda, the real one! kneel, beautrelet, kneel; all womankind stands before you in this picture." there was a long silence between them. below, the sound of blows drew nearer. two or three doors, no more, separated them from ganimard. in the offing, they saw the black back of the torpedo-boat and the fishing-smacks cruising to and fro. the boy asked: "and the treasure?" "ah, my little man, that's what interests you most! none of those masterpieces of human art can compete with the contemplation of the treasure as a matter of curiosity, eh?--and the whole crowd will be like you!--come, you shall be satisfied." he stamped his foot, and, in so doing, made one of the discs composing the floor-pattern turn right over. then, lifting it as though it were the lid of a box, he uncovered a sort of large round bowl, dug in the thickness of the rock. it was empty. a little farther, he went through the same performance. another large bowl appeared. it was also empty. he did this three times over again. the three other bowls were empty. "eh," grinned lupin. "what a disappointment! under louis xl, under henry iv., under richelieu, the five bowls were full. but think of louis xiv., the folly of versailles, the wars, the great disasters of the reign! and think of louis xv., the spendthrift king, with his pompadour and his du barry! how they must have drawn on the treasure in those days! with what thieving claws they must have scratched at the stone. you see, there's nothing left." he stopped. "yes, beautrelet, there is something--the sixth hiding-place! this one was intangible. not one of them dared touch it. it was the very last resource, the nest-egg, the something put by for a rainy day. look, beautrelet!" he stooped and lifted up the lid. an iron box filled the bowl. lupin took from his pocket a key with a complicated bit and wards and opened the box. a dazzling sight presented itself. every sort of precious stone sparkled there, every color gleamed, the blue of the sapphires, the red of the rubies, the green of the emeralds, the yellow of the topazes. "look, look, little beautrelet! they have squandered all the cash, all the gold, all the silver, all the crown pieces and all the ducats and all the doubloons; but the chest with the jewels has remained intact. look at the settings. they belong to every period, to every century, to every country. the dowries of the queens are here. each brought her share: margaret of scotland and charlotte of savoy; duchesses of austria: eleonore, elisabeth, marie-therese, mary of england and catherine de medicis; and all the arch--marie antoinette. look at those pearls, beautrelet! and those diamonds: look at the size of the diamonds! not one of them but is worthy of an empress! the pitt diamond is no finer!" he rose to his feet and held up his hand as one taking an oath: "beautrelet, you shall tell the world that lupin has not taken a single one of the stones that were in the royal chest, not a single one, i swear it on my honor! i had no right to. they are the fortune of france." below them, ganimard was making all speed. it was easy to judge by the reverberation of the blows that his men were attacking the last door but one, the door that gave access to the knicknack-room. "let us leave the chest open," said lupin, "and all the cavities, too, all those little empty graves." he went round the room, examined some of the glass cases, gazed at some of the pictures and, as he walked, said, pensively: "how sad it is to leave all this! what a wrench! the happiest hours of my life have been spent here, alone, in the presence of these objects which i loved. and my eyes will never behold them again and my hands will never touch them again--" his drawn face bore such an expression of lassitude upon it that beautrelet felt a vague sort of pity for him. sorrow in that man must assume larger proportions than in another, even as joy did, or pride, or humiliation. he was now standing by the window, and, with his finger pointing to the horizon, said: "what is sadder still is that i must abandon that, all that! how beautiful it is! the boundless sea--the sky.--on either side, the cliffs of etretat with their three natural archways: the porte d'armont, the porte d'aval, the manneporte--so many triumphal arches for the master. and the master was i! i was the king of the story, the king of fairyland, the king of the hollow needle! a strange and supernatural kingdom! from caesar to lupin: what a destiny!" he burst out laughing. "king of fairyland! why not say king of yvetot at once? what nonsense! king of the world, yes, that's more like it! from this topmost point of the needle, i ruled the globe! i held it in my claws like a prey! lift the tiara of saitapharnes, beautrelet.--you see those two telephones? the one on the right communicates with paris: a private line; the one on the left with london: a private line. through london, i am in touch with america, asia, australia, south africa. in all those continents, i have my offices, my agents, my jackals, my scouts! i drive an international trade. i hold the great market in art and antiquities, the world's fair! ah, beautrelet, there are moments when my power turns my head! i feel intoxicated with strength and authority." the door gave way below. they heard ganimard and his men running about and searching. after a moment, lupin continued, in a low voice: "and now it's over. a little girl crossed my path, a girl with soft hair and wistful eyes and an honest, yes, an honest soul--and it's over. i myself am demolishing the mighty edifice.--all the rest seems absurd and childish to me--nothing counts but her hair--and her wistful eyes--and her honest little soul--" the men came up the staircase. a blow shook the door, the last door-- lupin seized the boy sharply by the arm: "do you understand, beautrelet, why i let you have things your own way when i could have crushed you, time after time, weeks ago? do you understand how you succeeded in getting as far as this? do you understand that i had given each of my men his share of the plunder when you met them the other night on the cliff? you do understand, don't you? the hollow needle is the great adventure. as long as it belongs to me, i remain the great adventurer. once the needle is recaptured, it means that the past and i are parted and that the future begins, a future of peace and happiness, in which i shall have no occasion to blush when raymonde's eyes are turned upon me, a future--" he turned furiously toward the door: "stop that noise, ganimard, will you? i haven't finished my speech!" the blows came faster. it was like the sound of a beam that was being hurled against the door. beautrelet, mad with curiosity, stood in front of lupin and awaited events, without understanding what lupin was doing or contemplating. to give up the needle was all very well; but why was he giving up himself? what was his plan? did he hope to escape from ganimard? and, on the other hand, where was raymonde? lupin, meantime, was murmuring, dreamily: "an honest man.--arsene lupin an honest man--no more robbery--leading the life of everybody else.--and why not? there is no reason why i should not meet with the same success.--but do stop that now, ganimard! don't you know, you ass, that i'm uttering historic words and that beautrelet is taking them in for the benefit of posterity?" he laughed. "i am wasting my time. ganimard will never grasp the use of my historic words." he took a piece of red chalk, put a pair of steps to the wall and wrote, in large letters: arsene lupin gives and bequeaths to france all the treasures contained in the hollow needle, on the sole condition that these treasures be housed at the musee du louvre in rooms which shall be known as the arsene lupin rooms. "now," he said, "my conscience is at ease. france and i are quits." the attackers were striking with all their might. one of the panels burst in two. a hand was put through and fumbled for the lock. "thunder!" said lupin. "that idiot of a ganimard is capable of effecting his purpose for once in his life." he rushed to the lock and removed the key. "sold, old chap!--the door's tough.--i have plenty of time--beautrelet, i must say good-bye. and thank you!--for really you could have complicated the attack--but you're so tactful!" while speaking, he moved toward a large triptych by van der weyden, representing the wise men of the east. he shut the right-hand panel and, in so doing, exposed a little door concealed behind it and seized the handle. "good luck to your hunting, ganimard! and kind regards at home!" a pistol-shot resounded. lupin jumped back: "ah, you rascal, full in the heart! have you been taking lessons? you've done for the wise man! full in the heart! smashed to smithereens, like a pipe at the fair!--" "lupin, surrender!" roared ganimard, with his eyes glittering and his revolver showing through the broken panel of the door. "surrender, i say!" "did the old guard surrender?" "if you stir a limb, i'll blow your brains out!" "nonsense! you can't get me here!" as a matter of fact, lupin had moved away; and, though ganimard was able to fire straight in front of him through the breach in the door, he could not fire, still less take aim, on the side where lupin stood. lupin's position was a terrible one for all that, because the outlet on which he was relying, the little door behind the triptych, opened right in front of ganimard. to try to escape meant to expose himself to the detective's fire; and there were five bullets left in the revolver. "by jove," he said, laughing, "there's a slump in my shares this afternoon! you've done a nice thing. lupin, old fellow: you wanted a last sensation and you've gone a bit too far. you shouldn't have talked so much." he flattened himself against the wall. a further portion of the panel had given way under the men's pressure and ganimard was less hampered in his movements. three yards, no more, separated the two antagonists. but lupin was protected by a glass case with a gilt-wood framework. "why don't you help, beautrelet?" cried the old detective, gnashing his teeth with rage. "why don't you shoot him, instead of staring at him like that?" isidore, in fact, had not budged, had remained, till that moment, an eager, but passive spectator. he would have liked to fling himself into the contest with all his strength and to bring down the prey which he held at his mercy. he was prevented by some inexplicable sentiment. but ganimard's appeal for assistance shook him. his hand closed on the butt of his revolver: "if i take part in it," he thought, "lupin is lost. and i have the right--it's my duty." their eyes met. lupin's were calm, watchful, almost inquisitive, as though, in the awful danger that threatened him, he were interested only in the moral problem that held the young man in its clutches. would isidore decide to give the finishing stroke to the defeated enemy? the door cracked from top to bottom. "help, beautrelet, we've got him!" ganimard bellowed. isidore raised his revolver. what happened was so quick that he knew of it, so to speak, only by the result. he saw lupin bob down and run along the wall, skimming the door right under the weapon which ganimard was vainly brandishing; and he felt himself suddenly flung to the ground, picked up the next moment and lifted by an invincible force. lupin held him in the air, like a living shield, behind which he hid himself. "ten to one that i escape, ganimard! lupin, you see, has never quite exhausted his resources--" he had taken a couple of brisk steps backward to the triptych. holding beautrelet with one hand flat against his chest, with the other he cleared the passage and closed the little door behind them. a steep staircase appeared before their eyes. "come along," said lupin, pushing beautrelet before him. "the land forces are beaten--let us turn our attention to the french fleet.--after waterloo, trafalgar.--you're having some fun for your money, eh, my lad?--oh, how good: listen to them knocking at the triptych now!--it's too late, my children.--but hurry along, beautrelet!" the staircase, dug out in the wall of the needle, dug in its very crust, turned round and round the pyramid, encircling it like the spiral of a tobogganslide. each hurrying the other, they clattered down the treads, taking two or three at a bound. here and there, a ray of light trickled through a fissure; and beautrelet carried away the vision of the fishing-smacks hovering a few dozen fathoms off, and of the black torpedo-boat. they went down and down, isidore in silence, lupin still bubbling over with merriment: "i should like to know what ganimard is doing? is he tumbling down the other staircases to bar the entrance to the tunnel against me? no, he's not such a fool as that. he must have left four men there--and four men are sufficient--" he stopped. "listen--they're shouting up above. that's it, they've opened the window and are calling to their fleet.--why, look, the men are busy on board the smacks--they're exchanging signals.--the torpedo-boat is moving.--dear old torpedo-boat! i know you, you're from the havre.--guns' crews to the guns!--hullo, there's the commander!--how are you, duguay-trouin?" he put his arm through a cleft and waved his handkerchief. then he continued his way downstairs: "the enemy's fleet have set all sail," he said. "we shall be boarded before we know where we are. heavens, what fun!" they heard the sound of voices below them. they were just then approaching the level of the sea and they emerged, almost at once, into a large cave into which two lanterns were moving about in the dark. a woman's figure appeared and threw itself on lupin's neck: "quick, quick, i was so nervous about you. what have you been doing?--but you're not alone!--" lupin reassured her: "it's our friend beautrelet.--just think, beautrelet had the tact--but i'll talk about that later--there's no time now.--charolais are you there? that's right!--and the boat?" "the boat's ready, sir," charolais replied, "fire away," said lupin. in a moment, the noise of a motor crackled and beautrelet, whose eyes were gradually becoming used to the gloom, ended by perceiving that they were on a sort of quay, at the edge of the water, and that a boat was floating before them. "a motor boat," said lupin, completing beautrelet's observations. "this knocks you all of a heap, eh, isidore, old chap?--you don't understand.--still, you have only to think.--as the water before your eyes is no other than the water of the sea, which filters into this excavation each high tide, the result is that i have a safe little private roadstead all to myself." "but it's closed," beautrelet protested. "no one can get in or out." "yes, i can," said lupin; "and i'm going to prove it to you." he began by handing raymonde in. then he came back to fetch beautrelet. the lad hesitated. "are you afraid?" asked lupin. "what of?" "of being sunk by the torpedo-boat." "no." "then you're considering whether it's not your duty to stay with ganimard, law and order, society and morality, instead of going off with lupin, shame, infamy and disgrace." "exactly." "unfortunately, my boy, you have no choice. for the moment, they must believe the two of us dead--and leave me the peace to which a prospective honest man is entitled. later on, when i have given you your liberty, you can talk as much as you please--i shall have nothing more to fear." by the way in which lupin clutched his arm, beautrelet felt that all resistance was useless. besides, why resist? had he not discovered and handed over the hollow needle? what did he care about the rest? had he not the right to humor the irresistible sympathy with which, in spite of everything, this man inspired him? the feeling was so clear in him that he was half inclined to say to lupin: "look here, you're running another, a more serious danger; holmlock shears is on your track." "come along!" said lupin, before isidore had made up his mind to speak. he obeyed and let lupin lead him to the boat, the shape of which struck him as peculiar and its appearance quite unexpected. once on deck, they went down a little steep staircase, or rather a ladder hooked on to a trap door, which closed above their heads. at the foot of the ladder, brightly lit by a lamp, was a very small saloon, where raymonde was waiting for them and where the three had just room to sit down. lupin took the mouthpiece of a speaking tube from a hook and gave the order: "let her go, charolais!" isidore had the unpleasant sensation which one feels when going down in a lift: the sensation of the ground vanishing beneath you, the impression of emptiness, space. this time, it was the water retreating; and space opened out, slowly. "we're sinking, eh?" grinned lupin. "don't be afraid--we've only to pass from the upper cave where we were to another little cave, situated right at the bottom and half open to the sea, which can be entered at low tide. all the shellfish-catchers know it. ah, ten seconds' wait! we're going through the passage and it's very narrow, just the size of the submarine." "but," asked beautrelet, "how is it that the fishermen who enter the lower cave don't know that it's open at the top and that it communicates with another from which a staircase starts and runs through the needle? the facts are at the disposal of the first-comer." "wrong, beautrelet! the top of the little public cave is closed, at low tide, by a movable platform, painted the color of the rock, which the sea, when it rises, shifts and carries up with it and, when it goes down, fastens firmly over the little cave. that is why i am able to pass at high tide. a clever notion, what? it's an idea of my own. true, neither caesar nor louis xiv., nor, in short, any of my distinguished predecessors could have had it, because they did not possess submarines. they were satisfied with the staircase, which then ran all the way down to the little bottom cave. i did away with the last treads of the staircase and invented the trick of the movable ceiling: it's a present i'm making to france--raymonde, my love, put out the lamp beside you--we shan't want it now--on the contrary--" a pale light, which seemed to be of the same color as the water, met them as they left the cave and made its way into the cabin through the two portholes and through a thick glass skylight that projected above the planking of the deck and allowed the passengers to inspect the upper layers of the sea. and, suddenly, a shadow glided over their heads. "the attack is about to take place. the fleet is investing the needle. but, hollow as the needle is, i don't see how they propose to enter it." he took up the speaking tube: "don't leave the bottom, charolais. where are we going? why, i told you: to port-lupin. and at full speed, do you hear? we want water to land by--there's a lady with us." they skimmed over the rocky bed. the seaweed stood up on end like a heavy, dark vegetation and the deep currents made it wave gracefully, stretching and billowing like floating hair. another shadow, a longer one. "that's the torpedo-boat," said lupin. "we shall hear the roar of the guns presently. what will duguay-trouin do? bombard the needle? think of what we're missing, beautrelet, by not being present at the meeting of duguay-trouin and ganimard! the juncture of the land and naval forces! hi, charolais, don't go to sleep, my man!" they were moving very fast, for all that. the rocks had been succeeded by sand-fields and then, almost at once, they saw more rocks, which marked the eastern extremity of etretat, the porte d'amont. fish fled at their approach. one of them, bolder than the rest, fastened on to a porthole and looked at the occupants of the saloon with its great, fixed, staring eyes. "that's better," cried lupin. "we're going now. what do you think of my cockle-shell, beautrelet? not so bad, is she? do you remember the story of the seven of hearts,[ ] the wretched end of lacombe, the engineer, and how, after punishing his murderers, i presented the state with his papers and his plans for the construction of a new submarine: one more gift to france? well, among the plans, i kept those of a submersible motor boat and that is how you come to have the honor of sailing in my company." [ ] the exploits of arsene lupin. by maurice leblanc. vi: the seven of hearts. he called to charolais: "take us up, charolais--there's no danger now--" they shot up to the surface and the glass skylight emerged above the water. they were a mile from the coast, out of sight, therefore, and beautrelet was now able to realize more fully at what a headlong pace they were traveling. first fecamp passed before them, then all the norman seaside places: saint-pierre, the petits--dalles, veulettes, saint-valery, veules, quiberville. lupin kept on jesting and isidore never wearied of watching and listening to him, amazed as he was at the man's spirits, at his gaiety, his mischievous ways, his careless chaff, his delight in life. he also noticed raymonde. the young woman sat silent, nestling up against the man she loved. she had taken his hands between her own and kept on raising her eyes to him; and beautrelet constantly observed that her hands were twitching and that the wistful sadness of her eyes increased. and, each time, it was like a dumb and sorrowful reply to lupin's sallies. one would have thought that his frivolous words, his sarcastic outlook on life, caused her physical pain. "hush!" she whispered. "it's defying destiny to laugh--so many misfortunes can reach us still!" opposite dieppe, they had to dive lest they should be seen by the fishing-craft. and twenty minutes later, they shot at an angle toward the coast and the boat entered a little submarine harbor formed by a regular gap between the rocks, drew up beside a jetty and rose gently to the surface. lupin announced: "port-lupin!" the spot, situated at sixteen miles from dieppe and twelve from the treport and protected, moreover, by the two landslips of cliff, was absolutely deserted. a fine sand carpeted the rounded slope of the tiny beach. "jump on shore, beautrelet--raymonde, give me your hand. you, charolais, go back to the needle, see what happens between ganimard and duguay-trouin and come back and tell me at the end of the day. the thing interests me tremendously." beautrelet asked himself with a certain curiosity how they were going to get out of this hemmed-in creek which was called port-lupin, when, at the foot of the cliff, he saw the uprights of an iron ladder. "isidore," said lupin, "if you knew your geography and your history, you would know that we are at the bottom of the gorge of parfonval, in the parish of biville. more than a century ago, on the night of the twenty-third of august, , georges cadoudal and six accomplices, who had landed in france with the intention of kidnapping the first consul, bonaparte, scrambled up to the top by the road which i will show you. since then, this road has been demolished by landslips. but louis valmeras, better known by the name of arsene lupin, had it restored at his own expense and bought the farm of the neuvillette, where the conspirators spent the first night and where, retired from business and withdrawing from the affairs of this world, he means to lead the life of a respectable country squire with his wife and his mother by his side. the gentleman-burglar is dead! long live the gentleman-farmer!" after the ladder came a sort of gully, an abrupt ravine hollowed out, apparently, by the rains, at the end of which they laid hold of a makeshift staircase furnished with a hand-rail. as lupin explained, this hand-rail had been placed where it was in the stead of the estamperche, a long rope fastened to stakes, by which the people of the country, in the old days, used to help themselves down when going to the beach. after a painful climb of half an hour, they emerged on the tableland, not far from one of those little cabins, dug out of the soil itself, which serve as shelters for the excisemen. and, as it happened, two minutes later, at a turn in the path, one of these custom-house officials appeared. he drew himself up and saluted. lupin asked: "any news, gomel?" "no, governor." "you've met no one at all suspicious-looking?" "no, governor--only--" "what?" "my wife--who does dressmaking at the neuvillette--" "yes, i know--cesarine--my mother spoke of her. well?" "it seems a sailor was prowling about the village this morning." "what sort of face had he?" "not a natural face--a sort of englishman's face." "ah!" said lupin, in a tone preoccupied. "and you have given cesarine orders--" "to keep her eyes open. yes, governor." "very well. keep a lookout for charolais's return in two or three hours from now. if there's anything, i shall be at the farm." he walked on and said to beautrelet: "this makes me uneasy--is it shears? ah, if it's he, in his present state of exasperation, i have everything to fear!" he hesitated a moment: "i wonder if we hadn't better turn back. yes, i have a nasty presentiment of evil." gently undulating plains stretched before them as far as the eye could see. a little to the left, a series of handsome avenues of trees led to the farm of the neuvillette, the buildings of which were now in view. it was the retreat which he had prepared, the haven of rest which he had promised raymonde. was he, for the sake of an absurd idea, to renounce happiness at the very moment when it seemed within his reach? he took isidore by the arm and, calling his attention to raymonde, who was walking in front of them: "look at her. when she walks, her figure has a little swing at the waist which i cannot see without quivering. but everything in her gives me that thrill of emotion and love: her movements and her repose, her silence and the sound of her voice. i tell you, the mere fact that i am walking in the track of her footsteps makes me feel in the seventh heaven. ah, beautrelet, will she ever forget that i was once lupin? shall i ever be able to wipe out from her memory the past which she loathes and detests?" he mastered himself and, with obstinate assurance. "she will forget!" he declared. "she will forget, because i have made every sacrifice for her sake. i have sacrificed the inviolable sanctuary of the hollow needle, i have sacrificed my treasures, my power, my pride--i will sacrifice everything--i don't want to be anything more--but just a man in love--and an honest man, because she can only love an honest man. after all, why should i not be honest? it is no more degrading than anything else!" the quip escaped him, so to speak, unawares. his voice remained serious and free of all chaff. and he muttered, with restrained violence: "ah, beautrelet, you see, of all the unbridled joys which i have tasted in my adventurous life, there is not one that equals the joy with which her look fills me when she is pleased with me. i feel quite weak then, and i should like to cry--" was he crying? beautrelet had an intuition that his eyes were wet with tears. tears in lupin's eyes!--tears of love! they were nearing an old gate that served as an entrance to the farm. lupin stopped for a moment and stammered: "why am i afraid?--i feel a sort of weight on my chest. is the adventure of the hollow needle not over? has destiny not accepted the issue which i selected?" raymonde turned round, looking very anxious. "here comes cesarine. she's running." the exciseman's wife was hurrying from the farm as fast as she could. lupin rushed up to her: "what is it? what has happened? speak!" choking, quite out of breath, cesarine stuttered: "a man--i saw a man this morning! "a man--i saw a man in the sitting-room." "the englishman of this morning?" "yes--but in a different disguise." "did he see you?" "no. he saw your mother. mme. valmeras caught him as he was just going away." "well?" "he told her that he was looking for louis valmeras, that he was a friend of yours." "then?" "the madame said that her son had gone abroad--for years." "and he went away?" "no, he made signs through the window that overlooks the plain--as if he were calling to some one." lupin seemed to hesitate. a loud cry tore the air. raymonde moaned: "it's your mother--i recognize--" he flung himself upon her and, dragging her away, in a burst of fierce passion: "come--let us fly--you first." but, suddenly, he stopped, distraught, overcome: "no, i can't do it--it's too awful. forgive me--raymonde--that poor woman down there--stay here. beautrelet, don't leave her." he darted along the slope that surrounds the farm, turned and followed it, at a run, till he came to the gate that opens on the plain. raymonde, whom beautrelet had been unable to hold back, arrived almost as soon as he did; and beautrelet, hiding behind the trees, saw, in the lonely walk that led from the farm to the gate, three men, of whom one, the tallest, went ahead, while the two others were holding by the arms a woman who tried to resist and who uttered moans of pain. the daylight was beginning to fade. nevertheless, beautrelet recognized holmlock shears. the woman seemed of a certain age. her livid features were set in a frame of white hair. they all four came up. they reached the gate. shears opened one of the folding leaves. then lupin strode forward and stood in front of him. the encounter appeared all the more terrible inasmuch as it was silent, almost solemn. for long moments, the two enemies took each other's measure with their eyes. an equal hatred distorted the features of both of them. neither moved. then lupin spoke, in a voice of terrifying calmness: "tell your men to leave that woman alone." "no." it was as though both of them feared to engage in the supreme struggle, as though both were collecting all their strength. and there were no words wasted this time, no insults, no bantering challenges. silence, a deathlike silence. mad with anguish, raymonde awaited the issue of the duel. beautrelet had caught her arms and was holding her motionless. after a second, lupin repeated: "order your men to leave that woman alone." "no." lupin said: "listen, shears--" but he interrupted himself, realizing the silliness of the words. in the face of that colossus of pride and will-power which called itself holmlock shears, of what use were threats? resolved upon the worst, suddenly he put his hand to his jacket pocket. the englishman anticipated his movement and, leaping upon his prisoner, thrust the barrel of his revolver within two inches of her temple: "if you stir a limb, i fire!" at the same time his two satellites drew their weapons and aimed them at lupin. lupin drew himself up, stifled the rage within him and, coolly, with his hands in his pockets and his breast exposed to the enemy, began once more: "shears, for the third time, let that woman be--" the englishman sneered: "i have no right to touch her, i suppose? come, come, enough of this humbug! your name isn't valmeras any more than it's lupin: you stole the name just as you stole the name of charmerace. and the woman whom you pass off as your mother is victoire, your old accomplice, the one who brought you up--"[ ] [ ] arsene lupin, play in four acts, by maurice leblanc and francis de croisset. shears made a mistake. carried away by his longing for revenge, he glanced across at raymonde, whom these revelations filled with horror. lupin took advantage of his imprudence. with a sudden movement, he fired. "damnation!" bellowed shears, whose arm, pierced by a bullet, fell to his side. and, addressing his men, "shoot, you two! shoot him down!" but already lupin was upon them: and not two seconds had elapsed before the one on the right was sprawling on the ground, with his chest smashed, while the other, with his jaw broken, fell back against the gate. "hurry up, victoire. tie them down. and now, mr. englishman, it's you and i." he ducked with an oath: "ah, you scoundrel!" shears had picked up his revolver with his left hand and was taking aim at him. a shot--a cry of distress--raymonde had flung herself between the two men, facing the englishman. she staggered back, brought her hand to her neck, drew herself up, spun round on her heels and fell at lupin's feet. "raymonde!--raymonde!" he threw himself upon her, took her in his arms and pressed her to him. "dead--" he said. there was a moment of stupefaction. shears seemed confounded by his own act. victoire stammered: "my poor boy--my poor boy--" beautrelet went up to the young woman and stooped to examine her. lupin repeated: "dead--dead--" he said it in a reflective tone, as though he did not yet understand. but his face became hollow, suddenly transformed, ravaged by grief. and then he was seized with a sort of madness, made senseless gestures, wrung his hands, stamped his feet, like a child that suffers more than it is able to bear. "you villain!" he cried, suddenly, in an access of hatred. and, flinging shears back with a formidable blow, he took him by the throat and dug his twitching fingers into his flesh. the englishman gasped, without even struggling. "my boy--my boy--" said victoire, in a voice of entreaty. beautrelet ran up. but lupin had already let go and stood sobbing beside his enemy stretched upon the ground. o pitiful sight! beautrelet never forgot its tragic horror, he who knew all lupin's love for raymonde and all that the great adventurer had sacrificed of his own being to bring a smile to the face of his well-beloved. night began to cover the field of battle with a shroud of darkness. the three englishmen lay bound and gagged in the tall grass. distant songs broke the vast silence of the plain. it was the farm-hands returning from their work. lupin drew himself up. he listened to the monotonous voices. then he glanced at the happy homestead of the neuvillette, where he had hoped to live peacefully with raymonde. then he looked at her, the poor, loving victim, whom love had killed and who, all white, was sleeping her last, eternal sleep. the men were coming nearer, however. then lupin bent down, took the dead woman in his powerful arms, lifted the corpse with a single effort and, bent in two, stretched it across his back: "let us go, victoire." "let us go, dear." "good-bye, beautrelet," he said. and, bearing his precious and awful burden followed by his old servant, silent and fierce he turned toward the sea and plunged into the darkness of the night. the end proofreading team. html version by al haines. arsene lupin by edgar jepson and maurice leblanc frontispiece by h. richard boehm contents i. the millionaire's daughter ii. the coming of the charolais iii. lupin's way iv. the duke intervenes v. a letter from lupin vi. again the charolais vii. the theft of the motor-cars viii. the duke arrives ix. m. formery opens the inquiry x. guerchard assists xi. the family arrives xii. the theft of the pendant xiii. lupin wires xiv. guerchard picks up the true scent xv. the examination of sonia xvi. victoire's slip xvii. sonia's escape xviii. the duke stays xix. the duke goes xx. lupin comes home xxi. the cutting of the telephone wires xii. the bargain xxiii. the end of the duel arsene lupin chapter i the millionaire's daughter the rays of the september sun flooded the great halls of the old chateau of the dukes of charmerace, lighting up with their mellow glow the spoils of so many ages and many lands, jumbled together with the execrable taste which so often afflicts those whose only standard of value is money. the golden light warmed the panelled walls and old furniture to a dull lustre, and gave back to the fading gilt of the first empire chairs and couches something of its old brightness. it illumined the long line of pictures on the walls, pictures of dead and gone charmeraces, the stern or debonair faces of the men, soldiers, statesmen, dandies, the gentle or imperious faces of beautiful women. it flashed back from armour of brightly polished steel, and drew dull gleams from armour of bronze. the hues of rare porcelain, of the rich inlays of oriental or renaissance cabinets, mingled with the hues of the pictures, the tapestry, the persian rugs about the polished floor to fill the hall with a rich glow of colour. but of all the beautiful and precious things which the sun-rays warmed to a clearer beauty, the face of the girl who sat writing at a table in front of the long windows, which opened on to the centuries-old turf of the broad terrace, was the most beautiful and the most precious. it was a delicate, almost frail, beauty. her skin was clear with the transparent lustre of old porcelain, and her pale cheeks were only tinted with the pink of the faintest roses. her straight nose was delicately cut, her rounded chin admirably moulded. a lover of beauty would have been at a loss whether more to admire her clear, germander eyes, so melting and so adorable, or the sensitive mouth, with its rather full lips, inviting all the kisses. but assuredly he would have been grieved by the perpetual air of sadness which rested on the beautiful face--the wistful melancholy of the slav, deepened by something of personal misfortune and suffering. her face was framed by a mass of soft fair hair, shot with strands of gold where the sunlight fell on it; and little curls, rebellious to the comb, strayed over her white forehead, tiny feathers of gold. she was addressing envelopes, and a long list of names lay on her left hand. when she had addressed an envelope, she slipped into it a wedding-card. on each was printed: "m. gournay-martin has the honour to inform you of the marriage of his daughter germaine to the duke of charmerace." she wrote steadily on, adding envelope after envelope to the pile ready for the post, which rose in front of her. but now and again, when the flushed and laughing girls who were playing lawn-tennis on the terrace, raised their voices higher than usual as they called the score, and distracted her attention from her work, her gaze strayed through the open window and lingered on them wistfully; and as her eyes came back to her task she sighed with so faint a wistfulness that she hardly knew she sighed. then a voice from the terrace cried, "sonia! sonia!" "yes. mlle. germaine?" answered the writing girl. "tea! order tea, will you?" cried the voice, a petulant voice, rather harsh to the ear. "very well, mlle. germaine," said sonia; and having finished addressing the envelope under her pen, she laid it on the pile ready to be posted, and, crossing the room to the old, wide fireplace, she rang the bell. she stood by the fireplace a moment, restoring to its place a rose which had fallen from a vase on the mantelpiece; and her attitude, as with arms upraised she arranged the flowers, displayed the delightful line of a slender figure. as she let fall her arms to her side, a footman entered the room. "will you please bring the tea, alfred," she said in a charming voice of that pure, bell-like tone which has been nature's most precious gift to but a few of the greatest actresses. "for how many, miss?" said alfred. "for four--unless your master has come back." "oh, no; he's not back yet, miss. he went in the car to rennes to lunch; and it's a good many miles away. he won't be back for another hour." "and the duke--he's not back from his ride yet, is he?" "not yet, miss," said alfred, turning to go. "one moment," said sonia. "have all of you got your things packed for the journey to paris? you will have to start soon, you know. are all the maids ready?" "well, all the men are ready, i know, miss. but about the maids, miss, i can't say. they've been bustling about all day; but it takes them longer than it does us." "tell them to hurry up; and be as quick as you can with the tea, please," said sonia. alfred went out of the room; sonia went back to the writing-table. she did not take up her pen; she took up one of the wedding-cards; and her lips moved slowly as she read it in a pondering depression. the petulant, imperious voice broke in upon her musing. "whatever are you doing, sonia? aren't you getting on with those letters?" it cried angrily; and germaine gournay-martin came through the long window into the hall. the heiress to the gournay-martin millions carried her tennis racquet in her hand; and her rosy cheeks were flushed redder than ever by the game. she was a pretty girl in a striking, high-coloured, rather obvious way--the very foil to sonia's delicate beauty. her lips were a little too thin, her eyes too shallow; and together they gave her a rather hard air, in strongest contrast to the gentle, sympathetic face of sonia. the two friends with whom germaine had been playing tennis followed her into the hall: jeanne gautier, tall, sallow, dark, with a somewhat malicious air; marie bullier, short, round, commonplace, and sentimental. they came to the table at which sonia was at work; and pointing to the pile of envelopes, marie said, "are these all wedding-cards?" "yes; and we've only got to the letter v," said germaine, frowning at sonia. "princesse de vernan--duchesse de vauvieuse--marquess--marchioness? you've invited the whole faubourg saint-germain," said marie, shuffling the pile of envelopes with an envious air. "you'll know very few people at your wedding," said jeanne, with a spiteful little giggle. "i beg your pardon, my dear," said germaine boastfully. "madame de relzieres, my fiance's cousin, gave an at home the other day in my honour. at it she introduced half paris to me--the paris i'm destined to know, the paris you'll see in my drawing-rooms." "but we shall no longer be fit friends for you when you're the duchess of charmerace," said jeanne. "why?" said germaine; and then she added quickly, "above everything, sonia, don't forget veauleglise, , university street-- , university street." "veauleglise-- , university street," said sonia, taking a fresh envelope, and beginning to address it. "wait--wait! don't close the envelope. i'm wondering whether veauleglise ought to have a cross, a double cross, or a triple cross," said germaine, with an air of extreme importance. "what's that?" cried marie and jeanne together. "a single cross means an invitation to the church, a double cross an invitation to the marriage and the wedding-breakfast, and the triple cross means an invitation to the marriage, the breakfast, and the signing of the marriage-contract. what do you think the duchess of veauleglise ought to have?" "don't ask me. i haven't the honour of knowing that great lady," cried jeanne. "nor i," said marie. "nor i," said germaine. "but i have here the visiting-list of the late duchess of charmerace, jacques' mother. the two duchesses were on excellent terms. besides the duchess of veauleglise is rather worn-out, but greatly admired for her piety. she goes to early service three times a week." "then put three crosses," said jeanne. "i shouldn't," said marie quickly. "in your place, my dear, i shouldn't risk a slip. i should ask my fiance's advice. he knows this world." "oh, goodness--my fiance! he doesn't care a rap about this kind of thing. he has changed so in the last seven years. seven years ago he took nothing seriously. why, he set off on an expedition to the south pole--just to show off. oh, in those days he was truly a duke." "and to-day?" said jeanne. "oh, to-day he's a regular slow-coach. society gets on his nerves. he's as sober as a judge," said germaine. "he's as gay as a lark," said sonia, in sudden protest. germaine pouted at her, and said: "oh, he's gay enough when he's making fun of people. but apart from that he's as sober as a judge." "your father must be delighted with the change," said jeanne. "naturally he's delighted. why, he's lunching at rennes to-day with the minister, with the sole object of getting jacques decorated." "well; the legion of honour is a fine thing to have," said marie. "my dear! the legion of honour is all very well for middle-class people, but it's quite out of place for a duke!" cried germaine. alfred came in, bearing the tea-tray, and set it on a little table near that at which sonia was sitting. germaine, who was feeling too important to sit still, was walking up and down the room. suddenly she stopped short, and pointing to a silver statuette which stood on the piano, she said, "what's this? why is this statuette here?" "why, when we came in, it was on the cabinet, in its usual place," said sonia in some astonishment. "did you come into the hall while we were out in the garden, alfred?" said germaine to the footman. "no, miss," said alfred. "but some one must have come into it," germaine persisted. "i've not heard any one. i was in my pantry," said alfred. "it's very odd," said germaine. "it is odd," said sonia. "statuettes don't move about of themselves." all of them stared at the statuette as if they expected it to move again forthwith, under their very eyes. then alfred put it back in its usual place on one of the cabinets, and went out of the room. sonia poured out the tea; and over it they babbled about the coming marriage, the frocks they would wear at it, and the presents germaine had already received. that reminded her to ask sonia if any one had yet telephoned from her father's house in paris; and sonia said that no one had. "that's very annoying," said germaine. "it shows that nobody has sent me a present to-day." pouting, she shrugged her shoulders with an air of a spoiled child, which sat but poorly on a well-developed young woman of twenty-three. "it's sunday. the shops don't deliver things on sunday," said sonia gently. but germaine still pouted like a spoiled child. "isn't your beautiful duke coming to have tea with us?" said jeanne a little anxiously. "oh, yes; i'm expecting him at half-past four. he had to go for a ride with the two du buits. they're coming to tea here, too," said germaine. "gone for a ride with the two du buits? but when?" cried marie quickly. "this afternoon." "he can't be," said marie. "my brother went to the du buits' house after lunch, to see andre and georges. they went for a drive this morning, and won't be back till late to-night." "well, but--but why did the duke tell me so?" said germaine, knitting her brow with a puzzled air. "if i were you, i should inquire into this thoroughly. dukes--well, we know what dukes are--it will be just as well to keep an eye on him," said jeanne maliciously. germaine flushed quickly; and her eyes flashed. "thank you. i have every confidence in jacques. i am absolutely sure of him," she said angrily. "oh, well--if you're sure, it's all right," said jeanne. the ringing of the telephone-bell made a fortunate diversion. germaine rushed to it, clapped the receiver to her ear, and cried: "hello, is that you, pierre? ... oh, it's victoire, is it? ... ah, some presents have come, have they? ... well, well, what are they? ... what! a paper-knife--another paper-knife! ... another louis xvi. inkstand--oh, bother! ... who are they from? ... oh, from the countess rudolph and the baron de valery." her voice rose high, thrilling with pride. then she turned her face to her friends, with the receiver still at her ear, and cried: "oh, girls, a pearl necklace too! a large one! the pearls are big ones!" "how jolly!" said marie. "who sent it?" said germaine, turning to the telephone again. "oh, a friend of papa's," she added in a tone of disappointment. "never mind, after all it's a pearl necklace. you'll be sure and lock the doors carefully, victoire, won't you? and lock up the necklace in the secret cupboard.... yes; thanks very much, victoire. i shall see you to-morrow." she hung up the receiver, and came away from the telephone frowning. "it's preposterous!" she said pettishly. "papa's friends and relations give me marvellous presents, and all the swells send me paper-knives. it's all jacques' fault. he's above all this kind of thing. the faubourg saint-germain hardly knows that we're engaged." "he doesn't go about advertising it," said jeanne, smiling. "you're joking, but all the same what you say is true," said germaine. "that's exactly what his cousin madame de relzieres said to me the other day at the at home she gave in my honour--wasn't it, sonia?" and she walked to the window, and, turning her back on them, stared out of it. "she has got her mouth full of that at home," said jeanne to marie in a low voice. there was an awkward silence. marie broke it: "speaking of madame de relzieres, do you know that she is on pins and needles with anxiety? her son is fighting a duel to-day," she said. "with whom?" said sonia. "no one knows. she got hold of a letter from the seconds," said marie. "my mind is quite at rest about relzieres," said germaine. "he's a first-class swordsman. no one could beat him." sonia did not seem to share her freedom from anxiety. her forehead was puckered in little lines of perplexity, as if she were puzzling out some problem; and there was a look of something very like fear in her gentle eyes. "wasn't relzieres a great friend of your fiance at one time?" said jeanne. "a great friend? i should think he was," said germaine. "why, it was through relzieres that we got to know jacques." "where was that?" said marie. "here--in this very chateau," said germaine. "actually in his own house?" said marie, in some surprise. "yes; actually here. isn't life funny?" said germaine. "if, a few months after his father's death, jacques had not found himself hard-up, and obliged to dispose of this chateau, to raise the money for his expedition to the south pole; and if papa and i had not wanted an historic chateau; and lastly, if papa had not suffered from rheumatism, i should not be calling myself in a month from now the duchess of charmerace." "now what on earth has your father's rheumatism got to do with your being duchess of charmerace?" cried jeanne. "everything," said germaine. "papa was afraid that this chateau was damp. to prove to papa that he had nothing to fear, jacques, en grand seigneur, offered him his hospitality, here, at charmerace, for three weeks." "that was truly ducal," said marie. "but he is always like that," said sonia. "oh, he's all right in that way, little as he cares about society," said germaine. "well, by a miracle my father got cured of his rheumatism here. jacques fell in love with me; papa made up his mind to buy the chateau; and i demanded the hand of jacques in marriage." "you did? but you were only sixteen then," said marie, with some surprise. "yes; but even at sixteen a girl ought to know that a duke is a duke. i did," said germaine. "then since jacques was setting out for the south pole, and papa considered me much too young to get married, i promised jacques to wait for his return." "why, it was everything that's romantic!" cried marie. "romantic? oh, yes," said germaine; and she pouted. "but between ourselves, if i'd known that he was going to stay all that time at the south pole--" "that's true," broke in marie. "to go away for three years and stay away seven--at the end of the world." "all germaine's beautiful youth," said jeanne, with her malicious smile. "thanks!" said germaine tartly. "well, you are twenty-three. it's the flower of one's age," said jeanne. "not quite twenty-three," said germaine hastily. "and look at the wretched luck i've had. the duke falls ill and is treated at montevideo. as soon as he recovers, since he's the most obstinate person in the world, he resolves to go on with the expedition. he sets out; and for an age, without a word of warning, there's no more news of him--no news of any kind. for six months, you know, we believed him dead." "dead? oh, how unhappy you must have been!" said sonia. "oh, don't speak of it! for six months i daren't put on a light frock," said germaine, turning to her. "a lot she must have cared for him," whispered jeanne to marie. "fortunately, one fine day, the letters began again. three months ago a telegram informed us that he was coming back; and at last the duke returned," said germaine, with a theatrical air. "the duke returned," cried jeanne, mimicking her. "never mind. fancy waiting nearly seven years for one's fiance. that was constancy," said sonia. "oh, you're a sentimentalist, mlle. kritchnoff," said jeanne, in a tone of mockery. "it was the influence of the castle." "what do you mean?" said germaine. "oh, to own the castle of charmerace and call oneself mlle. gournay-martin--it's not worth doing. one must become a duchess," said jeanne. "yes, yes; and for all this wonderful constancy, seven years of it, germaine was on the point of becoming engaged to another man," said marie, smiling. "and he a mere baron," said jeanne, laughing. "what? is that true?" said sonia. "didn't you know, mlle. kritchnoff? she nearly became engaged to the duke's cousin, the baron de relzieres. it was not nearly so grand." "oh, it's all very well to laugh at me; but being the cousin and heir of the duke, relzieres would have assumed the title, and i should have been duchess just the same," said germaine triumphantly. "evidently that was all that mattered," said jeanne. "well, dear, i must be off. we've promised to run in to see the comtesse de grosjean. you know the comtesse de grosjean?" she spoke with an air of careless pride, and rose to go. "only by name. papa used to know her husband on the stock exchange when he was still called simply m. grosjean. for his part, papa preferred to keep his name intact," said germaine, with quiet pride. "intact? that's one way of looking at it. well, then, i'll see you in paris. you still intend to start to-morrow?" said jeanne. "yes; to-morrow morning," said germaine. jeanne and marie slipped on their dust-coats to the accompaniment of chattering and kissing, and went out of the room. as she closed the door on them, germaine turned to sonia, and said: "i do hate those two girls! they're such horrible snobs." "oh, they're good-natured enough," said sonia. "good-natured? why, you idiot, they're just bursting with envy of me--bursting!" said germaine. "well, they've every reason to be," she added confidently, surveying herself in a venetian mirror with a petted child's self-content. chapter ii the coming of the charolais sonia went back to her table, and once more began putting wedding-cards in their envelopes and addressing them. germaine moved restlessly about the room, fidgeting with the bric-a-brac on the cabinets, shifting the pieces about, interrupting sonia to ask whether she preferred this arrangement or that, throwing herself into a chair to read a magazine, getting up in a couple of minutes to straighten a picture on the wall, throwing out all the while idle questions not worth answering. ninety-nine human beings would have been irritated to exasperation by her fidgeting; sonia endured it with a perfect patience. five times germaine asked her whether she should wear her heliotrope or her pink gown at a forthcoming dinner at madame de relzieres'. five times sonia said, without the slightest variation in her tone, "i think you look better in the pink." and all the while the pile of addressed envelopes rose steadily. presently the door opened, and alfred stood on the threshold. "two gentlemen have called to see you, miss," he said. "ah, the two du buits," cried germaine. "they didn't give their names, miss." "a gentleman in the prime of life and a younger one?" said germaine. "yes, miss." "i thought so. show them in." "yes, miss. and have you any orders for me to give victoire when we get to paris?" said alfred. "no. are you starting soon?" "yes, miss. we're all going by the seven o'clock train. it's a long way from here to paris; we shall only reach it at nine in the morning. that will give us just time to get the house ready for you by the time you get there to-morrow evening," said alfred. "is everything packed?" "yes, miss--everything. the cart has already taken the heavy luggage to the station. all you'll have to do is to see after your bags." "that's all right. show m. du buit and his brother in," said germaine. she moved to a chair near the window, and disposed herself in an attitude of studied, and obviously studied, grace. as she leant her head at a charming angle back against the tall back of the chair, her eyes fell on the window, and they opened wide. "why, whatever's this?" she cried, pointing to it. "whatever's what?" said sonia, without raising her eyes from the envelope she was addressing. "why, the window. look! one of the panes has been taken out. it looks as if it had been cut." "so it has--just at the level of the fastening," said sonia. and the two girls stared at the gap. "haven't you noticed it before?" said germaine. "no; the broken glass must have fallen outside," said sonia. the noise of the opening of the door drew their attention from the window. two figures were advancing towards them--a short, round, tubby man of fifty-five, red-faced, bald, with bright grey eyes, which seemed to be continually dancing away from meeting the eyes of any other human being. behind him came a slim young man, dark and grave. for all the difference in their colouring, it was clear that they were father and son: their eyes were set so close together. the son seemed to have inherited, along with her black eyes, his mother's nose, thin and aquiline; the nose of the father started thin from the brow, but ended in a scarlet bulb eloquent of an exhaustive acquaintance with the vintages of the world. germaine rose, looking at them with an air of some surprise and uncertainty: these were not her friends, the du buits. the elder man, advancing with a smiling bonhomie, bowed, and said in an adenoid voice, ingratiating of tone: "i'm m. charolais, young ladies--m. charolais--retired brewer--chevalier of the legion of honour--landowner at rennes. let me introduce my son." the young man bowed awkwardly. "we came from rennes this morning, and we lunched at kerlor's farm." "shall i order tea for them?" whispered sonia. "gracious, no!" said germaine sharply under her breath; then, louder, she said to m. charolais, "and what is your object in calling?" "we asked to see your father," said m. charolais, smiling with broad amiability, while his eyes danced across her face, avoiding any meeting with hers. "the footman told us that m. gournay-martin was out, but that his daughter was at home. and we were unable, quite unable, to deny ourselves the pleasure of meeting you." with that he sat down; and his son followed his example. sonia and germaine, taken aback, looked at one another in some perplexity. "what a fine chateau, papa!" said the young man. "yes, my boy; it's a very fine chateau," said m. charolais, looking round the hall with appreciative but greedy eyes. there was a pause. "it's a very fine chateau, young ladies," said m. charolais. "yes; but excuse me, what is it you have called about?" said germaine. m. charolais crossed his legs, leant back in his chair, thrust his thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and said: "well, we've come about the advertisement we saw in the rennes advertiser, that m. gournay-martin wanted to get rid of a motor-car; and my son is always saying to me, 'i should like a motor-car which rushes the hills, papa.' he means a sixty horse-power." "we've got a sixty horse-power; but it's not for sale. my father is even using it himself to-day," said germaine. "perhaps it's the car we saw in the stable-yard," said m. charolais. "no; that's a thirty to forty horse-power. it belongs to me. but if your son really loves rushing hills, as you say, we have a hundred horse-power car which my father wants to get rid of. wait; where's the photograph of it, sonia? it ought to be here somewhere." the two girls rose, went to a table set against the wall beyond the window, and began turning over the papers with which it was loaded in the search for the photograph. they had barely turned their backs, when the hand of young charolais shot out as swiftly as the tongue of a lizard catching a fly, closed round the silver statuette on the top of the cabinet beside him, and flashed it into his jacket pocket. charolais was watching the two girls; one would have said that he had eyes for nothing else, yet, without moving a muscle of his face, set in its perpetual beaming smile, he hissed in an angry whisper, "drop it, you idiot! put it back!" the young man scowled askance at him. "curse you! put it back!" hissed charolais. the young man's arm shot out with the same quickness, and the statuette stood in its place. there was just the faintest sigh of relief from charolais, as germaine turned and came to him with the photograph in her hand. she gave it to him. "ah, here we are," he said, putting on a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. "a hundred horse-power car. well, well, this is something to talk over. what's the least you'll take for it?" "_i_ have nothing to do with this kind of thing," cried germaine. "you must see my father. he will be back from rennes soon. then you can settle the matter with him." m. charolais rose, and said: "very good. we will go now, and come back presently. i'm sorry to have intruded on you, young ladies--taking up your time like this--" "not at all--not at all," murmured germaine politely. "good-bye--good-bye," said m. charolais; and he and his son went to the door, and bowed themselves out. "what creatures!" said germaine, going to the window, as the door closed behind the two visitors. "all the same, if they do buy the hundred horse-power, papa will be awfully pleased. it is odd about that pane. i wonder how it happened. it's odd too that jacques hasn't come back yet. he told me that he would be here between half-past four and five." "and the du buits have not come either," said sonia. "but it's hardly five yet." "yes; that's so. the du buits have not come either. what on earth are you wasting your time for?" she added sharply, raising her voice. "just finish addressing those letters while you're waiting." "they're nearly finished," said sonia. "nearly isn't quite. get on with them, can't you!" snapped germaine. sonia went back to the writing-table; just the slightest deepening of the faint pink roses in her cheeks marked her sense of germaine's rudeness. after three years as companion to germaine gournay-martin, she was well inured to millionaire manners; they had almost lost the power to move her. germaine dropped into a chair for twenty seconds; then flung out of it. "ten minutes to five!" she cried. "jacques is late. it's the first time i've ever known him late." she went to the window, and looked across the wide stretch of meadow-land and woodland on which the chateau, set on the very crown of the ridge, looked down. the road, running with the irritating straightness of so many of the roads of france, was visible for a full three miles. it was empty. "perhaps the duke went to the chateau de relzieres to see his cousin--though i fancy that at bottom the duke does not care very much for the baron de relzieres. they always look as though they detested one another," said sonia, without raising her eyes from the letter she was addressing. "you've noticed that, have you?" said germaine. "now, as far as jacques is concerned--he's--he's so indifferent. none the less, when we were at the relzieres on thursday, i caught him quarrelling with paul de relzieres." "quarrelling?" said sonia sharply, with a sudden uneasiness in air and eyes and voice. "yes; quarrelling. and they said good-bye to one another in the oddest way." "but surely they shook hands?" said sonia. "not a bit of it. they bowed as if each of them had swallowed a poker." "why--then--then--" said sonia, starting up with a frightened air; and her voice stuck in her throat. "then what?" said germaine, a little startled by her panic-stricken face. "the duel! monsieur de relzieres' duel!" cried sonia. "what? you don't think it was with jacques?" "i don't know--but this quarrel--the duke's manner this morning--the du buits' drive--" said sonia. "of course--of course! it's quite possible--in fact it's certain!" cried germaine. "it's horrible!" gasped sonia. "consider--just consider! suppose something happened to him. suppose the duke--" "it's me the duke's fighting about!" cried germaine proudly, with a little skipping jump of triumphant joy. sonia stared through her without seeing her. her face was a dead white--fear had chilled the lustre from her skin; her breath panted through her parted lips; and her dilated eyes seemed to look on some dreadful picture. germaine pirouetted about the hall at the very height of triumph. to have a duke fighting a duel about her was far beyond the wildest dreams of snobbishness. she chuckled again and again, and once she clapped her hands and laughed aloud. "he's fighting a swordsman of the first class--an invincible swordsman--you said so yourself," sonia muttered in a tone of anguish. "and there's nothing to be done--nothing." she pressed her hands to her eyes as if to shut out a hideous vision. germaine did not hear her; she was staring at herself in a mirror, and bridling to her own image. sonia tottered to the window and stared down at the road along which must come the tidings of weal or irremediable woe. she kept passing her hand over her eyes as if to clear their vision. suddenly she started, and bent forward, rigid, all her being concentrated in the effort to see. then she cried: "mademoiselle germaine! look! look!" "what is it?" said germaine, coming to her side. "a horseman! look! there!" said sonia, waving a hand towards the road. "yes; and isn't he galloping!" said germaine. "it's he! it's the duke!" cried sonia. "do you think so?" said germaine doubtfully. "i'm sure of it--sure!" "well, he gets here just in time for tea," said germaine in a tone of extreme satisfaction. "he knows that i hate to be kept waiting. he said to me, 'i shall be back by five at the latest.' and here he is." "it's impossible," said sonia. "he has to go all the way round the park. there's no direct road; the brook is between us." "all the same, he's coming in a straight line," said germaine. it was true. the horseman had left the road and was galloping across the meadows straight for the brook. in twenty seconds he reached its treacherous bank, and as he set his horse at it, sonia covered her eyes. "he's over!" said germaine. "my father gave three hundred guineas for that horse." chapter iii lupin's way sonia, in a sudden revulsion of feeling, in a reaction from her fears, slipped back and sat down at the tea-table, panting quickly, struggling to keep back the tears of relief. she did not see the duke gallop up the slope, dismount, and hand over his horse to the groom who came running to him. there was still a mist in her eyes to blur his figure as he came through the window. "if it's for me, plenty of tea, very little cream, and three lumps of sugar," he cried in a gay, ringing voice, and pulled out his watch. "five to the minute--that's all right." and he bent down, took germaine's hand, and kissed it with an air of gallant devotion. if he had indeed just fought a duel, there were no signs of it in his bearing. his air, his voice, were entirely careless. he was a man whose whole thought at the moment was fixed on his tea and his punctuality. he drew a chair near the tea-table for germaine; sat down himself; and sonia handed him a cup of tea with so shaky a hand that the spoon clinked in the saucer. "you've been fighting a duel?" said germaine. "what! you've heard already?" said the duke in some surprise. "i've heard," said germaine. "why did you fight it?" "you're not wounded, your grace?" said sonia anxiously. "not a scratch," said the duke, smiling at her. "will you be so good as to get on with those wedding-cards, sonia," said germaine sharply; and sonia went back to the writing-table. turning to the duke, germaine said, "did you fight on my account?" "would you be pleased to know that i had fought on your account?" said the duke; and there was a faint mocking light in his eyes, far too faint for the self-satisfied germaine to perceive. "yes. but it isn't true. you've been fighting about some woman," said germaine petulantly. "if i had been fighting about a woman, it could only be you," said the duke. "yes, that is so. of course. it could hardly be about sonia, or my maid," said germaine. "but what was the reason of the duel?" "oh, the reason of it was entirely childish," said the duke. "i was in a bad temper; and de relzieres said something that annoyed me." "then it wasn't about me; and if it wasn't about me, it wasn't really worth while fighting," said germaine in a tone of acute disappointment. the mocking light deepened a little in the duke's eyes. "yes. but if i had been killed, everybody would have said, 'the duke of charmerace has been killed in a duel about mademoiselle gournay-martin.' that would have sounded very fine indeed," said the duke; and a touch of mockery had crept into his voice. "now, don't begin trying to annoy me again," said germaine pettishly. "the last thing i should dream of, my dear girl," said the duke, smiling. "and de relzieres? is he wounded?" said germaine. "poor dear de relzieres: he won't be out of bed for the next six months," said the duke; and he laughed lightly and gaily. "good gracious!" cried germaine. "it will do poor dear de relzieres a world of good. he has a touch of enteritis; and for enteritis there is nothing like rest," said the duke. sonia was not getting on very quickly with the wedding-cards. germaine was sitting with her back to her; and over her shoulder sonia could watch the face of the duke--an extraordinarily mobile face, changing with every passing mood. sometimes his eyes met hers; and hers fell before them. but as soon as they turned away from her she was watching him again, almost greedily, as if she could not see enough of his face in which strength of will and purpose was mingled with a faint, ironic scepticism, and tempered by a fine air of race. he finished his tea; then he took a morocco case from his pocket, and said to germaine, "it must be quite three days since i gave you anything." he opened the case, disclosed a pearl pendant, and handed it to her. "oh, how nice!" she cried, taking it. she took it from the case, saying that it was a beauty. she showed it to sonia; then she put it on and stood before a mirror admiring the effect. to tell the truth, the effect was not entirely desirable. the pearls did not improve the look of her rather coarse brown skin; and her skin added nothing to the beauty of the pearls. sonia saw this, and so did the duke. he looked at sonia's white throat. she met his eyes and blushed. she knew that the same thought was in both their minds; the pearls would have looked infinitely better there. germaine finished admiring herself; she was incapable even of suspecting that so expensive a pendant could not suit her perfectly. the duke said idly: "goodness! are all those invitations to the wedding?" "that's only down to the letter v," said germaine proudly. "and there are twenty-five letters in the alphabet! you must be inviting the whole world. you'll have to have the madeleine enlarged. it won't hold them all. there isn't a church in paris that will," said the duke. "won't it be a splendid marriage!" said germaine. "there'll be something like a crush. there are sure to be accidents." "if i were you, i should have careful arrangements made," said the duke. "oh, let people look after themselves. they'll remember it better if they're crushed a little," said germaine. there was a flicker of contemptuous wonder in the duke's eyes. but he only shrugged his shoulders, and turning to sonia, said, "will you be an angel and play me a little grieg, mademoiselle kritchnoff? i heard you playing yesterday. no one plays grieg like you." "excuse me, jacques, but mademoiselle kritchnoff has her work to do," said germaine tartly. "five minutes' interval--just a morsel of grieg, i beg," said the duke, with an irresistible smile. "all right," said germaine grudgingly. "but i've something important to talk to you about." "by jove! so have i. i was forgetting. i've the last photograph i took of you and mademoiselle sonia." germaine frowned and shrugged her shoulders. "with your light frocks in the open air, you look like two big flowers," said the duke. "you call that important!" cried germaine. "it's very important--like all trifles," said the duke, smiling. "look! isn't it nice?" and he took a photograph from his pocket, and held it out to her. "nice? it's shocking! we're making the most appalling faces," said germaine, looking at the photograph in his hand. "well, perhaps you are making faces," said the duke seriously, considering the photograph with grave earnestness. "but they're not appalling faces--not by any means. you shall be judge, mademoiselle sonia. the faces--well, we won't talk about the faces--but the outlines. look at the movement of your scarf." and he handed the photograph to sonia. "jacques!" said germaine impatiently. "oh, yes, you've something important to tell me. what is it?" said the duke, with an air of resignation; and he took the photograph from sonia and put it carefully back in his pocket. "victoire has telephoned from paris to say that we've had a paper-knife and a louis seize inkstand given us," said germaine. "hurrah!" cried the duke in a sudden shout that made them both jump. "and a pearl necklace," said germaine. "hurrah!" cried the duke. "you're perfectly childish," said germaine pettishly. "i tell you we've been given a paper-knife, and you shout 'hurrah!' i say we've been given a pearl necklace, and you shout 'hurrah!' you can't have the slightest sense of values." "i beg your pardon. this pearl necklace is from one of your father's friends, isn't it?" said the duke. "yes; why?" said germaine. "but the inkstand and the paper-knife must be from the faubourg saint-germain, and well on the shabby side?" said the duke. "yes; well?" "well then, my dear girl, what are you complaining about? they balance; the equilibrium is restored. you can't have everything," said the duke; and he laughed mischievously. germaine flushed, and bit her lip; her eyes sparkled. "you don't care a rap about me," she said stormily. "but i find you adorable," said the duke. "you keep annoying me," said germaine pettishly. "and you do it on purpose. i think it's in very bad taste. i shall end by taking a dislike to you--i know i shall." "wait till we're married for that, my dear girl," said the duke; and he laughed again, with a blithe, boyish cheerfulness, which deepened the angry flush in germaine's cheeks. "can't you be serious about anything?" she cried. "i am the most serious man in europe," said the duke. germaine went to the window and stared out of it sulkily. the duke walked up and down the hall, looking at the pictures of some of his ancestors--somewhat grotesque persons--with humorous appreciation. between addressing the envelopes sonia kept glancing at him. once he caught her eye, and smiled at her. germaine's back was eloquent of her displeasure. the duke stopped at a gap in the line of pictures in which there hung a strip of old tapestry. "i can never understand why you have left all these ancestors of mine staring from the walls and have taken away the quite admirable and interesting portrait of myself," he said carelessly. germaine turned sharply from the window; sonia stopped in the middle of addressing an envelope; and both the girls stared at him in astonishment. "there certainly was a portrait of me where that tapestry hangs. what have you done with it?" said the duke. "you're making fun of us again," said germaine. "surely your grace knows what happened," said sonia. "we wrote all the details to you and sent you all the papers three years ago. didn't you get them?" said germaine. "not a detail or a newspaper. three years ago i was in the neighbourhood of the south pole, and lost at that," said the duke. "but it was most dramatic, my dear jacques. all paris was talking of it," said germaine. "your portrait was stolen." "stolen? who stole it?" said the duke. germaine crossed the hall quickly to the gap in the line of pictures. "i'll show you," she said. she drew aside the piece of tapestry, and in the middle of the panel over which the portrait of the duke had hung he saw written in chalk the words: arsene lupin "what do you think of that autograph?" said germaine. "'arsene lupin?'" said the duke in a tone of some bewilderment. "he left his signature. it seems that he always does so," said sonia in an explanatory tone. "but who is he?" said the duke. "arsene lupin? surely you know who arsene lupin is?" said germaine impatiently. "i haven't the slightest notion," said the duke. "oh, come! no one is as south-pole as all that!" cried germaine. "you don't know who lupin is? the most whimsical, the most audacious, and the most genial thief in france. for the last ten years he has kept the police at bay. he has baffled ganimard, holmlock shears, the great english detective, and even guerchard, whom everybody says is the greatest detective we've had in france since vidocq. in fact, he's our national robber. do you mean to say you don't know him?" "not even enough to ask him to lunch at a restaurant," said the duke flippantly. "what's he like?" "like? nobody has the slightest idea. he has a thousand disguises. he has dined two evenings running at the english embassy." "but if nobody knows him, how did they learn that?" said the duke, with a puzzled air. "because the second evening, about ten o'clock, they noticed that one of the guests had disappeared, and with him all the jewels of the ambassadress." "all of them?" said the duke. "yes; and lupin left his card behind him with these words scribbled on it:" "'this is not a robbery; it is a restitution. you took the wallace collection from us.'" "but it was a hoax, wasn't it?" said the duke. "no, your grace; and he has done better than that. you remember the affair of the daray bank--the savings bank for poor people?" said sonia, her gentle face glowing with a sudden enthusiastic animation. "let's see," said the duke. "wasn't that the financier who doubled his fortune at the expense of a heap of poor wretches and ruined two thousand people?" "yes; that's the man," said sonia. "and lupin stripped daray's house and took from him everything he had in his strong-box. he didn't leave him a sou of the money. and then, when he'd taken it from him, he distributed it among all the poor wretches whom daray had ruined." "but this isn't a thief you're talking about--it's a philanthropist," said the duke. "a fine sort of philanthropist!" broke in germaine in a peevish tone. "there was a lot of philanthropy about his robbing papa, wasn't there?" "well," said the duke, with an air of profound reflection, "if you come to think of it, that robbery was not worthy of this national hero. my portrait, if you except the charm and beauty of the face itself, is not worth much." "if you think he was satisfied with your portrait, you're very much mistaken. all my father's collections were robbed," said germaine. "your father's collections?" said the duke. "but they're better guarded than the bank of france. your father is as careful of them as the apple of his eye." "that's exactly it--he was too careful of them. that's why lupin succeeded." "this is very interesting," said the duke; and he sat down on a couch before the gap in the pictures, to go into the matter more at his ease. "i suppose he had accomplices in the house itself?" "yes, one accomplice," said germaine. "who was that?" asked the duke. "papa!" said germaine. "oh, come! what on earth do you mean?" said the duke. "you're getting quite incomprehensible, my dear girl." "well, i'll make it clear to you. one morning papa received a letter--but wait. sonia, get me the lupin papers out of the bureau." sonia rose from the writing-table, and went to a bureau, an admirable example of the work of the great english maker, chippendale. it stood on the other side of the hall between an oriental cabinet and a sixteenth-century italian cabinet--for all the world as if it were standing in a crowded curiosity shop--with the natural effect that the three pieces, by their mere incongruity, took something each from the beauty of the other. sonia raised the flap of the bureau, and taking from one of the drawers a small portfolio, turned over the papers in it and handed a letter to the duke. "this is the envelope," she said. "it's addressed to m. gournay-martin, collector, at the chateau de charmerace, ile-et-vilaine." the duke opened the envelope and took out a letter. "it's an odd handwriting," he said. "read it--carefully," said germaine. it was an uncommon handwriting. the letters of it were small, but perfectly formed. it looked the handwriting of a man who knew exactly what he wanted to say, and liked to say it with extreme precision. the letter ran: "dear sir," "please forgive my writing to you without our having been introduced to one another; but i flatter myself that you know me, at any rate, by name." "there is in the drawing-room next your hall a gainsborough of admirable quality which affords me infinite pleasure. your goyas in the same drawing-room are also to my liking, as well as your van dyck. in the further drawing-room i note the renaissance cabinets--a marvellous pair--the flemish tapestry, the fragonard, the clock signed boulle, and various other objects of less importance. but above all i have set my heart on that coronet which you bought at the sale of the marquise de ferronaye, and which was formerly worn by the unfortunate princesse de lamballe. i take the greatest interest in this coronet: in the first place, on account of the charming and tragic memories which it calls up in the mind of a poet passionately fond of history, and in the second place--though it is hardly worth while talking about that kind of thing--on account of its intrinsic value. i reckon indeed that the stones in your coronet are, at the very lowest, worth half a million francs." "i beg you, my dear sir, to have these different objects properly packed up, and to forward them, addressed to me, carriage paid, to the batignolles station. failing this, i shall proceed to remove them myself on the night of thursday, august th." "please pardon the slight trouble to which i am putting you, and believe me," "yours very sincerely," "arsene lupin." "p.s.--it occurs to me that the pictures have not glass before them. it would be as well to repair this omission before forwarding them to me, and i am sure that you will take this extra trouble cheerfully. i am aware, of course, that some of the best judges declare that a picture loses some of its quality when seen through glass. but it preserves them, and we should always be ready and willing to sacrifice a portion of our own pleasure for the benefit of posterity. france demands it of us.--a. l." the duke laughed, and said, "really, this is extraordinarily funny. it must have made your father laugh." "laugh?" said germaine. "you should have seen his face. he took it seriously enough, i can tell you." "not to the point of forwarding the things to batignolles, i hope," said the duke. "no, but to the point of being driven wild," said germaine. "and since the police had always been baffled by lupin, he had the brilliant idea of trying what soldiers could do. the commandant at rennes is a great friend of papa's; and papa went to him, and told him about lupin's letter and what he feared. the colonel laughed at him; but he offered him a corporal and six soldiers to guard his collection, on the night of the seventh. it was arranged that they should come from rennes by the last train so that the burglars should have no warning of their coming. well, they came, seven picked men--men who had seen service in tonquin. we gave them supper; and then the corporal posted them in the hall and the two drawing-rooms where the pictures and things were. at eleven we all went to bed, after promising the corporal that, in the event of any fight with the burglars, we would not stir from our rooms. i can tell you i felt awfully nervous. i couldn't get to sleep for ages and ages. then, when i did, i did not wake till morning. the night had passed absolutely quietly. nothing out of the common had happened. there had not been the slightest noise. i awoke sonia and my father. we dressed as quickly as we could, and rushed down to the drawing-room." she paused dramatically. "well?" said the duke. "well, it was done." "what was done?" said the duke. "everything," said germaine. "pictures had gone, tapestries had gone, cabinets had gone, and the clock had gone." "and the coronet too?" said the duke. "oh, no. that was at the bank of france. and it was doubtless to make up for not getting it that lupin stole your portrait. at any rate he didn't say that he was going to steal it in his letter." "but, come! this is incredible. had he hypnotized the corporal and the six soldiers? or had he murdered them all?" said the duke. "corporal? there wasn't any corporal, and there weren't any soldiers. the corporal was lupin, and the soldiers were part of his gang," said germaine. "i don't understand," said the duke. "the colonel promised your father a corporal and six men. didn't they come?" "they came to the railway station all right," said germaine. "but you know the little inn half-way between the railway station and the chateau? they stopped to drink there, and at eleven o'clock next morning one of the villagers found all seven of them, along with the footman who was guiding them to the chateau, sleeping like logs in the little wood half a mile from the inn. of course the innkeeper could not explain when their wine was drugged. he could only tell us that a motorist, who had stopped at the inn to get some supper, had called the soldiers in and insisted on standing them drinks. they had seemed a little fuddled before they left the inn, and the motorist had insisted on driving them to the chateau in his car. when the drug took effect he simply carried them out of it one by one, and laid them in the wood to sleep it off." "lupin seems to have made a thorough job of it, anyhow," said the duke. "i should think so," said germaine. "guerchard was sent down from paris; but he could not find a single clue. it was not for want of trying, for he hates lupin. it's a regular fight between them, and so far lupin has scored every point." "he must be as clever as they make 'em," said the duke. "he is," said germaine. "and do you know, i shouldn't be at all surprised if he's in the neighbourhood now." "what on earth do you mean?" said the duke. "i'm not joking," said germaine. "odd things are happening. some one has been changing the place of things. that silver statuette now--it was on the cabinet, and we found it moved to the piano. yet nobody had touched it. and look at this window. some one has broken a pane in it just at the height of the fastening." "the deuce they have!" said the duke. chapter iv the duke intervenes the duke rose, came to the window, and looked at the broken pane. he stepped out on to the terrace and looked at the turf; then he came back into the room. "this looks serious," he said. "that pane has not been broken at all. if it had been broken, the pieces of glass would be lying on the turf. it has been cut out. we must warn your father to look to his treasures." "i told you so," said germaine. "i said that arsene lupin was in the neighbourhood." "arsene lupin is a very capable man," said the duke, smiling. "but there's no reason to suppose that he's the only burglar in france or even in ile-et-vilaine." "i'm sure that he's in the neighbourhood. i have a feeling that he is," said germaine stubbornly. the duke shrugged his shoulders, and said a smile: "far be it from me to contradict you. a woman's intuition is always--well, it's always a woman's intuition." he came back into the hall, and as he did so the door opened and a shock-headed man in the dress of a gamekeeper stood on the threshold. "there are visitors to see you, mademoiselle germaine," he said, in a very deep bass voice. "what! are you answering the door, firmin?" said germaine. "yes, mademoiselle germaine: there's only me to do it. all the servants have started for the station, and my wife and i are going to see after the family to-night and to-morrow morning. shall i show these gentlemen in?" "who are they?" said germaine. "two gentlemen who say they have an appointment." "what are their names?" said germaine. "they are two gentlemen. i don't know what their names are. i've no memory for names." "that's an advantage to any one who answers doors," said the duke, smiling at the stolid firmin. "well, it can't be the two charolais again. it's not time for them to come back. i told them papa would not be back yet," said germaine. "no, it can't be them, mademoiselle germaine," said firmin, with decision. "very well; show them in," she said. firmin went out, leaving the door open behind him; and they heard his hob-nailed boots clatter and squeak on the stone floor of the outer hall. "charolais?" said the duke idly. "i don't know the name. who are they?" "a little while ago alfred announced two gentlemen. i thought they were georges and andre du buit, for they promised to come to tea. i told alfred to show them in, and to my surprise there appeared two horrible provincials. i never--oh!" she stopped short, for there, coming through the door, were the two charolais, father and son. m. charolais pressed his motor-cap to his bosom, and bowed low. "once more i salute you, mademoiselle," he said. his son bowed, and revealed behind him another young man. "my second son. he has a chemist's shop," said m. charolais, waving a large red hand at the young man. the young man, also blessed with the family eyes, set close together, entered the hall and bowed to the two girls. the duke raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. "i'm very sorry, gentlemen," said germaine, "but my father has not yet returned." "please don't apologize. there is not the slightest need," said m. charolais; and he and his two sons settled themselves down on three chairs, with the air of people who had come to make a considerable stay. for a moment, germaine, taken aback by their coolness, was speechless; then she said hastily: "very likely he won't be back for another hour. i shouldn't like you to waste your time." "oh, it doesn't matter," said m. charolais, with an indulgent air; and turning to the duke, he added, "however, while we're waiting, if you're a member of the family, sir, we might perhaps discuss the least you will take for the motor-car." "i'm sorry," said the duke, "but i have nothing to do with it." before m. charolais could reply the door opened, and firmin's deep voice said: "will you please come in here, sir?" a third young man came into the hall. "what, you here, bernard?" said m. charolais. "i told you to wait at the park gates." "i wanted to see the car too," said bernard. "my third son. he is destined for the bar," said m. charolais, with a great air of paternal pride. "but how many are there?" said germaine faintly. before m. charolais could answer, firmin once more appeared on the threshold. "the master's just come back, miss," he said. "thank goodness for that!" said germaine; and turning to m. charolais, she added, "if you will come with me, gentlemen, i will take you to my father, and you can discuss the price of the car at once." as she spoke she moved towards the door. m. charolais and his sons rose and made way for her. the father and the two eldest sons made haste to follow her out of the room. but bernard lingered behind, apparently to admire the bric-a-brac on the cabinets. with infinite quickness he grabbed two objects off the nearest, and followed his brothers. the duke sprang across the hall in three strides, caught him by the arm on the very threshold, jerked him back into the hall, and shut the door. "no you don't, my young friend," he said sharply. "don't what?" said bernard, trying to shake off his grip. "you've taken a cigarette-case," said the duke. "no, no, i haven't--nothing of the kind!" stammered bernard. the duke grasped the young man's left wrist, plunged his hand into the motor-cap which he was carrying, drew out of it a silver cigarette-case, and held it before his eyes. bernard turned pale to the lips. his frightened eyes seemed about to leap from their sockets. "it--it--was a m-m-m-mistake," he stammered. the duke shifted his grip to his collar, and thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his coat. bernard, helpless in his grip, and utterly taken aback by his quickness, made no resistance. the duke drew out a morocco case, and said: "is this a mistake too?" "heavens! the pendant!" cried sonia, who was watching the scene with parted lips and amazed eyes. bernard dropped on his knees and clasped his hands. "forgive me!" he cried, in a choking voice. "forgive me! don't tell any one! for god's sake, don't tell any one!" and the tears came streaming from his eyes. "you young rogue!" said the duke quietly. "i'll never do it again--never! oh, have pity on me! if my father knew! oh, let me off!" cried bernard. the duke hesitated, and looked down on him, frowning and pulling at his moustache. then, more quickly than one would have expected from so careless a trifler, his mind was made up. "all right," he said slowly. "just for this once ... be off with you." and he jerked him to his feet and almost threw him into the outer hall. "thanks! ... oh, thanks!" said bernard. the duke shut the door and looked at sonia, breathing quickly. "well? did you ever see anything like that? that young fellow will go a long way. the cheek of the thing! right under our very eyes! and this pendant, too: it would have been a pity to lose it. upon my word, i ought to have handed him over to the police." "no, no!" cried sonia. "you did quite right to let him off--quite right." the duke set the pendant on the ledge of the bureau, and came down the hall to sonia. "what's the matter?" he said gently. "you're quite pale." "it has upset me ... that unfortunate boy," said sonia; and her eyes were swimming with tears. "do you pity the young rogue?" said the duke. "yes; it's dreadful. his eyes were so terrified, and so boyish. and, to be caught like that ... stealing ... in the act. oh, it's hateful!" "come, come, how sensitive you are!" said the duke, in a soothing, almost caressing tone. his eyes, resting on her charming, troubled face, were glowing with a warm admiration. "yes; it's silly," said sonia; "but you noticed his eyes--the hunted look in them? you pitied him, didn't you? for you are kind at bottom." "why at bottom?" said the duke. "oh, i said at bottom because you look sarcastic, and at first sight you're so cold. but often that's only the mask of those who have suffered the most.... they are the most indulgent," said sonia slowly, hesitating, picking her words. "yes, i suppose they are," said the duke thoughtfully. "it's because when one has suffered one understands.... yes: one understands," said sonia. there was a pause. the duke's eyes still rested on her face. the admiration in them was mingled with compassion. "you're very unhappy here, aren't you?" he said gently. "me? why?" said sonia quickly. "your smile is so sad, and your eyes so timid," said the duke slowly. "you're just like a little child one longs to protect. are you quite alone in the world?" his eyes and tones were full of pity; and a faint flush mantled sonia's cheeks. "yes, i'm alone," she said. "but have you no relations--no friends?" said the duke. "no," said sonia. "i don't mean here in france, but in your own country.... surely you have some in russia?" "no, not a soul. you see, my father was a revolutionist. he died in siberia when i was a baby. and my mother, she died too--in paris. she had fled from russia. i was two years old when she died." "it must be hard to be alone like that," said the duke. "no," said sonia, with a faint smile, "i don't mind having no relations. i grew used to that so young ... so very young. but what is hard--but you'll laugh at me--" "heaven forbid!" said the duke gravely. "well, what is hard is, never to get a letter ... an envelope that one opens ... from some one who thinks about one--" she paused, and then added gravely: "but i tell myself that it's nonsense. i have a certain amount of philosophy." she smiled at him--an adorable child's smile. the duke smiled too. "a certain amount of philosophy," he said softly. "you look like a philosopher!" as they stood looking at one another with serious eyes, almost with eyes that probed one another's souls, the drawing-room door flung open, and germaine's harsh voice broke on their ears. "you're getting quite impossible, sonia!" she cried. "it's absolutely useless telling you anything. i told you particularly to pack my leather writing-case in my bag with your own hand. i happen to open a drawer, and what do i see? my leather writing-case." "i'm sorry," said sonia. "i was going--" "oh, there's no need to bother about it. i'll see after it myself," said germaine. "but upon my word, you might be one of our guests, seeing how easily you take things. you're negligence personified." "come, germaine ... a mere oversight," said the duke, in a coaxing tone. "now, excuse me, jacques; but you've got an unfortunate habit of interfering in household matters. you did it only the other day. i can no longer say a word to a servant--" "germaine!" said the duke, in sharp protest. germaine turned from him to sonia, and pointed to a packet of envelopes and some letters, which bernard charolais had knocked off the table, and said, "pick up those envelopes and letters, and bring everything to my room, and be quick about it!" she flung out of the room, and slammed the door behind her. sonia seemed entirely unmoved by the outburst: no flush of mortification stained her cheeks, her lips did not quiver. she stooped to pick up the fallen papers. "no, no; let me, i beg you," said the duke, in a tone of distress. and dropping on one knee, he began to gather together the fallen papers. he set them on the table, and then he said: "you mustn't mind what germaine says. she's--she's--she's all right at heart. it's her manner. she's always been happy, and had everything she wanted. she's been spoiled, don't you know. those kind of people never have any consideration for any one else. you mustn't let her outburst hurt you." "oh, but i don't. i don't really," protested sonia. "i'm glad of that," said the duke. "it isn't really worth noticing." he drew the envelopes and unused cards into a packet, and handed them to her. "there!" he said, with a smile. "that won't be too heavy for you." "thank you," said sonia, taking it from him. "shall i carry them for you?" said the duke. "no, thank you, your grace," said sonia. with a quick, careless, almost irresponsible movement, he caught her hand, bent down, and kissed it. a great wave of rosy colour flowed over her face, flooding its whiteness to her hair and throat. she stood for a moment turned to stone; she put her hand to her heart. then on hasty, faltering feet she went to the door, opened it, paused on the threshold, turned and looked back at him, and vanished. chapter v a letter from lupin the duke stood for a while staring thoughtfully at the door through which sonia had passed, a faint smile playing round his lips. he crossed the hall to the chippendale bureau, took a cigarette from a box which stood on the ledge of it, beside the morocco case which held the pendant, lighted it, and went slowly out on to the terrace. he crossed it slowly, paused for a moment on the edge of it, and looked across the stretch of country with musing eyes, which saw nothing of its beauty. then he turned to the right, went down a flight of steps to the lower terrace, crossed the lawn, and took a narrow path which led into the heart of a shrubbery of tall deodoras. in the middle of it he came to one of those old stone benches, moss-covered and weather-stained, which adorn the gardens of so many french chateaux. it faced a marble basin from which rose the slender column of a pattering fountain. the figure of a cupid danced joyously on a tall pedestal to the right of the basin. the duke sat down on the bench, and was still, with that rare stillness which only comes of nerves in perfect harmony, his brow knitted in careful thought. now and again the frown cleared from his face, and his intent features relaxed into a faint smile, a smile of pleasant memory. once he rose, walked round the fountains frowning, came back to the bench, and sat down again. the early september dusk was upon him when at last he rose and with quick steps took his way through the shrubbery, with the air of a man whose mind, for good or ill, was at last made up. when he came on to the upper terrace his eyes fell on a group which stood at the further corner, near the entrance of the chateau, and he sauntered slowly up to it. in the middle of it stood m. gournay-martin, a big, round, flabby hulk of a man. he was nearly as red in the face as m. charolais; and he looked a great deal redder owing to the extreme whiteness of the whiskers which stuck out on either side of his vast expanse of cheek. as he came up, it struck the duke as rather odd that he should have the charolais eyes, set close together; any one who did not know that they were strangers to one another might have thought it a family likeness. the millionaire was waving his hands and roaring after the manner of a man who has cultivated the art of brow-beating those with whom he does business; and as the duke neared the group, he caught the words: "no; that's the lowest i'll take. take it or leave it. you can say yes, or you can say good-bye; and i don't care a hang which." "it's very dear," said m. charolais, in a mournful tone. "dear!" roared m. gournay-martin. "i should like to see any one else sell a hundred horse-power car for eight hundred pounds. why, my good sir, you're having me!" "no, no," protested m. charolais feebly. "i tell you you're having me," roared m. gournay-martin. "i'm letting you have a magnificent car for which i paid thirteen hundred pounds for eight hundred! it's scandalous the way you've beaten me down!" "no, no," protested m. charolais. he seemed frightened out of his life by the vehemence of the big man. "you wait till you've seen how it goes," said m. gournay-martin. "eight hundred is very dear," said m. charolais. "come, come! you're too sharp, that's what you are. but don't say any more till you've tried the car." he turned to his chauffeur, who stood by watching the struggle with an appreciative grin on his brown face, and said: "now, jean, take these gentlemen to the garage, and run them down to the station. show them what the car can do. do whatever they ask you--everything." he winked at jean, turned again to m. charolais, and said: "you know, m. charolais, you're too good a man of business for me. you're hot stuff, that's what you are--hot stuff. you go along and try the car. good-bye--good-bye." the four charolais murmured good-bye in deep depression, and went off with jean, wearing something of the air of whipped dogs. when they had gone round the corner the millionaire turned to the duke and said, with a chuckle: "he'll buy the car all right--had him fine!" "no business success of yours could surprise me," said the duke blandly, with a faint, ironical smile. m. gournay-martin's little pig's eyes danced and sparkled; and the smiles flowed over the distended skin of his face like little ripples over a stagnant pool, reluctantly. it seemed to be too tightly stretched for smiles. "the car's four years old," he said joyfully. "he'll give me eight hundred for it, and it's not worth a pipe of tobacco. and eight hundred pounds is just the price of a little watteau i've had my eye on for some time--a first-class investment." they strolled down the terrace, and through one of the windows into the hall. firmin had lighted the lamps, two of them. they made but a small oasis of light in a desert of dim hall. the millionaire let himself down very gingerly into an empire chair, as if he feared, with excellent reason, that it might collapse under his weight. "well, my dear duke," he said, "you don't ask me the result of my official lunch or what the minister said." "is there any news?" said the duke carelessly. "yes. the decree will be signed to-morrow. you can consider yourself decorated. i hope you feel a happy man," said the millionaire, rubbing his fat hands together with prodigious satisfaction. "oh, charmed--charmed," said the duke, with entire indifference. "as for me, i'm delighted--delighted," said the millionaire. "i was extremely keen on your being decorated. after that, and after a volume or two of travels, and after you've published your grandfather's letters with a good introduction, you can begin to think of the academy." "the academy!" said the duke, startled from his usual coolness. "but i've no title to become an academician." "how, no title?" said the millionaire solemnly; and his little eyes opened wide. "you're a duke." "there's no doubt about that," said the duke, watching him with admiring curiosity. "i mean to marry my daughter to a worker--a worker, my dear duke," said the millionaire, slapping his big left hand with his bigger right. "i've no prejudices--not i. i wish to have for son-in-law a duke who wears the order of the legion of honour, and belongs to the academie francaise, because that is personal merit. i'm no snob." a gentle, irrepressible laugh broke from the duke. "what are you laughing at?" said the millionaire, and a sudden lowering gloom overspread his beaming face. "nothing--nothing," said the duke quietly. "only you're so full of surprises." "i've startled you, have i? i thought i should. it's true that i'm full of surprises. it's my knowledge. i understand so much. i understand business, and i love art, pictures, a good bargain, bric-a-brac, fine tapestry. they're first-class investments. yes, certainly i do love the beautiful. and i don't want to boast, but i understand it. i have taste, and i've something better than taste; i have a flair, the dealer's flair." "yes, your collections, especially your collection in paris, prove it," said the duke, stifling a yawn. "and yet you haven't seen the finest thing i have--the coronet of the princesse de lamballe. it's worth half a million francs." "so i've heard," said the duke, a little wearily. "i don't wonder that arsene lupin envied you it." the empire chair creaked as the millionaire jumped. "don't speak of the swine!" he roared. "don't mention his name before me." "germaine showed me his letter," said the duke. "it is amusing." "his letter! the blackguard! i just missed a fit of apoplexy from it," roared the millionaire. "i was in this very hall where we are now, chatting quietly, when all at once in comes firmin, and hands me a letter." he was interrupted by the opening of the door. firmin came clumping down the room, and said in his deep voice, "a letter for you, sir." "thank you," said the millionaire, taking the letter, and, as he fitted his eye-glass into his eye, he went on, "yes, firmin brought me a letter of which the handwriting,"--he raised the envelope he was holding to his eyes, and bellowed, "good heavens!" "what's the matter?" said the duke, jumping in his chair at the sudden, startling burst of sound. "the handwriting!--the handwriting!--it's the same handwriting!" gasped the millionaire. and he let himself fall heavily backwards against the back of his chair. there was a crash. the duke had a vision of huge arms and legs waving in the air as the chair-back gave. there was another crash. the chair collapsed. the huge bulk banged to the floor. the laughter of the duke rang out uncontrollably. he caught one of the waving arms, and jerked the flabby giant to his feet with an ease which seemed to show that his muscles were of steel. "come," he said, laughing still. "this is nonsense! what do you mean by the same handwriting? it can't be." "it is the same handwriting. am i likely to make a mistake about it?" spluttered the millionaire. and he tore open the envelope with an air of frenzy. he ran his eyes over it, and they grew larger and larger--they grew almost of an average size. "listen," he said "listen:" "dear sir," "my collection of pictures, which i had the pleasure of starting three years ago with some of your own, only contains, as far as old masters go, one velasquez, one rembrandt, and three paltry rubens. you have a great many more. since it is a shame such masterpieces should be in your hands, i propose to appropriate them; and i shall set about a respectful acquisition of them in your paris house tomorrow morning." "yours very sincerely," "arsene lupin." "he's humbugging," said the duke. "wait! wait!" gasped the millionaire. "there's a postscript. listen:" "p.s.--you must understand that since you have been keeping the coronet of the princesse de lamballe during these three years, i shall avail myself of the same occasion to compel you to restore that piece of jewellery to me.--a. l." "the thief! the scoundrel! i'm choking!" gasped the millionaire, clutching at his collar. to judge from the blackness of his face, and the way he staggered and dropped on to a couch, which was fortunately stronger than the chair, he was speaking the truth. "firmin! firmin!" shouted the duke. "a glass of water! quick! your master's ill." he rushed to the side of the millionaire, who gasped: "telephone! telephone to the prefecture of police! be quick!" the duke loosened his collar with deft fingers; tore a van loo fan from its case hanging on the wall, and fanned him furiously. firmin came clumping into the room with a glass of water in his hand. the drawing-room door opened, and germaine and sonia, alarmed by the duke's shout, hurried in. "quick! your smelling-salts!" said the duke. sonia ran across the hall, opened one of the drawers in the oriental cabinet, and ran to the millionaire with a large bottle of smelling-salts in her hand. the duke took it from her, and applied it to the millionaire's nose. the millionaire sneezed thrice with terrific violence. the duke snatched the glass from firmin and dashed the water into his host's purple face. the millionaire gasped and spluttered. germaine stood staring helplessly at her gasping sire. "whatever's the matter?" she said. "it's this letter," said the duke. "a letter from lupin." "i told you so--i said that lupin was in the neighbourhood," cried germaine triumphantly. "firmin--where's firmin?" said the millionaire, dragging himself upright. he seemed to have recovered a great deal of his voice. "oh, there you are!" he jumped up, caught the gamekeeper by the shoulder, and shook him furiously. "this letter. where did it come from? who brought it?" he roared. "it was in the letter-box--the letter-box of the lodge at the bottom of the park. my wife found it there," said firmin, and he twisted out of the millionaire's grasp. "just as it was three years ago," roared the millionaire, with an air of desperation. "it's exactly the same coup. oh, what a catastrophe! what a catastrophe!" he made as if to tear out his hair; then, remembering its scantiness, refrained. "now, come, it's no use losing your head," said the duke, with quiet firmness. "if this letter isn't a hoax--" "hoax?" bellowed the millionaire. "was it a hoax three years ago?" "very good," said the duke. "but if this robbery with which you're threatened is genuine, it's just childish." "how?" said the millionaire. "look at the date of the letter--sunday, september the third. this letter was written to-day." "yes. well, what of it?" said the millionaire. "look at the letter: 'i shall set about a respectful acquisition of them in your paris house to-morrow morning'--to-morrow morning." "yes, yes; 'to-morrow morning'--what of it?" said the millionaire. "one of two things," said the duke. "either it's a hoax, and we needn't bother about it; or the threat is genuine, and we have the time to stop the robbery." "of course we have. whatever was i thinking of?" said the millionaire. and his anguish cleared from his face. "for once in a way our dear lupin's fondness for warning people will have given him a painful jar," said the duke. "come on! let me get at the telephone," cried the millionaire. "but the telephone's no good," said sonia quickly. "no good! why?" roared the millionaire, dashing heavily across the room to it. "look at the time," said sonia; "the telephone doesn't work as late as this. it's sunday." the millionaire stopped dead. "it's true. it's appalling," he groaned. "but that doesn't matter. you can always telegraph," said germaine. "but you can't. it's impossible," said sonia. "you can't get a message through. it's sunday; and the telegraph offices shut at twelve o'clock." "oh, what a government!" groaned the millionaire. and he sank down gently on a chair beside the telephone, and mopped the beads of anguish from his brow. they looked at him, and they looked at one another, cudgelling their brains for yet another way of communicating with the paris police. "hang it all!" said the duke. "there must be some way out of the difficulty." "what way?" said the millionaire. the duke did not answer. he put his hands in his pockets and walked impatiently up and down the hall. germaine sat down on a chair. sonia put her hands on the back of a couch, and leaned forward, watching him. firmin stood by the door, whither he had retired to be out of the reach of his excited master, with a look of perplexity on his stolid face. they all watched the duke with the air of people waiting for an oracle to deliver its message. the millionaire kept mopping the beads of anguish from his brow. the more he thought of his impending loss, the more freely he perspired. germaine's maid, irma, came to the door leading into the outer hall, which firmin, according to his usual custom, had left open, and peered in wonder at the silent group. "i have it!" cried the duke at last. "there is a way out." "what is it?" said the millionaire, rising and coming to the middle of the hall. "what time is it?" said the duke, pulling out his watch. the millionaire pulled out his watch. germaine pulled out hers. firmin, after a struggle, produced from some pocket difficult of access an object not unlike a silver turnip. there was a brisk dispute between germaine and the millionaire about which of their watches was right. firmin, whose watch apparently did not agree with the watch of either of them, made his deep voice heard above theirs. the duke came to the conclusion that it must be a few minutes past seven. "it's seven or a few minutes past," he said sharply. "well, i'm going to take a car and hurry off to paris. i ought to get there, bar accidents, between two and three in the morning, just in time to inform the police and catch the burglars in the very midst of their burglary. i'll just get a few things together." so saying, he rushed out of the hall. "excellent! excellent!" said the millionaire. "your young man is a man of resource, germaine. it seems almost a pity that he's a duke. he'd do wonders in the building trade. but i'm going to paris too, and you're coming with me. i couldn't wait idly here, to save my life. and i can't leave you here, either. this scoundrel may be going to make a simultaneous attempt on the chateau--not that there's much here that i really value. there's that statuette that moved, and the pane cut out of the window. i can't leave you two girls with burglars in the house. after all, there's the sixty horse-power and the thirty horse-power car--there'll be lots of room for all of us." "oh, but it's nonsense, papa; we shall get there before the servants," said germaine pettishly. "think of arriving at an empty house in the dead of night." "nonsense!" said the millionaire. "hurry off and get ready. your bag ought to be packed. where are my keys? sonia, where are my keys--the keys of the paris house?" "they're in the bureau," said sonia. "well, see that i don't go without them. now hurry up. firmin, go and tell jean that we shall want both cars. i will drive one, the duke the other. jean must stay with you and help guard the chateau." so saying he bustled out of the hall, driving the two girls before him. chapter vi again the charolais hardly had the door closed behind the millionaire when the head of m. charolais appeared at one of the windows opening on to the terrace. he looked round the empty hall, whistled softly, and stepped inside. inside of ten seconds his three sons came in through the windows, and with them came jean, the millionaire's chauffeur. "take the door into the outer hall, jean," said m. charolais, in a low voice. "bernard, take that door into the drawing-room. pierre and louis, help me go through the drawers. the whole family is going to paris, and if we're not quick we shan't get the cars." "that comes of this silly fondness for warning people of a coup," growled jean, as he hurried to the door of the outer hall. "it would have been so simple to rob the paris house without sending that infernal letter. it was sure to knock them all silly." "what harm can the letter do, you fool?" said m. charolais. "it's sunday. we want them knocked silly for to-morrow, to get hold of the coronet. oh, to get hold of that coronet! it must be in paris. i've been ransacking this chateau for hours." jean opened the door of the outer hall half an inch, and glued his eyes to it. bernard had done the same with the door opening into the drawing-room. m. charolais, pierre, and louis were opening drawers, ransacking them, and shutting them with infinite quickness and noiselessly. "bureau! which is the bureau? the place is stuffed with bureaux!" growled m. charolais. "i must have those keys." "that plain thing with the brass handles in the middle on the left--that's a bureau," said bernard softly. "why didn't you say so?" growled m. charolais. he dashed to it, and tried it. it was locked. "locked, of course! just my luck! come and get it open, pierre. be smart!" the son he had described as an engineer came quickly to the bureau, fitting together as he came the two halves of a small jemmy. he fitted it into the top of the flap. there was a crunch, and the old lock gave. he opened the flap, and he and m. charolais pulled open drawer after drawer. "quick! here's that fat old fool!" said jean, in a hoarse, hissing whisper. he moved down the hall, blowing out one of the lamps as he passed it. in the seventh drawer lay a bunch of keys. m. charolais snatched it up, glanced at it, took a bunch of keys from his own pocket, put it in the drawer, closed it, closed the flap, and rushed to the window. jean and his sons were already out on the terrace. m. charolais was still a yard from the window when the door into the outer hall opened and in came m. gournay-martin. he caught a glimpse of a back vanishing through the window, and bellowed: "hi! a man! a burglar! firmin! firmin!" he ran blundering down the hall, tangled his feet in the fragments of the broken chair, and came sprawling a thundering cropper, which knocked every breath of wind out of his capacious body. he lay flat on his face for a couple of minutes, his broad back wriggling convulsively--a pathetic sight!--in the painful effort to get his breath back. then he sat up, and with perfect frankness burst into tears. he sobbed and blubbered, like a small child that has hurt itself, for three or four minutes. then, having recovered his magnificent voice, he bellowed furiously: "firmin! firmin! charmerace! charmerace!" then he rose painfully to his feet, and stood staring at the open windows. presently he roared again: "firmin! firmin! charmerace! charmerace!" he kept looking at the window with terrified eyes, as though he expected somebody to step in and cut his throat from ear to ear. "firmin! firmin! charmerace! charmerace!" he bellowed again. the duke came quietly into the hall, dressed in a heavy motor-coat, his motor-cap on his head, and carrying a kit-bag in his hand. "did i hear you call?" he said. "call?" said the millionaire. "i shouted. the burglars are here already. i've just seen one of them. he was bolting through the middle window." the duke raised his eyebrows. "nerves," he said gently--"nerves." "nerves be hanged!" said the millionaire. "i tell you i saw him as plainly as i see you." "well, you can't see me at all, seeing that you're lighting an acre and a half of hall with a single lamp," said the duke, still in a tone of utter incredulity. "it's that fool firmin! he ought to have lighted six. firmin! firmin!" bellowed the millionaire. they listened for the sonorous clumping of the promoted gamekeeper's boots, but they did not hear it. evidently firmin was still giving his master's instructions about the cars to jean. "well, we may as well shut the windows, anyhow," said the duke, proceeding to do so. "if you think firmin would be any good, you might post him in this hall with a gun to-night. there could be no harm in putting a charge of small shot into the legs of these ruffians. he has only to get one of them, and the others will go for their lives. yet i don't like leaving you and germaine in this big house with only firmin to look after you." "i shouldn't like it myself, and i'm not going to chance it," growled the millionaire. "we're going to motor to paris along with you, and leave jean to help firmin fight these burglars. firmin's all right--he's an old soldier. he fought in ' . not that i've much belief in soldiers against this cursed lupin, after the way he dealt with that corporal and his men three years ago." "i'm glad you're coming to paris," said the duke. "it'll be a weight off my mind. i'd better drive the limousine, and you take the landaulet." "that won't do," said the millionaire. "germaine won't go in the limousine. you know she has taken a dislike to it." "nevertheless, i'd better bucket on to paris, and let you follow slowly with germaine. the sooner i get to paris the better for your collection. i'll take mademoiselle kritchnoff with me, and, if you like, irma, though the lighter i travel the sooner i shall get there." "no, i'll take irma and germaine," said the millionaire. "germaine would prefer to have irma with her, in case you had an accident. she wouldn't like to get to paris and have to find a fresh maid." the drawing-room door opened, and in came germaine, followed by sonia and irma. they wore motor-cloaks and hoods and veils. sonia and irma were carrying hand-bags. "i think it's extremely tiresome your dragging us off to paris like this in the middle of the night," said germaine pettishly. "do you?" said the millionaire. "well, then, you'll be interested to hear that i've just seen a burglar here in this very room. i frightened him, and he bolted through the window on to the terrace." "he was greenish-pink, slightly tinged with yellow," said the duke softly. "greenish-pink? oh, do stop your jesting, jacques! is this a time for idiocy?" cried germaine, in a tone of acute exasperation. "it was the dim light which made your father see him in those colours. in a bright light, i think he would have been an alsatian blue," said the duke suavely. "you'll have to break yourself of this silly habit of trifling, my dear duke, if ever you expect to be a member of the academie francaise," said the millionaire with some acrimony. "i tell you i did see a burglar." "yes, yes. i admitted it frankly. it was his colour i was talking about," said the duke, with an ironical smile. "oh, stop your idiotic jokes! we're all sick to death of them!" said germaine, with something of the fine fury which so often distinguished her father. "there are times for all things," said the millionaire solemnly. "and i must say that, with the fate of my collection and of the coronet trembling in the balance, this does not seem to me a season for idle jests." "i stand reproved," said the duke; and he smiled at sonia. "my keys, sonia--the keys of the paris house," said the millionaire. sonia took her own keys from her pocket and went to the bureau. she slipped a key into the lock and tried to turn it. it would not turn; and she bent down to look at it. "why--why, some one's been tampering with the lock! it's broken!" she cried. "i told you i'd seen a burglar!" cried the millionaire triumphantly. "he was after the keys." sonia drew back the flap of the bureau and hastily pulled open the drawer in which the keys had been. "they're here!" she cried, taking them out of the drawer and holding them up. "then i was just in time," said the millionaire. "i startled him in the very act of stealing the keys." "i withdraw! i withdraw!" said the duke. "you did see a burglar, evidently. but still i believe he was greenish-pink. they often are. however, you'd better give me those keys, mademoiselle sonia, since i'm to get to paris first. i should look rather silly if, when i got there, i had to break into the house to catch the burglars." sonia handed the keys to the duke. he contrived to take her little hand, keys and all, into his own, as he received them, and squeezed it. the light was too dim for the others to see the flush which flamed in her face. she went back and stood beside the bureau. "now, papa, are you going to motor to paris in a thin coat and linen waistcoat? if we're going, we'd better go. you always do keep us waiting half an hour whenever we start to go anywhere," said germaine firmly. the millionaire bustled out of the room. with a gesture of impatience germaine dropped into a chair. irma stood waiting by the drawing-room door. sonia sat down by the bureau. there came a sharp patter of rain against the windows. "rain! it only wanted that! it's going to be perfectly beastly!" cried germaine. "oh, well, you must make the best of it. at any rate you're well wrapped up, and the night is warm enough, though it is raining," said the duke. "still, i could have wished that lupin confined his operations to fine weather." he paused, and added cheerfully, "but, after all, it will lay the dust." they sat for three or four minutes in a dull silence, listening to the pattering of the rain against the panes. the duke took his cigarette-case from his pocket and lighted a cigarette. suddenly he lost his bored air; his face lighted up; and he said joyfully: "of course, why didn't i think of it? why should we start from a pit of gloom like this? let us have the proper illumination which our enterprise deserves." with that he set about lighting all the lamps in the hall. there were lamps on stands, lamps on brackets, lamps on tables, and lamps which hung from the roof--old-fashioned lamps with new reservoirs, new lamps of what is called chaste design, brass lamps, silver lamps, and lamps in porcelain. the duke lighted them one after another, patiently, missing none, with a cold perseverance. the operation was punctuated by exclamations from germaine. they were all to the effect that she could not understand how he could be such a fool. the duke paid no attention whatever to her. his face illumined with boyish glee, he lighted lamp after lamp. sonia watched him with a smiling admiration of the childlike enthusiasm with which he performed the task. even the stolid face of the ox-eyed irma relaxed into grins, which she smoothed quickly out with a respectful hand. the duke had just lighted the twenty-second lamp when in bustled the millionaire. "what's this? what's this?" he cried, stopping short, blinking. "just some more of jacques' foolery!" cried germaine in tones of the last exasperation. "but, my dear duke!--my dear duke! the oil!--the oil!" cried the millionaire, in a tone of bitter distress. "do you think it's my object in life to swell the rockefeller millions? we never have more than six lamps burning unless we are holding a reception." "i think it looks so cheerful," said the duke, looking round on his handiwork with a beaming smile of satisfaction. "but where are the cars? jean seems a deuce of a time bringing them round. does he expect us to go to the garage through this rain? we'd better hurry him up. come on; you've got a good carrying voice." he caught the millionaire by the arm, hurried him through the outer hall, opened the big door of the chateau, and said: "now shout!" the millionaire looked at him, shrugged his shoulders, and said: "you don't beat about the bush when you want anything." "why should i?" said the duke simply. "shout, my good chap--shout!" the millionaire raised his voice in a terrific bellow of "jean! jean! firmin! firmin!" there was no answer. chapter vii the theft of the motor-cars the night was very black; the rain pattered in their faces. again the millionaire bellowed: "jean! firmin! firmin! jean!" no answer came out of the darkness, though his bellow echoed and re-echoed among the out-buildings and stables away on the left. he turned and looked at the duke and said uneasily, "what on earth can they be doing?" "i can't conceive," said the duke. "i suppose we must go and hunt them out." "what! in this darkness, with these burglars about?" said the millionaire, starting back. "if we don't, nobody else will," said the duke. "and all the time that rascal lupin is stealing nearer and nearer your pictures. so buck up, and come along!" he seized the reluctant millionaire by the arm and drew him down the steps. they took their way to the stables. a dim light shone from the open door of the motor-house. the duke went into it first, and stopped short. "well, i'll be hanged!" he cried, instead of three cars the motor-house held but one--the hundred horse-power mercrac. it was a racing car, with only two seats. on them sat two figures, jean and firmin. "what are you sitting there for? you idle dogs!" bellowed the millionaire. neither of the men answered, nor did they stir. the light from the lamp gleamed on their fixed eyes, which stared at their infuriated master. "what on earth is this?" said the duke; and seizing the lamp which stood beside the car, he raised it so that its light fell on the two figures. then it was clear what had happened: they were trussed like two fowls, and gagged. the duke pulled a penknife from his pocket, opened the blade, stepped into the car and set firmin free. firmin coughed and spat and swore. the duke cut the bonds of jean. "well," said the duke, in a tone of cutting irony, "what new game is this? what have you been playing at?" "it was those charolais--those cursed charolais!" growled firmin. "they came on us unawares from behind," said jean. "they tied us up, and gagged us--the swine!" said firmin. "and then--they went off in the two cars," said jean. "went off in the two cars?" cried the millionaire, in blank stupefaction. the duke burst into a shout of laughter. "well, your dear friend lupin doesn't do things by halves," he cried. "this is the funniest thing i ever heard of." "funny!" howled the millionaire. "funny! where does the fun come in? what about my pictures and the coronet?" the duke laughed his laugh out; then changed on the instant to a man of action. "well, this means a change in our plans," he said. "i must get to paris in this car here." "it's such a rotten old thing," said the millionaire. "you'll never do it." "never mind," said the duke. "i've got to do it somehow. i daresay it's better than you think. and after all, it's only a matter of two hundred miles." he paused, and then said in an anxious tone: "all the same i don't like leaving you and germaine in the chateau. these rogues have probably only taken the cars out of reach just to prevent your getting to paris. they'll leave them in some field and come back." "you're not going to leave us behind. i wouldn't spend the night in the chateau for a million francs. there's always the train," said the millionaire. "the train! twelve hours in the train--with all those changes! you don't mean that you will actually go to paris by train?" said the duke. "i do," said the millionaire. "come along--i must go and tell germaine; there's no time to waste," and he hurried off to the chateau. "get the lamps lighted, jean, and make sure that the tank's full. as for the engine, i must humour it and trust to luck. i'll get her to paris somehow," said the duke. he went back to the chateau, and firmin followed him. when the duke came into the great hall he found germaine and her father indulging in recriminations. she was declaring that nothing would induce her to make the journey by train; her father was declaring that she should. he bore down her opposition by the mere force of his magnificent voice. when at last there came a silence, sonia said quietly: "but is there a train? i know there's a train at midnight; but is there one before?" "a time-table--where's a time-table?" said the millionaire. "now, where did i see a time-table?" said the duke. "oh, i know; there's one in the drawer of that oriental cabinet." crossing to the cabinet, he opened the drawer, took out the time-table, and handed it to m. gournay-martin. the millionaire took it and turned over the leaves quickly, ran his eye down a page, and said, "yes, thank goodness, there is a train. there's one at a quarter to nine." "and what good is it to us? how are we to get to the station?" said germaine. they looked at one another blankly. firmin, who had followed the duke into the hall, came to the rescue. "there's the luggage-cart," he said. "the luggage-cart!" cried germaine contemptuously. "the very thing!" said the millionaire. "i'll drive it myself. off you go, firmin; harness a horse to it." firmin went clumping out of the hall. it was perhaps as well that he went, for the duke asked what time it was; and since the watches of germaine and her father differed still, there ensued an altercation in which, had firmin been there, he would doubtless have taken part. the duke cut it short by saying: "well, i don't think i'll wait to see you start for the station. it won't take you more than half an hour. the cart is light. you needn't start yet. i'd better get off as soon as the car is ready. it isn't as though i could trust it." "one moment," said germaine. "is there a dining-car on the train? i'm not going to be starved as well as have my night's rest cut to pieces." "of course there isn't a dining-car," snapped her father. "we must eat something now, and take something with us." "sonia, irma, quick! be off to the larder and see what you can find. tell mother firmin to make an omelette. be quick!" sonia went towards the door of the hall, followed by irma. "good-night, and bon voyage, mademoiselle sonia," said the duke. "good-night, and bon voyage, your grace," said sonia. the duke opened the door of the hall for her; and as she went out, she said anxiously, in a low voice: "oh, do--do be careful. i hate to think of your hurrying to paris on a night like this. please be careful." "i will be careful," said the duke. the honk of the motor-horn told him that jean had brought the car to the door of the chateau. he came down the room, kissed germaine's hands, shook hands with the millionaire, and bade them good-night. then he went out to the car. they heard it start; the rattle of it grew fainter and fainter down the long avenue and died away. m. gournay-martin arose, and began putting out lamps. as he did so, he kept casting fearful glances at the window, as if he feared lest, now that the duke had gone, the burglars should dash in upon him. there came a knock at the door, and jean appeared on the threshold. "his grace told me that i was to come into the house, and help firmin look after it," he said. the millionaire gave him instructions about the guarding of the house. firmin, since he was an old soldier, was to occupy the post of honour, and guard the hall, armed with his gun. jean was to guard the two drawing-rooms, as being less likely points of attack. he also was to have a gun; and the millionaire went with him to the gun-room and gave him one and a dozen cartridges. when they came back to the hall, sonia called them into the dining-room; and there, to the accompaniment of an unsubdued grumbling from germaine at having to eat cold food at eight at night, they made a hasty but excellent meal, since the chef had left an elaborate cold supper ready to be served. they had nearly finished it when jean came in, his gun on his arm, to say that firmin had harnessed the horse to the luggage-cart, and it was awaiting them at the door of the chateau. "send him in to me, and stand by the horse till we come out," said the millionaire. firmin came clumping in. the millionaire gazed at him solemnly, and said: "firmin, i am relying on you. i am leaving you in a position of honour and danger--a position which an old soldier of france loves." firmin did his best to look like an old soldier of france. he pulled himself up out of the slouch which long years of loafing through woods with a gun on his arm had given him. he lacked also the old soldier of france's fiery gaze. his eyes were lack-lustre. "i look for anything, firmin--burglary, violence, an armed assault," said the millionaire. "don't be afraid, sir. i saw the war of ' ," said firmin boldly, rising to the occasion. "good!" said the millionaire. "i confide the chateau to you. i trust you with my treasures." he rose, and saying "come along, we must be getting to the station," he led the way to the door of the chateau. the luggage-cart stood rather high, and they had to bring a chair out of the hall to enable the girls to climb into it. germaine did not forget to give her real opinion of the advantages of a seat formed by a plank resting on the sides of the cart. the millionaire climbed heavily up in front, and took the reins. "never again will i trust only to motor-cars. the first thing i'll do after i've made sure that my collections are safe will be to buy carriages--something roomy," he said gloomily, as he realized the discomfort of his seat. he turned to jean and firmin, who stood on the steps of the chateau watching the departure of their master, and said: "sons of france, be brave--be brave!" the cart bumped off into the damp, dark night. jean and firmin watched it disappear into the darkness. then they came into the chateau and shut the door. firmin looked at jean, and said gloomily: "i don't like this. these burglars stick at nothing. they'd as soon cut your throat as look at you." "it can't be helped," said jean. "besides, you've got the post of honour. you guard the hall. i'm to look after the drawing-rooms. they're not likely to break in through the drawing-rooms. and i shall lock the door between them and the hall." "no, no; you won't lock that door!" cried firmin. "but i certainly will," said jean. "you'd better come and get a gun." they went to the gun-room, firmin still protesting against the locking of the door between the drawing-rooms and the hall. he chose his gun; and they went into the kitchen. jean took two bottles of wine, a rich-looking pie, a sweet, and carried them to the drawing-room. he came back into the hall, gathered together an armful of papers and magazines, and went back to the drawing-room. firmin kept trotting after him, like a little dog with a somewhat heavy footfall. on the threshold of the drawing-room jean paused and said: "the important thing with burglars is to fire first, old cock. good-night. pleasant dreams." he shut the door and turned the key. firmin stared at the decorated panels blankly. the beauty of the scheme of decoration did not, at the moment, move him to admiration. he looked fearfully round the empty hall and at the windows, black against the night. under the patter of the rain he heard footsteps--distinctly. he went hastily clumping down the hall, and along the passage to the kitchen. his wife was setting his supper on the table. "my god!" he said. "i haven't been so frightened since ' ." and he mopped his glistening forehead with a dish-cloth. it was not a clean dish-cloth; but he did not care. "frightened? what of?" said his wife. "burglars! cut-throats!" said firmin. he told her of the fears of m. gournay-martin, and of his own appointment to the honourable and dangerous post of guard of the chateau. "god save us!" said his wife. "you lock the door of that beastly hall, and come into the kitchen. burglars won't bother about the kitchen." "but the master's treasures!" protested firmin. "he confided them to me. he said so distinctly." "let the master look after his treasures himself," said madame firmin, with decision. "you've only one throat; and i'm not going to have it cut. you sit down and eat your supper. go and lock that door first, though." firmin locked the door of the hall; then he locked the door of the kitchen; then he sat down, and began to eat his supper. his appetite was hearty, but none the less he derived little pleasure from the meal. he kept stopping with the food poised on his fork, midway between the plate and his mouth, for several seconds at a time, while he listened with straining ears for the sound of burglars breaking in the windows of the hall. he was much too far from those windows to hear anything that happened to them, but that did not prevent him from straining his ears. madame firmin ate her supper with an air of perfect ease. she felt sure that burglars would not bother with the kitchen. firmin's anxiety made him terribly thirsty. tumbler after tumbler of wine flowed down the throat for which he feared. when he had finished his supper he went on satisfying his thirst. madame firmin lighted his pipe for him, and went and washed up the supper-dishes in the scullery. then she came back, and sat down on the other side of the hearth, facing him. about the middle of his third bottle of wine, firmin's cold, relentless courage was suddenly restored to him. he began to talk firmly about his duty to his master, his resolve to die, if need were, in defence of his interests, of his utter contempt for burglars--probably parisians. but he did not go into the hall. doubtless the pleasant warmth of the kitchen fire held him in his chair. he had described to his wife, with some ferocity, the cruel manner in which he would annihilate the first three burglars who entered the hall, and was proceeding to describe his method of dealing with the fourth, when there came a loud knocking on the front door of the chateau. stricken silent, turned to stone, firmin sat with his mouth open, in the midst of an unfinished word. madame firmin scuttled to the kitchen door she had left unlocked on her return from the scullery, and locked it. she turned, and they stared at one another. the heavy knocker fell again and again and again. between the knocking there was a sound like the roaring of lions. husband and wife stared at one another with white faces. firmin picked up his gun with trembling hands, and the movement seemed to set his teeth chattering. they chattered like castanets. the knocking still went on, and so did the roaring. it had gone on at least for five minutes, when a slow gleam of comprehension lightened madame firmin's face. "i believe it's the master's voice," she said. "the master's voice!" said firmin, in a hoarse, terrified whisper. "yes," said madame firmin. and she unlocked the thick door and opened it a few inches. the barrier removed, the well-known bellow of the millionaire came distinctly to their ears. firmin's courage rushed upon him in full flood. he clumped across the room, brushed his wife aside, and trotted to the door of the chateau. he unlocked it, drew the bolts, and threw it open. on the steps stood the millionaire, germaine, and sonia. irma stood at the horse's head. "what the devil have you been doing?" bellowed the millionaire. "what do you keep me standing in the rain for? why didn't you let me in?" "b-b-b-burglars--i thought you were b-b-b-burglars," stammered firmin. "burglars!" howled the millionaire. "do i sound like a burglar?" at the moment he did not; he sounded more like a bull of bashan. he bustled past firmin to the door of the hall. "here! what's this locked for?" he bellowed. "i--i--locked it in case burglars should get in while i was opening the front door," stammered firmin. the millionaire turned the key, opened the door, and went into the hall. germaine followed him. she threw off her dripping coat, and said with some heat: "i can't conceive why you didn't make sure that there was a train at a quarter to nine. i will not go to paris to-night. nothing shall induce me to take that midnight train!" "nonsense!" said the millionaire. "nonsense--you'll have to go! where's that infernal time-table?" he rushed to the table on to which he had thrown the time-table after looking up the train, snatched it up, and looked at the cover. "why, hang it!" he cried. "it's for june--june, !" "oh!" cried germaine, almost in a scream. "it's incredible! it's one of jacques' jokes!" chapter viii the duke arrives the morning was gloomy, and the police-station with its bare, white-washed walls--their white expanse was only broken by notice-boards to which were pinned portraits of criminals with details of their appearance, their crime, and the reward offered for their apprehension--with its shabby furniture, and its dingy fireplace, presented a dismal and sordid appearance entirely in keeping with the september grey. the inspector sat at his desk, yawning after a night which had passed without an arrest. he was waiting to be relieved. the policeman at the door and the two policemen sitting on a bench by the wall yawned in sympathy. the silence of the street was broken by the rattle of an uncommonly noisy motor-car. it stopped before the door of the police-station, and the eyes of the inspector and his men turned, idly expectant, to the door of the office. it opened, and a young man in motor-coat and cap stood on the threshold. he looked round the office with alert eyes, which took in everything, and said, in a brisk, incisive voice: "i am the duke of charmerace. i am here on behalf of m. gournay-martin. last evening he received a letter from arsene lupin saying he was going to break into his paris house this very morning." at the name of arsene lupin the inspector sprang from his chair, the policemen from their bench. on the instant they were wide awake, attentive, full of zeal. "the letter, your grace!" said the inspector briskly. the duke pulled off his glove, drew the letter from the breast-pocket of his under-coat, and handed it to the inspector. the inspector glanced through it, and said. "yes, i know the handwriting well." then he read it carefully, and added, "yes, yes: it's his usual letter." "there's no time to be lost," said the duke quickly. "i ought to have been here hours ago--hours. i had a break-down. i'm afraid i'm too late as it is." "come along, your grace--come along, you," said the inspector briskly. the four of them hurried out of the office and down the steps of the police-station. in the roadway stood a long grey racing-car, caked with muds--grey mud, brown mud, red mud--from end to end. it looked as if it had brought samples of the soil of france from many districts. "come along; i'll take you in the car. your men can trot along beside us," said the duke to the inspector. he slipped into the car, the inspector jumped in and took the seat beside him, and they started. they went slowly, to allow the two policemen to keep up with them. indeed, the car could not have made any great pace, for the tyre of the off hind-wheel was punctured and deflated. in three minutes they came to the gournay-martin house, a wide-fronted mass of undistinguished masonry, in an undistinguished row of exactly the same pattern. there were no signs that any one was living in it. blinds were drawn, shutters were up over all the windows, upper and lower. no smoke came from any of its chimneys, though indeed it was full early for that. pulling a bunch of keys from his pocket, the duke ran up the steps. the inspector followed him. the duke looked at the bunch, picked out the latch-key, and fitted it into the lock. it did not open it. he drew it out and tried another key and another. the door remained locked. "let me, your grace," said the inspector. "i'm more used to it. i shall be quicker." the duke handed the keys to him, and, one after another, the inspector fitted them into the lock. it was useless. none of them opened the door. "they've given me the wrong keys," said the duke, with some vexation. "or no--stay--i see what's happened. the keys have been changed." "changed?" said the inspector. "when? where?" "last night at charmerace," said the duke. "m. gournay-martin declared that he saw a burglar slip out of one of the windows of the hall of the chateau, and we found the lock of the bureau in which the keys were kept broken." the inspector seized the knocker, and hammered on the door. "try that door there," he cried to his men, pointing to a side-door on the right, the tradesmen's entrance, giving access to the back of the house. it was locked. there came no sound of movement in the house in answer to the inspector's knocking. "where's the concierge?" he said. the duke shrugged his shoulders. "there's a housekeeper, too--a woman named victoire," he said. "let's hope we don't find them with their throats cut." "that isn't lupin's way," said the inspector. "they won't have come to much harm." "it's not very likely that they'll be in a position to open doors," said the duke drily. "hadn't we better have it broken open and be done with it?" the inspector hesitated. "people don't like their doors broken open," he said. "and m. gournay-martin--" "oh, i'll take the responsibility of that," said the duke. "oh, if you say so, your grace," said the inspector, with a brisk relief. "henri, go to ragoneau, the locksmith in the rue theobald. bring him here as quickly as ever you can get him." "tell him it's a couple of louis if he's here inside of ten minutes," said the duke. the policeman hurried off. the inspector bent down and searched the steps carefully. he searched the roadway. the duke lighted a cigarette and watched him. the house of the millionaire stood next but one to the corner of a street which ran at right angles to the one in which it stood, and the corner house was empty. the inspector searched the road, then he went round the corner. the other policeman went along the road, searching in the opposite direction. the duke leant against the door and smoked on patiently. he showed none of the weariness of a man who has spent the night in a long and anxious drive in a rickety motor-car. his eyes were bright and clear; he looked as fresh as if he had come from his bed after a long night's rest. if he had not found the south pole, he had at any rate brought back fine powers of endurance from his expedition in search of it. the inspector came back, wearing a disappointed air. "have you found anything?" said the duke. "nothing," said the inspector. he came up the steps and hammered again on the door. no one answered his knock. there was a clatter of footsteps, and henri and the locksmith, a burly, bearded man, his bag of tools slung over his shoulder, came hurrying up. he was not long getting to work, but it was not an easy job. the lock was strong. at the end of five minutes he said that he might spend an hour struggling with the lock itself; should he cut away a piece of the door round it? "cut away," said the duke. the locksmith changed his tools, and in less than three minutes he had cut away a square piece from the door, a square in which the lock was fixed, and taken it bodily away. the door opened. the inspector drew his revolver, and entered the house. the duke followed him. the policemen drew their revolvers, and followed the duke. the big hall was but dimly lighted. one of the policemen quickly threw back the shutters of the windows and let in the light. the hall was empty, the furniture in perfect order; there were no signs of burglary there. "the concierge?" said the inspector, and his men hurried through the little door on the right which opened into the concierge's rooms. in half a minute one of them came out and said: "gagged and bound, and his wife too." "but the rooms which were to be plundered are upstairs," said the duke--"the big drawing-rooms on the first floor. come on; we may be just in time. the scoundrels may not yet have got away." he ran quickly up the stairs, followed by the inspector, and hurried along the corridor to the door of the big drawing-room. he threw it open, and stopped dead on the threshold. he had arrived too late. the room was in disorder. chairs were overturned, there were empty spaces on the wall where the finest pictures of the millionaire had been hung. the window facing the door was wide open. the shutters were broken; one of them was hanging crookedly from only its bottom hinge. the top of a ladder rose above the window-sill, and beside it, astraddle the sill, was an empire card-table, half inside the room, half out. on the hearth-rug, before a large tapestry fire-screen, which masked the wide fireplace, built in imitation of the big, wide fireplaces of our ancestors, and rose to the level of the chimney-piece--a magnificent chimney-piece in carved oak-were some chairs tied together ready to be removed. the duke and the inspector ran to the window, and looked down into the garden. it was empty. at the further end of it, on the other side of its wall, rose the scaffolding of a house a-building. the burglars had found every convenience to their hand--a strong ladder, an egress through the door in the garden wall, and then through the gap formed by the house in process of erection, which had rendered them independent of the narrow passage between the walls of the gardens, which debouched into a side-street on the right. the duke turned from the window, glanced at the wall opposite, then, as if something had caught his eye, went quickly to it. "look here," he said, and he pointed to the middle of one of the empty spaces in which a picture had hung. there, written neatly in blue chalk, were the words: arsene lupin "this is a job for guerchard," said the inspector. "but i had better get an examining magistrate to take the matter in hand first." and he ran to the telephone. the duke opened the folding doors which led into the second drawing-room. the shutters of the windows were open, and it was plain that arsene lupin had plundered it also of everything that had struck his fancy. in the gaps between the pictures on the walls was again the signature "arsene lupin." the inspector was shouting impatiently into the telephone, bidding a servant wake her master instantly. he did not leave the telephone till he was sure that she had done so, that her master was actually awake, and had been informed of the crime. the duke sat down in an easy chair and waited for him. when he had finished telephoning, the inspector began to search the two rooms for traces of the burglars. he found nothing, not even a finger-mark. when he had gone through the two rooms he said, "the next thing to do is to find the house-keeper. she may be sleeping still--she may not even have heard the noise of the burglars." "i find all this extremely interesting," said the duke; and he followed the inspector out of the room. the inspector called up the two policemen, who had been freeing the concierge and going through the rooms on the ground-floor. they did not then examine any more of the rooms on the first floor to discover if they also had been plundered. they went straight up to the top of the house, the servants' quarters. the inspector called, "victoire! victoire!" two or three times; but there was no answer. they opened the door of room after room and looked in, the inspector taking the rooms on the right, the policemen the rooms on the left. "here we are," said one of the policemen. "this room's been recently occupied." they looked in, and saw that the bed was unmade. plainly victoire had slept in it. "where can she be?" said the duke. "be?" said the inspector. "i expect she's with the burglars--an accomplice." "i gather that m. gournay-martin had the greatest confidence in her," said the duke. "he'll have less now," said the inspector drily. "it's generally the confidential ones who let their masters down." the inspector and his men set about a thorough search of the house. they found the other rooms undisturbed. in half an hour they had established the fact that the burglars had confined their attention to the two drawing-rooms. they found no traces of them; and they did not find victoire. the concierge could throw no light on her disappearance. he and his wife had been taken by surprise in their sleep and in the dark. they had been gagged and bound, they declared, without so much as having set eyes on their assailants. the duke and the inspector came back to the plundered drawing-room. the inspector looked at his watch and went to the telephone. "i must let the prefecture know," he said. "be sure you ask them to send guerchard," said the duke. "guerchard?" said the inspector doubtfully. "m. formery, the examining magistrate, does not get on very well with guerchard." "what sort of a man is m. formery? is he capable?" said the duke. "oh, yes--yes. he's very capable," said the inspector quickly. "but he doesn't have very good luck." "m. gournay-martin particularly asked me to send for guerchard if i arrived too late, and found the burglary already committed," said the duke. "it seems that there is war to the knife between guerchard and this arsene lupin. in that case guerchard will leave no stone unturned to catch the rascal and recover the stolen treasures. m. gournay-martin felt that guerchard was the man for this piece of work very strongly indeed." "very good, your grace," said the inspector. and he rang up the prefecture of police. the duke heard him report the crime and ask that guerchard should be sent. the official in charge at the moment seemed to make some demur. the duke sprang to his feet, and said in an anxious tone, "perhaps i'd better speak to him myself." he took his place at the telephone and said, "i am the duke of charmerace. m. gournay-martin begged me to secure the services of m. guerchard. he laid the greatest stress on my securing them, if on reaching paris i found that the crime had already been committed." the official at the other end of the line hesitated. he did not refuse on the instant as he had refused the inspector. it may be that he reflected that m. gournay-martin was a millionaire and a man of influence; that the duke of charmerace was a duke; that he, at any rate, had nothing whatever to gain by running counter to their wishes. he said that chief-inspector guerchard was not at the prefecture, that he was off duty; that he would send down two detectives, who were on duty, at once, and summon chief-inspector guerchard with all speed. the duke thanked him and rang off. "that's all right," he said cheerfully, turning to the inspector. "what time will m. formery be here?" "well, i don't expect him for another hour," said the inspector. "he won't come till he's had his breakfast. he always makes a good breakfast before setting out to start an inquiry, lest he shouldn't find time to make one after he's begun it." "breakfast--breakfast--that's a great idea," said the duke. "now you come to remind me, i'm absolutely famished. i got some supper on my way late last night; but i've had nothing since. i suppose nothing interesting will happen till m. formery comes; and i may as well get some food. but i don't want to leave the house. i think i'll see what the concierge can do for me." so saying, he went downstairs and interviewed the concierge. the concierge seemed to be still doubtful whether he was standing on his head or his heels, but he undertook to supply the needs of the duke. the duke gave him a louis, and he hurried off to get food from a restaurant. the duke went upstairs to the bathroom and refreshed himself with a cold bath. by the time he had bathed and dressed the concierge had a meal ready for him in the dining-room. he ate it with the heartiest appetite. then he sent out for a barber and was shaved. he then repaired to the pillaged drawing-room, disposed himself in the most restful attitude on a sofa, and lighted an excellent cigar. in the middle of it the inspector came to him. he was not wearing a very cheerful air; and he told the duke that he had found no clue to the perpetrators of the crime, though m. dieusy and m. bonavent, the detectives from the prefecture of police, had joined him in the search. the duke was condoling with him on this failure when they heard a knocking at the front door, and then voices on the stairs. "ah! here is m. formery!" said the inspector cheerfully. "now we can get on." chapter ix m. formery opens the inquiry the examining magistrate came into the room. he was a plump and pink little man, with very bright eyes. his bristly hair stood up straight all over his head, giving it the appearance of a broad, dapple-grey clothes-brush. he appeared to be of the opinion that nature had given the world the toothbrush as a model of what a moustache should be; and his own was clipped to that pattern. "the duke of charmerace, m. formery," said the inspector. the little man bowed and said, "charmed, charmed to make your acquaintance, your grace--though the occasion--the occasion is somewhat painful. the treasures of m. gournay-martin are known to all the world. france will deplore his losses." he paused, and added hastily, "but we shall recover them--we shall recover them." the duke rose, bowed, and protested his pleasure at making the acquaintance of m. formery. "is this the scene of the robbery, inspector?" said m. formery; and he rubbed his hands together with a very cheerful air. "yes, sir," said the inspector. "these two rooms seem to be the only ones touched, though of course we can't tell till m. gournay-martin arrives. jewels may have been stolen from the bedrooms." "i fear that m. gournay-martin won't be of much help for some days," said the duke. "when i left him he was nearly distracted; and he won't be any better after a night journey to paris from charmerace. but probably these are the only two rooms touched, for in them m. gournay-martin had gathered together the gems of his collection. over the doors hung some pieces of flemish tapestry--marvels--the composition admirable--the colouring delightful." "it is easy to see that your grace was very fond of them," said m. formery. "i should think so," said the duke. "i looked on them as already belonging to me, for my father-in-law was going to give them to me as a wedding present." "a great loss--a great loss. but we will recover them, sooner or later, you can rest assured of it. i hope you have touched nothing in this room. if anything has been moved it may put me off the scent altogether. let me have the details, inspector." the inspector reported the arrival of the duke at the police-station with arsene lupin's letter to m. gournay-martin; the discovery that the keys had been changed and would not open the door of the house; the opening of it by the locksmith; the discovery of the concierge and his wife gagged and bound. "probably accomplices," said m. formery. "does lupin always work with accomplices?" said the duke. "pardon my ignorance--but i've been out of france for so long--before he attained to this height of notoriety." "lupin--why lupin?" said m. formery sharply. "why, there is the letter from lupin which my future father-in-law received last night; its arrival was followed by the theft of his two swiftest motor-cars; and then, these signatures on the wall here," said the duke in some surprise at the question. "lupin! lupin! everybody has lupin on the brain!" said m. formery impatiently. "i'm sick of hearing his name. this letter and these signatures are just as likely to be forgeries as not." "i wonder if guerchard will take that view," said the duke. "guerchard? surely we're not going to be cluttered up with guerchard. he has lupin on the brain worse than any one else." "but m. gournay-martin particularly asked me to send for guerchard if i arrived too late to prevent the burglary. he would never forgive me if i had neglected his request: so i telephoned for him--to the prefecture of police," said the duke. "oh, well, if you've already telephoned for him. but it was unnecessary--absolutely unnecessary," said m. formery sharply. "i didn't know," said the duke politely. "oh, there was no harm in it--it doesn't matter," said m. formery in a discontented tone with a discontented air. he walked slowly round the room, paused by the windows, looked at the ladder, and scanned the garden: "arsene lupin," he said scornfully. "arsene lupin doesn't leave traces all over the place. there's nothing but traces. are we going to have that silly lupin joke all over again?" "i think, sir, that this time joke is the word, for this is a burglary pure and simple," said the inspector. "yes, it's plain as daylight," said m. formery "the burglars came in by this window, and they went out by it." he crossed the room to a tall safe which stood before the unused door. the safe was covered with velvet, and velvet curtains hung before its door. he drew the curtains, and tried the handle of the door of the safe. it did not turn; the safe was locked. "as far as i can see, they haven't touched this," said m. formery. "thank goodness for that," said the duke. "i believe, or at least my fiancee does, that m. gournay-martin keeps the most precious thing in his collection in that safe--the coronet." "what! the famous coronet of the princesse de lamballe?" said m. formery. "yes," said the duke. "but according to your report, inspector, the letter signed 'lupin' announced that he was going to steal the coronet also." "it did--in so many words," said the duke. "well, here is a further proof that we're not dealing with lupin. that rascal would certainly have put his threat into execution, m. formery," said the inspector. "who's in charge of the house?" said m. formery. "the concierge, his wife, and a housekeeper--a woman named victoire," said the inspector. "i'll see to the concierge and his wife presently. i've sent one of your men round for their dossier. when i get it i'll question them. you found them gagged and bound in their bedroom?" "yes, m. formery; and always this imitation of lupin--a yellow gag, blue cords, and the motto, 'i take, therefore i am,' on a scrap of cardboard--his usual bag of tricks." "then once again they're going to touch us up in the papers. it's any odds on it," said m. formery gloomily. "where's the housekeeper? i should like to see her." "the fact is, we don't know where she is," said the inspector. "you don't know where she is?" said m. formery. "we can't find her anywhere," said the inspector. "that's excellent, excellent. we've found the accomplice," said m. formery with lively delight; and he rubbed his hands together. "at least, we haven't found her, but we know her." "i don't think that's the case," said the duke. "at least, my future father-in-law and my fiancee had both of them the greatest confidence in her. yesterday she telephoned to us at the chateau de charmerace. all the jewels were left in her charge, and the wedding presents as they were sent in." "and these jewels and wedding presents--have they been stolen too?" said m. formery. "they don't seem to have been touched," said the duke, "though of course we can't tell till m. gournay-martin arrives. as far as i can see, the burglars have only touched these two drawing-rooms." "that's very annoying," said m. formery. "i don't find it so," said the duke, smiling. "i was looking at it from the professional point of view," said m. formery. he turned to the inspector and added, "you can't have searched thoroughly. this housekeeper must be somewhere about--if she's really trustworthy. have you looked in every room in the house?" "in every room--under every bed--in every corner and every cupboard," said the inspector. "bother!" said m. formery. "are there no scraps of torn clothes, no blood-stains, no traces of murder, nothing of interest?" "nothing!" said the inspector. "but this is very regrettable," said m. formery. "where did she sleep? was her bed unmade?" "her room is at the top of the house," said the inspector. "the bed had been slept in, but she does not appear to have taken away any of her clothes." "extraordinary! this is beginning to look a very complicated business," said m. formery gravely. "perhaps guerchard will be able to throw a little more light on it," said the duke. m. formery frowned and said, "yes, yes. guerchard is a good assistant in a business like this. a little visionary, a little fanciful--wrong-headed, in fact; but, after all, he is guerchard. only, since lupin is his bugbear, he's bound to find some means of muddling us up with that wretched animal. you're going to see lupin mixed up with all this to a dead certainty, your grace." the duke looked at the signatures on the wall. "it seems to me that he is pretty well mixed up with it already," he said quietly. "believe me, your grace, in a criminal affair it is, above all things, necessary to distrust appearances. i am growing more and more confident that some ordinary burglars have committed this crime and are trying to put us off the scent by diverting our attention to lupin." the duke stooped down carelessly and picked up a book which had fallen from a table. "excuse me, but please--please--do not touch anything," said m. formery quickly. "why, this is odd," said the duke, staring at the floor. "what is odd?" said m. formery. "well, this book looks as if it had been knocked off the table by one of the burglars. and look here; here's a footprint under it--a footprint on the carpet," said the duke. m. formery and the inspector came quickly to the spot. there, where the book had fallen, plainly imprinted on the carpet, was a white footprint. m. formery and the inspector stared at it. "it looks like plaster. how did plaster get here?" said m. formery, frowning at it. "well, suppose the robbers came from the garden," said the duke. "of course they came from the garden, your grace. where else should they come from?" said m. formery, with a touch of impatience in his tone. "well, at the end of the garden they're building a house," said the duke. "of course, of course," said m. formery, taking him up quickly. "the burglars came here with their boots covered with plaster. they've swept away all the other marks of their feet from the carpet; but whoever did the sweeping was too slack to lift up that book and sweep under it. this footprint, however, is not of great importance, though it is corroborative of all the other evidence we have that they came and went by the garden. there's the ladder, and that table half out of the window. still, this footprint may turn out useful, after all. you had better take the measurements of it, inspector. here's a foot-rule for you. i make a point of carrying this foot-rule about with me, your grace. you would be surprised to learn how often it has come in useful." he took a little ivory foot-rule from his waist-coat pocket, and gave it to the inspector, who fell on his knees and measured the footprint with the greatest care. "i must take a careful look at that house they're building. i shall find a good many traces there, to a dead certainty," said m. formery. the inspector entered the measurements of the footprint in his note-book. there came the sound of a knocking at the front door. "i shall find footprints of exactly the same dimensions as this one at the foot of some heap of plaster beside that house," said m. formery; with an air of profound conviction, pointing through the window to the house building beyond the garden. a policeman opened the door of the drawing-room and saluted. "if you please, sir, the servants have arrived from charmerace," he said. "let them wait in the kitchen and the servants' offices," said m. formery. he stood silent, buried in profound meditation, for a couple of minutes. then he turned to the duke and said, "what was that you said about a theft of motor-cars at charmerace?" "when he received the letter from arsene lupin, m. gournay-martin decided to start for paris at once," said the duke. "but when we sent for the cars we found that they had just been stolen. m. gournay-martin's chauffeur and another servant were in the garage gagged and bound. only an old car, a hundred horse-power mercrac, was left. i drove it to paris, leaving m. gournay-martin and his family to come on by train." "very important--very important indeed," said m. formery. he thought for a moment, and then added. "were the motor-cars the only things stolen? were there no other thefts?" "well, as a matter of fact, there was another theft, or rather an attempt at theft," said the duke with some hesitation. "the rogues who stole the motor-cars presented themselves at the chateau under the name of charolais--a father and three sons--on the pretext of buying the hundred-horse-power mercrac. m. gournay-martin had advertised it for sale in the rennes advertiser. they were waiting in the big hall of the chateau, which the family uses as the chief living-room, for the return of m. gournay-martin. he came; and as they left the hall one of them attempted to steal a pendant set with pearls which i had given to mademoiselle gournay-martin half an hour before. i caught him in the act and saved the pendant." "good! good! wait--we have one of the gang--wait till i question him," said m. formery, rubbing his hands; and his eyes sparkled with joy. "well, no; i'm afraid we haven't," said the duke in an apologetic tone. "what! we haven't? has he escaped from the police? oh, those country police!" cried m. formery. "no; i didn't charge him with the theft," said the duke. "you didn't charge him with the theft?" cried m. formery, astounded. "no; he was very young and he begged so hard. i had the pendant. i let him go," said the duke. "oh, your grace, your grace! your duty to society!" cried m. formery. "yes, it does seem to have been rather weak," said the duke; "but there you are. it's no good crying over spilt milk." m. formery folded his arms and walked, frowning, backwards and forwards across the room. he stopped, raised his hand with a gesture commanding attention, and said, "i have no hesitation in saying that there is a connection--an intimate connection--between the thefts at charmerace and this burglary!" the duke and the inspector gazed at him with respectful eyes--at least, the eyes of the inspector were respectful; the duke's eyes twinkled. "i am gathering up the threads," said m. formery. "inspector, bring up the concierge and his wife. i will question them on the scene of the crime. their dossier should be here. if it is, bring it up with them; if not, no matter; bring them up without it." the inspector left the drawing-room. m. formery plunged at once into frowning meditation. "i find all this extremely interesting," said the duke. "charmed! charmed!" said m. formery, waving his hand with an absent-minded air. the inspector entered the drawing-room followed by the concierge and his wife. he handed a paper to m. formery. the concierge, a bearded man of about sixty, and his wife, a somewhat bearded woman of about fifty-five, stared at m. formery with fascinated, terrified eyes. he sat down in a chair, crossed his legs, read the paper through, and then scrutinized them keenly. "well, have you recovered from your adventure?" he said. "oh, yes, sir," said the concierge. "they hustled us a bit, but they did not really hurt us." "nothing to speak of, that is," said his wife. "but all the same, it's a disgraceful thing that an honest woman can't sleep in peace in her bed of a night without being disturbed by rascals like that. and if the police did their duty things like this wouldn't happen. and i don't care who hears me say it." "you say that you were taken by surprise in your sleep?" said m. formery. "you say you saw nothing, and heard nothing?" "there was no time to see anything or hear anything. they trussed us up like greased lightning," said the concierge. "but the gag was the worst," said the wife. "to lie there and not be able to tell the rascals what i thought about them!" "didn't you hear the noise of footsteps in the garden?" said m. formery. "one can't hear anything that happens in the garden from our bedroom," said the concierge. "even the night when mlle. germaine's great dane barked from twelve o'clock till seven in the morning, all the household was kept awake except us; but bless you, sir, we slept like tops," said his wife proudly. "if they sleep like that it seems rather a waste of time to have gagged them," whispered the duke to the inspector. the inspector grinned, and whispered scornfully, "oh, them common folks; they do sleep like that, your grace." "didn't you hear any noise at the front door?" said m. formery. "no, we heard no noise at the door," said the concierge. "then you heard no noise at all the whole night?" said m. formery. "oh, yes, sir, we heard noise enough after we'd been gagged," said the concierge. "now, this is important," said m. formery. "what kind of a noise was it?" "well, it was a bumping kind of noise," said the concierge. "and there was a noise of footsteps, walking about the room." "what room? where did these noises come from?" said m. formery. "from the room over our heads--the big drawing-room," said the concierge. "didn't you hear any noise of a struggle, as if somebody was being dragged about--no screaming or crying?" said m. formery. the concierge and his wife looked at one another with inquiring eyes. "no, i didn't," said the concierge. "neither did i," said his wife. m. formery paused. then he said, "how long have you been in the service of m. gournay-martin?" "a little more than a year," said the concierge. m. formery looked at the paper in his hand, frowned, and said severely, "i see you've been convicted twice, my man." "yes, sir, but--" "my husband's an honest man, sir--perfectly honest," broke in his wife. "you've only to ask m. gournay-martin; he'll--" "be so good as to keep quiet, my good woman," said m. formery; and, turning to her husband, he went on: "at your first conviction you were sentenced to a day's imprisonment with costs; at your second conviction you got three days' imprisonment." "i'm not going to deny it, sir," said the concierge; "but it was an honourable imprisonment." "honourable?" said m. formery. "the first time, i was a gentleman's servant, and i got a day's imprisonment for crying, 'hurrah for the general strike!'--on the first of may." "you were a valet? in whose service?" said m. formery. "in the service of m. genlis, the socialist leader." "and your second conviction?" said m. formery. "it was for having cried in the porch of ste. clotilde, 'down with the cows!'--meaning the police, sir," said the concierge. "and were you in the service of m. genlis then?" said m. formery. "no, sir; i was in the service of m. bussy-rabutin, the royalist deputy." "you don't seem to have very well-defined political convictions," said m. formery. "oh, yes, sir, i have," the concierge protested. "i'm always devoted to my masters; and i have the same opinions that they have--always." "very good; you can go," said m. formery. the concierge and his wife left the room, looking as if they did not quite know whether to feel relieved or not. "those two fools are telling the exact truth, unless i'm very much mistaken," said m. formery. "they look honest enough people," said the duke. "well, now to examine the rest of the house," said m. formery. "i'll come with you, if i may," said the duke. "by all means, by all means," said m. formery. "i find it all so interesting," said the duke, chapter x guerchard assists leaving a policeman on guard at the door of the drawing-room m. formery, the duke, and the inspector set out on their tour of inspection. it was a long business, for m. formery examined every room with the most scrupulous care--with more care, indeed, than he had displayed in his examination of the drawing-rooms. in particular he lingered long in the bedroom of victoire, discussing the possibilities of her having been murdered and carried away by the burglars along with their booty. he seemed, if anything, disappointed at finding no blood-stains, but to find real consolation in the thought that she might have been strangled. he found the inspector in entire agreement with every theory he enunciated, and he grew more and more disposed to regard him as a zealous and trustworthy officer. also he was not at all displeased at enjoying this opportunity of impressing the duke with his powers of analysis and synthesis. he was unaware that, as a rule, the duke's eyes did not usually twinkle as they twinkled during this solemn and deliberate progress through the house of m. gournay-martin. m. formery had so exactly the air of a sleuthhound; and he was even noisier. having made this thorough examination of the house, m. formery went out into the garden and set about examining that. there were footprints on the turf about the foot of the ladder, for the grass was close-clipped, and the rain had penetrated and softened the soil; but there were hardly as many footprints as might have been expected, seeing that the burglars must have made many journeys in the course of robbing the drawing-rooms of so many objects of art, some of them of considerable weight. the footprints led to a path of hard gravel; and m. formery led the way down it, out of the door in the wall at the bottom of the garden, and into the space round the house which was being built. as m. formery had divined, there was a heap, or, to be exact, there were several heaps of plaster about the bottom of the scaffolding. unfortunately, there were also hundreds of footprints. m. formery looked at them with longing eyes; but he did not suggest that the inspector should hunt about for a set of footprints of the size of the one he had so carefully measured on the drawing-room carpet. while they were examining the ground round the half-built house a man came briskly down the stairs from the second floor of the house of m. gournay-martin. he was an ordinary-looking man, almost insignificant, of between forty and fifty, and of rather more than middle height. he had an ordinary, rather shapeless mouth, an ordinary nose, an ordinary chin, an ordinary forehead, rather low, and ordinary ears. he was wearing an ordinary top-hat, by no means new. his clothes were the ordinary clothes of a fairly well-to-do citizen; and his boots had been chosen less to set off any slenderness his feet might possess than for their comfortable roominess. only his eyes relieved his face from insignificance. they were extraordinarily alert eyes, producing in those on whom they rested the somewhat uncomfortable impression that the depths of their souls were being penetrated. he was the famous chief-inspector guerchard, head of the detective department of the prefecture of police, and sworn foe of arsene lupin. the policeman at the door of the drawing-room saluted him briskly. he was a fine, upstanding, red-faced young fellow, adorned by a rich black moustache of extraordinary fierceness. "shall i go and inform m. formery that you have come, m. guerchard?" he said. "no, no; there's no need to take the trouble," said guerchard in a gentle, rather husky voice. "don't bother any one about me--i'm of no importance." "oh, come, m. guerchard," protested the policeman. "of no importance," said m. guerchard decisively. "for the present, m. formery is everything. i'm only an assistant." he stepped into the drawing-room and stood looking about it, curiously still. it was almost as if the whole of his being was concentrated in the act of seeing--as if all the other functions of his mind and body were in suspension. "m. formery and the inspector have just been up to examine the housekeeper's room. it's right at the top of the house--on the second floor. you take the servants' staircase. then it's right at the end of the passage on the left. would you like me to take you up to it, sir?" said the policeman eagerly. his heart was in his work. "thank you, i know where it is--i've just come from it," said guerchard gently. a grin of admiration widened the already wide mouth of the policeman, and showed a row of very white, able-looking teeth. "ah, m. guerchard!" he said, "you're cleverer than all the examining magistrates in paris put together!" "you ought not to say that, my good fellow. i can't prevent you thinking it, of course; but you ought not to say it," said guerchard with husky gentleness; and the faintest smile played round the corners of his mouth. he walked slowly to the window, and the policeman walked with him. "have you noticed this, sir?" said the policeman, taking hold of the top of the ladder with a powerful hand. "it's probable that the burglars came in and went away by this ladder." "thank you," said guerchard. "they have even left this card-table on the window-sill," said the policeman; and he patted the card-table with his other powerful hand. "thank you, thank you," said guerchard. "they don't think it's lupin's work at all," said the policeman. "they think that lupin's letter announcing the burglary and these signatures on the walls are only a ruse." "is that so?" said guerchard. "is there any way i can help you, sir?" said policeman. "yes," said guerchard. "take up your post outside that door and admit no one but m. formery, the inspector, bonavent, or dieusy, without consulting me." and he pointed to the drawing-room door. "shan't i admit the duke of charmerace? he's taking a great interest in this affair," said the policeman. "the duke of charmerace? oh, yes--admit the duke of charmerace," said guerchard. the policeman went to his post of responsibility, a proud man. hardly had the door closed behind him when guerchard was all activity--activity and eyes. he examined the ladder, the gaps on the wall from which the pictures had been taken, the signatures of arsene lupin. the very next thing he did was to pick up the book which the duke had set on the top of the footprint again, to preserve it; and he measured, pacing it, the distance between the footprint and the window. the result of this measuring did not appear to cause him any satisfaction, for he frowned, measured the distance again, and then stared out of the window with a perplexed air, thinking hard. it was curious that, when he concentrated himself on a process of reasoning, his eves seemed to lose something of their sharp brightness and grew a little dim. at last he seemed to come to some conclusion. he turned away from the window, drew a small magnifying-glass from his pocket, dropped on his hands and knees, and began to examine the surface of the carpet with the most minute care. he examined a space of it nearly six feet square, stopped, and gazed round the room. his eyes rested on the fireplace, which he could see under the bottom of the big tapestried fire-screen which was raised on legs about a foot high, fitted with big casters. his eyes filled with interest; without rising, he crawled quickly across the room, peeped round the edge of the screen and rose, smiling. he went on to the further drawing-room and made the same careful examination of it, again examining a part of the surface of the carpet with his magnifying-glass. he came back to the window to which the ladder had been raised and examined very carefully the broken shutter. he whistled softly to himself, lighted a cigarette, and leant against the side of the window. he looked out of it, with dull eyes which saw nothing, the while his mind worked upon the facts he had discovered. he had stood there plunged in reflection for perhaps ten minutes, when there came a sound of voices and footsteps on the stairs. he awoke from his absorption, seemed to prick his ears, then slipped a leg over the window-ledge, and disappeared from sight down the ladder. the door opened, and in came m. formery, the duke, and the inspector. m. formery looked round the room with eyes which seemed to expect to meet a familiar sight, then walked to the other drawing-room and looked round that. he turned to the policeman, who had stepped inside the drawing-room, and said sharply, "m. guerchard is not here." "i left him here," said the policeman. "he must have disappeared. he's a wonder." "of course," said m. formery. "he has gone down the ladder to examine that house they're building. he's just following in our tracks and doing all over again the work we've already done. he might have saved himself the trouble. we could have told him all he wants to know. but there! he very likely would not be satisfied till he had seen everything for himself." "he may see something which we have missed," said the duke. m. formery frowned, and said sharply "that's hardly likely. i don't think that your grace realizes to what a perfection constant practice brings one's power of observation. the inspector and i will cheerfully eat anything we've missed--won't we, inspector?" and he laughed heartily at his joke. "it might always prove a large mouthful," said the duke with an ironical smile. m. formery assumed his air of profound reflection, and walked a few steps up and down the room, frowning: "the more i think about it," he said, "the clearer it grows that we have disposed of the lupin theory. this is the work of far less expert rogues than lupin. what do you think, inspector?" "yes; i think you have disposed of that theory, sir," said the inspector with ready acquiescence. "all the same, i'd wager anything that we haven't disposed of it to the satisfaction of guerchard," said m. formery. "then he must be very hard to satisfy," said the duke. "oh, in any other matter he's open to reason," said m. formery; "but lupin is his fixed idea; it's an obsession--almost a mania." "but yet he never catches him," said the duke. "no; and he never will. his very obsession by lupin hampers him. it cramps his mind and hinders its working," said m. formery. he resumed his meditative pacing, stopped again, and said: "but considering everything, especially the absence of any traces of violence, combined with her entire disappearance, i have come to another conclusion. victoire is the key to the mystery. she is the accomplice. she never slept in her bed. she unmade it to put us off the scent. that, at any rate, is something gained, to have found the accomplice. we shall have this good news, at least, to tell m, gournay-martin on his arrival." "do you really think that she's the accomplice?" said the duke. "i'm dead sure of it," said m. formery. "we will go up to her room and make another thorough examination of it." guerchard's head popped up above the window-sill: "my dear m. formery," he said, "i beg that you will not take the trouble." m. formery's mouth opened: "what! you, guerchard?" he stammered. "myself," said guerchard; and he came to the top of the ladder and slipped lightly over the window-sill into the room. he shook hands with m. formery and nodded to the inspector. then he looked at the duke with an air of inquiry. "let me introduce you," said m. formery. "chief-inspector guerchard, head of the detective department--the duke of charmerace." the duke shook hands with guerchard, saying, "i'm delighted to make your acquaintance, m. guerchard. i've been expecting your coming with the greatest interest. indeed it was i who begged the officials at the prefecture of police to put this case in your hands. i insisted on it." "what were you doing on that ladder?" said m. formery, giving guerchard no time to reply to the duke. "i was listening," said guerchard simply--"listening. i like to hear people talk when i'm engaged on a case. it's a distraction--and it helps. i really must congratulate you, my dear m. formery, on the admirable manner in which you have conducted this inquiry." m. formery bowed, and regarded him with a touch of suspicion. "there are one or two minor points on which we do not agree, but on the whole your method has been admirable," said guerchard. "well, about victoire," said m. formery. "you're quite sure that an examination, a more thorough examination, of her room, is unnecessary?" "yes, i think so," said guerchard. "i have just looked at it myself." the door opened, and in came bonavent, one of the detectives who had come earlier from the prefecture. in his hand he carried a scrap of cloth. he saluted guerchard, and said to m. formery, "i have just found this scrap of cloth on the edge of the well at the bottom of the garden. the concierge's wife tells me that it has been torn from victoire's dress." "i feared it," said m. formery, taking the scrap of cloth from him. "i feared foul play. we must go to the well at once, send some one down it, or have it dragged." he was moving hastily to the door, when guerchard said, in his husky, gentle voice, "i don't think there is any need to look for victoire in the well." "but this scrap of cloth," said m. formery, holding it out to him. "yes, yes, that scrap of cloth," said guerchard. and, turning to the duke, he added, "do you know if there's a dog or cat in the house, your grace? i suppose that, as the fiance of mademoiselle gournay-martin, you are familiar with the house?" "what on earth--" said m. formery. "excuse me," interrupted guerchard. "but this is important--very important." "yes, there is a cat," said the duke. "i've seen a cat at the door of the concierge's rooms." "it must have been that cat which took this scrap of cloth to the edge of the well," said guerchard gravely. "this is ridiculous--preposterous!" cried m. formery, beginning to flush. "here we're dealing with a most serious crime--a murder--the murder of victoire--and you talk about cats!" "victoire has not been murdered," said guerchard; and his husky voice was gentler than ever, only just audible. "but we don't know that--we know nothing of the kind," said m. formery. "i do," said guerchard. "you?" said m. formery. "yes," said guerchard. "then how do you explain her disappearance?" "if she had disappeared i shouldn't explain it," said guerchard. "but since she has disappeared?" cried m. formery, in a tone of exasperation. "she hasn't," said guerchard. "you know nothing about it!" cried m. formery, losing his temper. "yes, i do," said guerchard, with the same gentleness. "come, do you mean to say that you know where she is?" cried m. formery. "certainly," said guerchard. "do you mean to tell us straight out that you've seen her?" cried m. formery. "oh, yes; i've seen her," said guerchard. "you've seen her--when?" cried m. formery. guerchard paused to consider. then he said gently: "it must have been between four and five minutes ago." "but hang it all, you haven't been out of this room!" cried m. formery. "no, i haven't," said guerchard. "and you've seen her?" cried m. formery. "yes," said guerchard, raising his voice a little. "well, why the devil don't you tell us where she is? tell us!" cried m. formery, purple with exasperation. "but you won't let me get a word out of my mouth," protested guerchard with aggravating gentleness. "well, speak!" cried m. formery; and he sank gasping on to a chair. "ah, well, she's here," said guerchard. "here! how did she get here?" said m. formery. "on a mattress," said guerchard. m. formery sat upright, almost beside himself, glaring furiously at guerchard: "what do you stand there pulling all our legs for?" he almost howled. "look here," said guerchard. he walked across the room to the fireplace, pushed the chairs which stood bound together on the hearth-rug to one side of the fireplace, and ran the heavy fire-screen on its casters to the other side of it, revealing to their gaze the wide, old-fashioned fireplace itself. the iron brazier which held the coals had been moved into the corner, and a mattress lay on the floor of the fireplace. on the mattress lay the figure of a big, middle-aged woman, half-dressed. there was a yellow gag in her mouth; and her hands and feet were bound together with blue cords. "she is sleeping soundly," said guerchard. he stooped and picked up a handkerchief, and smelt it. "there's the handkerchief they chloroformed her with. it still smells of chloroform." they stared at him and the sleeping woman. "lend a hand, inspector," he said. "and you too, bonavent. she looks a good weight." the three of them raised the mattress, and carried it and the sleeping woman to a broad couch, and laid them on it. they staggered under their burden, for truly victoire was a good weight. m. formery rose, with recovered breath, but with his face an even richer purple. his eyes were rolling in his head, as if they were not under proper control. he turned on the inspector and cried savagely, "you never examined the fireplace, inspector!" "no, sir," said the downcast inspector. "it was unpardonable--absolutely unpardonable!" cried m. formery. "how is one to work with subordinates like this?" "it was an oversight," said guerchard. m. formery turned to him and said, "you must admit that it was materially impossible for me to see her." "it was possible if you went down on all fours," said guerchard. "on all fours?" said m. formery. "yes; on all fours you could see her heels sticking out beyond the mattress," said guerchard simply. m. formery shrugged his shoulders: "that screen looked as if it had stood there since the beginning of the summer," he said. "the first thing, when you're dealing with lupin, is to distrust appearances," said guerchard. "lupin!" cried m. formery hotly. then he bit his lip and was silent. he walked to the side of the couch and looked down on the sleeping victoire, frowning: "this upsets everything," he said. "with these new conditions, i've got to begin all over again, to find a new explanation of the affair. for the moment--for the moment, i'm thrown completely off the track. and you, guerchard?" "oh, well," said guerchard, "i have an idea or two about the matter still." "do you really mean to say that it hasn't thrown you off the track too?" said m. formery, with a touch of incredulity in his tone. "well, no--not exactly," said guerchard. "i wasn't on that track, you see." "no, of course not--of course not. you were on the track of lupin," said m. formery; and his contemptuous smile was tinged with malice. the duke looked from one to the other of them with curious, searching eyes: "i find all this so interesting," he said. "we do not take much notice of these checks; they do not depress us for a moment," said m. formery, with some return of his old grandiloquence. "we pause hardly for an instant; then we begin to reconstruct--to reconstruct." "it's perfectly splendid of you," said the duke, and his limpid eyes rested on m. formery's self-satisfied face in a really affectionate gaze; they might almost be said to caress it. guerchard looked out of the window at a man who was carrying a hod-full of bricks up one of the ladders set against the scaffolding of the building house. something in this honest workman's simple task seemed to amuse him, for he smiled. only the inspector, thinking of the unexamined fireplace, looked really depressed. "we shan't get anything out of this woman till she wakes," said m. formery, "when she does, i shall question her closely and fully. in the meantime, she may as well be carried up to her bedroom to sleep off the effects of the chloroform." guerchard turned quickly: "not her own bedroom, i think," he said gently. "certainly not--of course, not her own bedroom," said m. formery quickly. "and i think an officer at the door of whatever bedroom she does sleep in," said guerchard. "undoubtedly--most necessary," said m. formery gravely. "see to it, inspector. you can take her away." the inspector called in a couple of policemen, and with their aid he and bonavent raised the sleeping woman, a man at each corner of the mattress, and bore her from the room. "and now to reconstruct," said m. formery; and he folded his arms and plunged into profound reflection. the duke and guerchard watched him in silence. chapter xi the family arrives in carrying out victoire, the inspector had left the door of the drawing-room open. after he had watched m. formery reflect for two minutes, guerchard faded--to use an expressive americanism--through it. the duke felt in the breast-pocket of his coat, murmured softly, "my cigarettes," and followed him. he caught up guerchard on the stairs and said, "i will come with you, if i may, m. guerchard. i find all these investigations extraordinarily interesting. i have been observing m. formery's methods--i should like to watch yours, for a change." "by all means," said guerchard. "and there are several things i want to hear about from your grace. of course it might be an advantage to discuss them together with m. formery, but--" and he hesitated. "it would be a pity to disturb m. formery in the middle of the process of reconstruction," said the duke; and a faint, ironical smile played round the corners of his sensitive lips. guerchard looked at him quickly: "perhaps it would," he said. they went through the house, out of the back door, and into the garden. guerchard moved about twenty yards from the house, then he stopped and questioned the duke at great length. he questioned him first about the charolais, their appearance, their actions, especially about bernard's attempt to steal the pendant, and the theft of the motor-cars. "i have been wondering whether m. charolais might not have been arsene lupin himself," said the duke. "it's quite possible," said guerchard. "there seem to be no limits whatever to lupin's powers of disguising himself. my colleague, ganimard, has come across him at least three times that he knows of, as a different person. and no single time could he be sure that it was the same man. of course, he had a feeling that he was in contact with some one he had met before, but that was all. he had no certainty. he may have met him half a dozen times besides without knowing him. and the photographs of him--they're all different. ganimard declares that lupin is so extraordinarily successful in his disguises because he is a great actor. he actually becomes for the time being the person he pretends to be. he thinks and feels absolutely like that person. do you follow me?" "oh, yes; but he must be rather fluid, this lupin," said the duke; and then he added thoughtfully, "it must be awfully risky to come so often into actual contact with men like ganimard and you." "lupin has never let any consideration of danger prevent him doing anything that caught his fancy. he has odd fancies, too. he's a humourist of the most varied kind--grim, ironic, farcical, as the mood takes him. he must be awfully trying to live with," said guerchard. "do you think humourists are trying to live with?" said the duke, in a meditative tone. "i think they brighten life a good deal; but of course there are people who do not like them--the middle-classes." "yes, yes, they're all very well in their place; but to live with they must be trying," said guerchard quickly. he went on to question the duke closely and at length about the household of m. gournay-martin, saying that arsene lupin worked with the largest gang a burglar had ever captained, and it was any odds that he had introduced one, if not more, of that gang into it. moreover, in the case of a big affair like this, lupin himself often played two or three parts under as many disguises. "if he was charolais, i don't see how he could be one of m. gournay-martin's household, too," said the duke in some perplexity. "i don't say that he was charolais," said guerchard. "it is quite a moot point. on the whole, i'm inclined to think that he was not. the theft of the motor-cars was a job for a subordinate. he would hardly bother himself with it." the duke told him all that he could remember about the millionaire's servants--and, under the clever questioning of the detective, he was surprised to find how much he did remember--all kinds of odd details about them which he had scarcely been aware of observing. the two of them, as they talked, afforded an interesting contrast: the duke, with his air of distinction and race, his ironic expression, his mobile features, his clear enunciation and well-modulated voice, his easy carriage of an accomplished fencer--a fencer with muscles of steel--seemed to be a man of another kind from the slow-moving detective, with his husky voice, his common, slurring enunciation, his clumsily moulded features, so ill adapted to the expression of emotion and intelligence. it was a contrast almost between the hawk and the mole, the warrior and the workman. only in their eyes were they alike; both of them had the keen, alert eyes of observers. perhaps the most curious thing of all was that, in spite of the fact that he had for so much of his life been an idler, trifling away his time in the pursuit of pleasure, except when he had made his expedition to the south pole, the duke gave one the impression of being a cleverer man, of a far finer brain, than the detective who had spent so much of his life sharpening his wits on the more intricate problems of crime. when guerchard came to the end of his questions, the duke said: "you have given me a very strong feeling that it is going to be a deuce of a job to catch lupin. i don't wonder that, so far, you have none of you laid hands on him." "but we have!" cried guerchard quickly. "twice ganimard has caught him. once he had him in prison, and actually brought him to trial. lupin became another man, and was let go from the very dock." "really? it sounds absolutely amazing," said the duke. "and then, in the affair of the blue diamond, ganimard caught him again. he has his weakness, lupin--it's women. it's a very common weakness in these masters of crime. ganimard and holmlock shears, in that affair, got the better of him by using his love for a woman--'the fair-haired lady,' she was called--to nab him." "a shabby trick," said the duke. "shabby?" said guerchard in a tone of utter wonder. "how can anything be shabby in the case of a rogue like this?" "perhaps not--perhaps not--still--" said the duke, and stopped. the expression of wonder faded from guerchard's face, and he went on, "well, holmlock shears recovered the blue diamond, and ganimard nabbed lupin. he held him for ten minutes, then lupin escaped." "what became of the fair-haired lady?" said the duke. "i don't know. i have heard that she is dead," said guerchard. "now i come to think of it, i heard quite definitely that she died." "it must be awful for a woman to love a man like lupin--the constant, wearing anxiety," said the duke thoughtfully. "i dare say. yet he can have his pick of sweethearts. i've been offered thousands of francs by women--women of your grace's world and wealthy viennese--to make them acquainted with lupin," said guerchard. "you don't surprise me," said the duke with his ironic smile. "women never do stop to think--where one of their heroes is concerned. and did you do it?" "how could i? if i only could! if i could find lupin entangled with a woman like ganimard did--well--" said guerchard between his teeth. "he'd never get out of your clutches," said the duke with conviction. "i think not--i think not," said guerchard grimly. "but come, i may as well get on." he walked across the turf to the foot of the ladder and looked at the footprints round it. he made but a cursory examination of them, and took his way down the garden-path, out of the door in the wall into the space about the house that was building. he was not long examining it, and he went right through it out into the street on which the house would face when it was finished. he looked up and down it, and began to retrace his footsteps. "i've seen all i want to see out here. we may as well go back to the house," he said to the duke. "i hope you've seen what you expected to see," said the duke. "exactly what i expected to see--exactly," said guerchard. "that's as it should be," said the duke. they went back to the house and found m. formery in the drawing-room, still engaged in the process of reconstruction. "the thing to do now is to hunt the neighbourhood for witnesses of the departure of the burglars with their booty. loaded as they were with such bulky objects, they must have had a big conveyance. somebody must have noticed it. they must have wondered why it was standing in front of a half-built house. somebody may have actually seen the burglars loading it, though it was so early in the morning. bonavent had better inquire at every house in the street on which that half-built house faces. did you happen to notice the name of it?" said m. formery. "it's sureau street," said guerchard. "but dieusy has been hunting the neighbourhood for some one who saw the burglars loading their conveyance, or saw it waiting to be loaded, for the last hour." "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. germaine and sonia came into the room. the duke stepped forward to greet them. "do stop crying, papa. you're as hoarse as a crow as it is," said germaine impatiently. then, turning on the duke with a frown, she said: "i think that joke of yours about the train was simply disgraceful, jacques. a joke's a joke, but to send us out to the station on a night like last night, through all that heavy rain, when you knew all the time that there was no quarter-to-nine train--it was simply disgraceful." "i really don't know what you're talking about," said the duke quietly. "wasn't there a quarter-to-nine train?" "of course there wasn't," said germaine. "the time-table was years old. i think it was the most senseless attempt at a joke i ever heard of." "it doesn't seem to me to be a joke at all," said the duke quietly. "at any rate, it isn't the kind of a joke i make--it would be detestable. i never thought to look at the date of the time-table. i keep a box of cigarettes in that drawer, and i have noticed the time-table there. of course, it may have been lying there for years. it was stupid of me not to look at the date." "i said it was a mistake. i was sure that his grace would not do anything so unkind as that," said sonia. the duke smiled at her. "well, all i can say is, it was very stupid of you not to look at the date," said germaine. m. gournay-martin rose to his feet and wailed, in the most heartrending fashion: "my pictures! my wonderful pictures! such investments! and my cabinets! my renaissance cabinets! they can't be replaced! they were unique! they were worth a hundred and fifty thousand francs." m. formery stepped forward with an air and said, "i am distressed, m. gournay-martin--truly distressed by your loss. i am m. formery, examining magistrate." "it is a tragedy, m. formery--a tragedy!" groaned the millionaire. "do not let it upset you too much. we shall find your masterpieces--we shall find them. only give us time," said m. formery in a tone of warm encouragement. the face of the millionaire brightened a little. "and, after all, you have the consolation, that the burglars did not get hold of the gem of your collection. they have not stolen the coronet of the princesse de lamballe," said m. formery. "no," said the duke. "they have not touched this safe. it is unopened." "what has that got to do with it?" growled the millionaire quickly. "that safe is empty." "empty ... but your coronet?" cried the duke. "good heavens! then they have stolen it," cried the millionaire hoarsely, in a panic-stricken voice. "but they can't have--this safe hasn't been touched," said the duke. "but the coronet never was in that safe. it was--have they entered my bedroom?" said the millionaire. "no," said m. formery. "they don't seem to have gone through any of the rooms except these two," said the duke. "ah, then my mind is at rest about that. the safe in my bedroom has only two keys. here is one." he took a key from his waistcoat pocket and held it out to them. "and the other is in this safe." the face of m. formery was lighted up with a splendid satisfaction. he might have rescued the coronet with his own hands. he cried triumphantly, "there, you see!" "see? see?" cried the millionaire in a sudden bellow. "i see that they have robbed me--plundered me. oh, my pictures! my wonderful pictures! such investments!" chapter xii the theft of the pendant they stood round the millionaire observing his anguish, with eyes in which shone various degrees of sympathy. as if no longer able to bear the sight of such woe, sonia slipped out of the room. the millionaire lamented his loss and abused the thieves by turns, but always at the top of his magnificent voice. suddenly a fresh idea struck him. he clapped his hand to his brow and cried: "that eight hundred pounds! charolais will never buy the mercrac now! he was not a bona fide purchaser!" the duke's lips parted slightly and his eyes opened a trifle wider than their wont. he turned sharply on his heel, and almost sprang into the other drawing-room. there he laughed at his ease. m. formery kept saying to the millionaire: "be calm, m. gournay-martin. be calm! we shall recover your masterpieces. i pledge you my word. all we need is time. have patience. be calm!" his soothing remonstrances at last had their effect. the millionaire grew calm: "guerchard?" he said. "where is guerchard?" m. formery presented guerchard to him. "are you on their track? have you a clue?" said the millionaire. "i think," said m. formery in an impressive tone, "that we may now proceed with the inquiry in the ordinary way." he was a little piqued by the millionaire's so readily turning from him to the detective. he went to a writing-table, set some sheets of paper before him, and prepared to make notes on the answers to his questions. the duke came back into the drawing-room; the inspector was summoned. m. gournay-martin sat down on a couch with his hands on his knees and gazed gloomily at m. formery. germaine, who was sitting on a couch near the door, waiting with an air of resignation for her father to cease his lamentations, rose and moved to a chair nearer the writing-table. guerchard kept moving restlessly about the room, but noiselessly. at last he came to a standstill, leaning against the wall behind m. formery. m. formery went over all the matters about which he had already questioned the duke. he questioned the millionaire and his daughter about the charolais, the theft of the motor-cars, and the attempted theft of the pendant. he questioned them at less length about the composition of their household--the servants and their characters. he elicited no new fact. he paused, and then he said, carelessly as a mere matter of routine: "i should like to know, m. gournay-martin, if there has ever been any other robbery committed at your house?" "three years ago this scoundrel lupin--" the millionaire began violently. "yes, yes; i know all about that earlier burglary. but have you been robbed since?" said m. formery, interrupting him. "no, i haven't been robbed since that burglary; but my daughter has," said the millionaire. "your daughter?" said m. formery. "yes; i have been robbed two or three times during the last three years," said germaine. "dear me! but you ought to have told us about this before. this is extremely interesting, and most important," said m. formery, rubbing his hands, "i suppose you suspect victoire?" "no, i don't," said germaine quickly. "it couldn't have been victoire. the last two thefts were committed at the chateau when victoire was in paris in charge of this house." m. formery seemed taken aback, and he hesitated, consulting his notes. then he said: "good--good. that confirms my hypothesis." "what hypothesis?" said m. gournay-martin quickly. "never mind--never mind," said m. formery solemnly. and, turning to germaine, he went on: "you say, mademoiselle, that these thefts began about three years ago?" "yes, i think they began about three years ago in august." "let me see. it was in the month of august, three years ago, that your father, after receiving a threatening letter like the one he received last night, was the victim of a burglary?" said m. formery. "yes, it was--the scoundrels!" cried the millionaire fiercely. "well, it would be interesting to know which of your servants entered your service three years ago," said m. formery. "victoire has only been with us a year at the outside," said germaine. "only a year?" said m. formery quickly, with an air of some vexation. he paused and added, "exactly--exactly. and what was the nature of the last theft of which you were the victim?" "it was a pearl brooch--not unlike the pendant which his grace gave me yesterday," said germaine. "would you mind showing me that pendant? i should like to see it," said m. formery. "certainly--show it to him, jacques. you have it, haven't you?" said germaine, turning to the duke. "me? no. how should i have it?" said the duke in some surprise. "haven't you got it?" "i've only got the case--the empty case," said germaine, with a startled air. "the empty case?" said the duke, with growing surprise. "yes," said germaine. "it was after we came back from our useless journey to the station. i remembered suddenly that i had started without the pendant. i went to the bureau and picked up the case; and it was empty." "one moment--one moment," said m. formery. "didn't you catch this young bernard charolais with this case in his hands, your grace?" "yes," said the duke. "i caught him with it in his pocket." "then you may depend upon it that the young rascal had slipped the pendant out of its case and you only recovered the empty case from him," said m. formery triumphantly. "no," said the duke. "that is not so. nor could the thief have been the burglar who broke open the bureau to get at the keys. for long after both of them were out of the house i took a cigarette from the box which stood on the bureau beside the case which held the pendant. and it occurred to me that the young rascal might have played that very trick on me. i opened the case and the pendant was there." "it has been stolen!" cried the millionaire; "of course it has been stolen." "oh, no, no," said the duke. "it hasn't been stolen. irma, or perhaps mademoiselle kritchnoff, has brought it to paris for germaine." "sonia certainly hasn't brought it. it was she who suggested to me that you had seen it lying on the bureau, and slipped it into your pocket," said germaine quickly. "then it must be irma," said the duke. "we had better send for her and make sure," said m. formery. "inspector, go and fetch her." the inspector went out of the room and the duke questioned germaine and her father about the journey, whether it had been very uncomfortable, and if they were very tired by it. he learned that they had been so fortunate as to find sleeping compartments on the train, so that they had suffered as little as might be from their night of travel. m. formery looked through his notes; guerchard seemed to be going to sleep where he stood against the wall. the inspector came back with irma. she wore the frightened, half-defensive, half-defiant air which people of her class wear when confronted by the authorities. her big, cow's eyes rolled uneasily. "oh, irma--" germaine began. m. formery cut her short, somewhat brusquely. "excuse me, excuse me. i am conducting this inquiry," he said. and then, turning to irma, he added, "now, don't be frightened, mademoiselle irma; i want to ask you a question or two. have you brought up to paris the pendant which the duke of charmerace gave your mistress yesterday?" "me, sir? no, sir. i haven't brought the pendant," said irma. "you're quite sure?" said m. formery. "yes, sir; i haven't seen the pendant. didn't mademoiselle germaine leave it on the bureau?" said irma. "how do you know that?" said m. formery. "i heard mademoiselle germaine say that it had been on the bureau. i thought that perhaps mademoiselle kritchnoff had put it in her bag." "why should mademoiselle kritchnoff put it in her bag?" said the duke quickly. "to bring it up to paris for mademoiselle germaine," said irma. "but what made you think that?" said guerchard, suddenly intervening. "oh, i thought mademoiselle kritchnoff might have put it in her bag because i saw her standing by the bureau," said irma. "ah, and the pendant was on the bureau?" said m. formery. "yes, sir," said irma. there was a silence. suddenly the atmosphere of the room seemed to have become charged with an oppression--a vague menace. guerchard seemed to have become wide awake again. germaine and the duke looked at one another uneasily. "have you been long in the service of mademoiselle gournay-martin?" said m. formery. "six months, sir," said irma. "very good, thank you. you can go," said m. formery. "i may want you again presently." irma went quickly out of the room with an air of relief. m. formery scribbled a few words on the paper before him and then said: "well, i will proceed to question mademoiselle kritchnoff." "mademoiselle kritchnoff is quite above suspicion," said the duke quickly. "oh, yes, quite," said germaine. "how long has mademoiselle kritchnoff been in your service, mademoiselle?" said guerchard. "let me think," said germaine, knitting her brow. "can't you remember?" said m. formery. "just about three years," said germaine. "that's exactly the time at which the thefts began," said m. formery. "yes," said germaine, reluctantly. "ask mademoiselle kritchnoff to come here, inspector," said m. formery. "yes, sir," said the inspector. "i'll go and fetch her--i know where to find her," said the duke quickly, moving toward the door. "please, please, your grace," protested guerchard. "the inspector will fetch her." the duke turned sharply and looked at him: "i beg your pardon, but do you--" he said. "please don't be annoyed, your grace," guerchard interrupted. "but m. formery agrees with me--it would be quite irregular." "yes, yes, your grace," said m. formery. "we have our method of procedure. it is best to adhere to it--much the best. it is the result of years of experience of the best way of getting the truth." "just as you please," said the duke, shrugging his shoulders. the inspector came into the room: "mademoiselle kritchnoff will be here in a moment. she was just going out." "she was going out?" said m. formery. "you don't mean to say you're letting members of the household go out?" "no, sir," said the inspector. "i mean that she was just asking if she might go out." m. formery beckoned the inspector to him, and said to him in a voice too low for the others to hear: "just slip up to her room and search her trunks." "there is no need to take the trouble," said guerchard, in the same low voice, but with sufficient emphasis. "no, of course not. there's no need to take the trouble," m. formery repeated after him. the door opened, and sonia came in. she was still wearing her travelling costume, and she carried her cloak on her arm. she stood looking round her with an air of some surprise; perhaps there was even a touch of fear in it. the long journey of the night before did not seem to have dimmed at all her delicate beauty. the duke's eyes rested on her in an inquiring, wondering, even searching gaze. she looked at him, and her own eyes fell. "will you come a little nearer, mademoiselle?" said m. formery. "there are one or two questions--" "will you allow me?" said guerchard, in a tone of such deference that it left m. formery no grounds for refusal. m. formery flushed and ground his teeth. "have it your own way!" he said ungraciously. "mademoiselle kritchnoff," said guerchard, in a tone of the most good-natured courtesy, "there is a matter on which m. formery needs some information. the pendant which the duke of charmerace gave mademoiselle gournay-martin yesterday has been stolen." "stolen? are you sure?" said sonia in a tone of mingled surprise and anxiety. "quite sure," said guerchard. "we have exactly determined the conditions under which the theft was committed. but we have every reason to believe that the culprit, to avoid detection, has hidden the pendant in the travelling-bag or trunk of somebody else in order to--" "my bag is upstairs in my bedroom, sir," sonia interrupted quickly. "here is the key of it." in order to free her hands to take the key from her wrist-bag, she set her cloak on the back of a couch. it slipped off it, and fell to the ground at the feet of the duke, who had not returned to his place beside germaine. while she was groping in her bag for the key, and all eyes were on her, the duke, who had watched her with a curious intentness ever since her entry into the room, stooped quietly down and picked up the cloak. his hand slipped into the pocket of it; his fingers touched a hard object wrapped in tissue-paper. they closed round it, drew it from the pocket, and, sheltered by the cloak, transferred it to his own. he set the cloak on the back of the sofa, and very softly moved back to his place by germaine's side. no one in the room observed the movement, not even guerchard: he was watching sonia too intently. sonia found the key, and held it out to guerchard. he shook his head and said: "there is no reason to search your bag--none whatever. have you any other luggage?" she shrank back a little from his piercing eyes, almost as if their gaze scared her. "yes, my trunk ... it's upstairs in my bedroom too ... open." she spoke in a faltering voice, and her troubled eyes could not meet those of the detective. "you were going out, i think," said guerchard gently. "i was asking leave to go out. there is some shopping that must be done," said sonia. "you do not see any reason why mademoiselle kritchnoff should not go out, m. formery, do you?" said guerchard. "oh, no, none whatever; of course she can go out," said m. formery. sonia turned round to go. "one moment," said guerchard, coming forward. "you've only got that wrist-bag with you?" "yes," said sonia. "i have my money and my handkerchief in it." and she held it out to him. guerchard's keen eyes darted into it; and he muttered, "no point in looking in that. i don't suppose any one would have had the audacity--" and he stopped. sonia made a couple of steps toward the door, turned, hesitated, came back to the couch, and picked up her cloak. there was a sudden gleam in guerchard's eyes--a gleam of understanding, expectation, and triumph. he stepped forward, and holding out his hands, said: "allow me." "no, thank you," said sonia. "i'm not going to put it on." "no ... but it's possible ... some one may have ... have you felt in the pockets of it? that one, now? it seems as if that one--" he pointed to the pocket which had held the packet. sonia started back with an air of utter dismay; her eyes glanced wildly round the room as if seeking an avenue of escape; her fingers closed convulsively on the pocket. "but this is abominable!" she cried. "you look as if--" "i beg you, mademoiselle," interrupted guerchard. "we are sometimes obliged--" "really, mademoiselle sonia," broke in the duke, in a singularly clear and piercing tone, "i cannot see why you should object to this mere formality." "oh, but--but--" gasped sonia, raising her terror-stricken eyes to his. the duke seemed to hold them with his own; and he said in the same clear, piercing voice, "there isn't the slightest reason for you to be frightened." sonia let go of the cloak, and guerchard, his face all alight with triumph, plunged his hand into the pocket. he drew it out empty, and stared at it, while his face fell to an utter, amazed blankness. "nothing? nothing?" he muttered under his breath. and he stared at his empty hand as if he could not believe his eyes. by a violent effort he forced an apologetic smile on his face, and said to sonia: "a thousand apologies, mademoiselle." he handed the cloak to her. sonia took it and turned to go. she took a step towards the door, and tottered. the duke sprang forward and caught her as she was falling. "do you feel faint?" he said in an anxious voice. "thank you, you just saved me in time," muttered sonia. "i'm really very sorry," said guerchard. "thank you, it was nothing. i'm all right now," said sonia, releasing herself from the duke's supporting arm. she drew herself up, and walked quietly out of the room. guerchard went back to m. formery at the writing-table. "you made a clumsy mistake there, guerchard," said m. formery, with a touch of gratified malice in his tone. guerchard took no notice of it: "i want you to give orders that nobody leaves the house without my permission," he said, in a low voice. "no one except mademoiselle kritchnoff, i suppose," said m. formery, smiling. "she less than any one," said guerchard quickly. "i don't understand what you're driving at a bit," said m. formery. "unless you suppose that mademoiselle kritchnoff is lupin in disguise." guerchard laughed softly: "you will have your joke, m. formery," he said. "well, well, i'll give the order," said m. formery, somewhat mollified by the tribute to his humour. he called the inspector to him and whispered a word in his ear. then he rose and said: "i think, gentlemen, we ought to go and examine the bedrooms, and, above all, make sure that the safe in m. gournay-martin's bedroom has not been tampered with." "i was wondering how much longer we were going to waste time here talking about that stupid pendant," grumbled the millionaire; and he rose and led the way. "there may also be some jewel-cases in the bedrooms," said m. formery. "there are all the wedding presents. they were in charge of victoire." said germaine quickly. "it would be dreadful if they had been stolen. some of them are from the first families in france." "they would replace them ... those paper-knives," said the duke, smiling. germaine and her father led the way. m. formery, guerchard, and the inspector followed them. at the door the duke paused, stopped, closed it on them softly. he came back to the window, put his hand in his pocket, and drew out the packet wrapped in tissue-paper. he unfolded the paper with slow, reluctant fingers, and revealed the pendant. chapter xiii lupin wires the duke stared at the pendant, his eyes full of wonder and pity. "poor little girl!" he said softly under his breath. he put the pendant carefully away in his waistcoat-pocket and stood staring thoughtfully out of the window. the door opened softly, and sonia came quickly into the room, closed the door, and leaned back against it. her face was a dead white; her skin had lost its lustre of fine porcelain, and she stared at him with eyes dim with anguish. in a hoarse, broken voice, she muttered: "forgive me! oh, forgive me!" "a thief--you?" said the duke, in a tone of pitying wonder. sonia groaned. "you mustn't stop here," said the duke in an uneasy tone, and he looked uneasily at the door. "ah, you don't want to speak to me any more," said sonia, in a heartrending tone, wringing her hands. "guerchard is suspicious of everything. it is dangerous for us to be talking here. i assure you that it's dangerous," said the duke. "what an opinion must you have of me! it's dreadful--cruel!" wailed sonia. "for goodness' sake don't speak so loud," said the duke, with even greater uneasiness. "you must think of guerchard." "what do i care?" cried sonia. "i've lost the liking of the only creature whose liking i wanted. what does anything else matter? what does it matter?" "we'll talk somewhere else presently. that'll be far safer," said the duke. "no, no, we must talk now!" cried sonia. "you must know.... i must tell ... oh, dear! ... oh, dear! ... i don't know how to tell you.... and then it is so unfair.... she ... germaine ... she has everything," she panted. "yesterday, before me, you gave her that pendant, ... she smiled ... she was proud of it.... i saw her pleasure.... then i took it--i took it--i took it! and if i could, i'd take her fortune, too.... i hate her! oh, how i hate her!" "what!" said the duke. "yes, i do ... i hate her!" said sonia; and her eyes, no longer gentle, glowed with the sombre resentment, the dull rage of the weak who turn on fortune. her gentle voice was harsh with rebellious wrath. "you hate her?" said the duke quickly. "i should never have told you that.... but now i dare.... i dare speak out.... it's you! ... it's you--" the avowal died on her lips. a burning flush crimsoned her cheeks and faded as quickly as it came: "i hate her!" she muttered. "sonia--" said the duke gently. "oh! i know that it's no excuse.... i know that you're thinking 'this is a very pretty story, but it's not her first theft'; ... and it's true--it's the tenth, ... perhaps it's the twentieth.... it's true--i am a thief." she paused, and the glow deepened in her eyes. "but there's one thing you must believe--you shall believe; since you came, since i've known you, since the first day you set eyes on me, i have stolen no more ... till yesterday when you gave her the pendant before me. i could not bear it ... i could not." she paused and looked at him with eyes that demanded an assent. "i believe you," said the duke gravely. she heaved a deep sigh of relief, and went on more quietly--some of its golden tone had returned to her voice: "and then, if you knew how it began ... the horror of it," she said. "poor child!" said the duke softly. "yes, you pity me, but you despise me--you despise me beyond words. you shall not! i will not have it!" she cried fiercely. "believe me, no," said the duke, in a soothing tone. "listen," said sonia. "have you ever been alone--alone in the world? ... have you ever been hungry? think of it ... in this big city where i was starving in sight of bread ... bread in the shops .... one only had to stretch out one's hand to touch it ... a penny loaf. oh, it's commonplace!" she broke off: "quite commonplace!" "go on: tell me," said the duke curtly. "there was one way i could make money and i would not do it: no, i would not," she went on. "but that day i was dying ... understand, i was dying ....i went to the rooms of a man i knew a little. it was my last resource. at first i was glad ... he gave me food and wine ... and then, he talked to me ... he offered me money." "what!" cried the duke; and a sudden flame of anger flared up in his eyes. "no; i could not ... and then i robbed him.... i preferred to ... it was more decent. ah, i had excuses then. i began to steal to remain an honest woman ... and i've gone on stealing to keep up appearances. you see ... i joke about it." and she laughed, the faint, dreadful, mocking laugh of a damned soul. "oh, dear! oh, dear!" she cried; and, burying her face in her hands, she burst into a storm of weeping. "poor child," said the duke softly. and he stared gloomily on the ground, overcome by this revelation of the tortures of the feeble in the underworld beneath the paris he knew. "oh, you do pity me ... you do understand ... and feel," said sonia, between her sobs. the duke raised his head and gazed at her with eyes full of an infinite sympathy and compassion. "poor little sonia," he said gently. "i understand." she gazed at him with incredulous eyes, in which joy and despair mingled, struggling. he came slowly towards her, and stopped short. his quick ear had caught the sound of a footstep outside the door. "quick! dry your eyes! you must look composed. the other room!" he cried, in an imperative tone. he caught her hand and drew her swiftly into the further drawing-room. with the quickness which came of long practice in hiding her feelings sonia composed her face to something of its usual gentle calm. there was even a faint tinge of colour in her cheeks; they had lost their dead whiteness. a faint light shone in her eyes; the anguish had cleared from them. they rested on the duke with a look of ineffable gratitude. she sat down on a couch. the duke went to the window and lighted a cigarette. they heard the door of the outer drawing-room open, and there was a pause. quick footsteps crossed the room, and guerchard stood in the doorway. he looked from one to the other with keen and eager eyes. sonia sat staring rather listlessly at the carpet. the duke turned, and smiled at him. "well, m. guerchard," he said. "i hope the burglars have not stolen the coronet." "the coronet is safe, your grace," said guerchard. "and the paper-knives?" said the duke. "the paper-knives?" said guerchard with an inquiring air. "the wedding presents," said the duke. "yes, your grace, the wedding presents are safe," said guerchard. "i breathe again," said the duke languidly. guerchard turned to sonia and said, "i was looking for you, mademoiselle, to tell you that m. formery has changed his mind. it is impossible for you to go out. no one will be allowed to go out." "yes?" said sonia, in an indifferent tone. "we should be very much obliged if you would go to your room," said guerchard. "your meals will be sent up to you." "what?" said sonia, rising quickly; and she looked from guerchard to the duke. the duke gave her the faintest nod. "very well, i will go to my room," she said coldly. they accompanied her to the door of the outer drawing-room. guerchard opened it for her and closed it after her. "really, m. guerchard," said the duke, shrugging his shoulders. "this last measure--a child like that!" "really, i'm very sorry, your grace; but it's my trade, or, if you prefer it, my duty. as long as things are taking place here which i am still the only one to perceive, and which are not yet clear to me, i must neglect no precaution." "of course, you know best," said the duke. "but still, a child like that--you're frightening her out of her life." guerchard shrugged his shoulders, and went quietly out of the room. the duke sat down in an easy chair, frowning and thoughtful. suddenly there struck on his ears the sound of a loud roaring and heavy bumping on the stairs, the door flew open, and m. gournay-martin stood on the threshold waving a telegram in his hand. m. formery and the inspector came hurrying down the stairs behind him, and watched his emotion with astonished and wondering eyes. "here!" bellowed the millionaire. "a telegram! a telegram from the scoundrel himself! listen! just listen:" "a thousand apologies for not having been able to keep my promise about the coronet. had an appointment at the acacias. please have coronet ready in your room to-night. will come without fail to fetch it, between a quarter to twelve and twelve o'clock." "yours affectionately," "arsene lupin." "there! what do you think of that?" "if you ask me, i think he's humbug," said the duke with conviction. "humbug! you always think it's humbug! you thought the letter was humbug; and look what has happened!" cried the millionaire. "give me the telegram, please," said m. formery quickly. the millionaire gave it to him; and he read it through. "find out who brought it, inspector," he said. the inspector hurried to the top of the staircase and called to the policeman in charge of the front door. he came back to the drawing-room and said: "it was brought by an ordinary post-office messenger, sir." "where is he?" said m. formery. "why did you let him go?" "shall i send for him, sir?" said the inspector. "no, no, it doesn't matter," said m. formery; and, turning to m. gournay-martin and the duke, he said, "now we're really going to have trouble with guerchard. he is going to muddle up everything. this telegram will be the last straw. nothing will persuade him now that this is not lupin's work. and just consider, gentlemen: if lupin had come last night, and if he had really set his heart on the coronet, he would have stolen it then, or at any rate he would have tried to open the safe in m. gournay-martin's bedroom, in which the coronet actually is, or this safe here"--he went to the safe and rapped on the door of it--"in which is the second key." "that's quite clear," said the inspector. "if, then, he did not make the attempt last night, when he had a clear field--when the house was empty--he certainly will not make the attempt now when we are warned, when the police are on the spot, and the house is surrounded. the idea is childish, gentlemen"--he leaned against the door of the safe--"absolutely childish, but guerchard is mad on this point; and i foresee that his madness is going to hamper us in the most idiotic way." he suddenly pitched forward into the middle of the room, as the door of the safe opened with a jerk, and guerchard shot out of it. "what the devil!" cried m. formery, gaping at him. "you'd be surprised how clearly you hear everything in these safes--you'd think they were too thick," said guerchard, in his gentle, husky voice. "how on earth did you get into it?" cried m. formery. "getting in was easy enough. it's the getting out that was awkward. these jokers had fixed up some kind of a spring so that i nearly shot out with the door," said guerchard, rubbing his elbow. "but how did you get into it? how the deuce did you get into it?" cried m. formery. "through the little cabinet into which that door behind the safe opens. there's no longer any back to the safe; they've cut it clean out of it--a very neat piece of work. safes like this should always be fixed against a wall, not stuck in front of a door. the backs of them are always the weak point." "and the key? the key of the safe upstairs, in my bedroom, where the coronet is--is the key there?" cried m. gournay-martin. guerchard went back into the empty safe, and groped about in it. he came out smiling. "well, have you found the key?" cried the millionaire. "no. i haven't; but i've found something better," said guerchard. "what is it?" said m. formery sharply. "i'll give you a hundred guesses," said guerchard with a tantalizing smile. "what is it?" said m. formery. "a little present for you," said guerchard. "what do you mean?" cried m. formery angrily. guerchard held up a card between his thumb and forefinger and said quietly: "the card of arsene lupin." chapter xiv guerchard picks up the true scent the millionaire gazed at the card with stupefied eyes, the inspector gazed at it with extreme intelligence, the duke gazed at it with interest, and m. formery gazed at it with extreme disgust. "it's part of the same ruse--it was put there to throw us off the scent. it proves nothing--absolutely nothing," he said scornfully. "no; it proves nothing at all," said guerchard quietly. "the telegram is the important thing--this telegram," said m. gournay-martin feverishly. "it concerns the coronet. is it going to be disregarded?" "oh, no, no," said m. formery in a soothing tone. "it will be taken into account. it will certainly be taken into account." m. gournay-martin's butler appeared in the doorway of the drawing-room: "if you please, sir, lunch is served," he said. at the tidings some of his weight of woe appeared to be lifted from the head of the millionaire. "good!" he said, "good! gentlemen, you will lunch with me, i hope." "thank you," said m. formery. "there is nothing else for us to do, at any rate at present, and in the house. i am not quite satisfied about mademoiselle kritchnoff--at least guerchard is not. i propose to question her again--about those earlier thefts." "i'm sure there's nothing in that," said the duke quickly. "no, no; i don't think there is," said m. formery. "but still one never knows from what quarter light may come in an affair like this. accident often gives us our best clues." "it seems rather a shame to frighten her--she's such a child," said the duke. "oh, i shall be gentle, your grace--as gentle as possible, that is. but i look to get more from the examination of victoire. she was on the scene. she has actually seen the rogues at work; but till she recovers there is nothing more to be done, except to wait the discoveries of the detectives who are working outside; and they will report here. so in the meantime we shall be charmed to lunch with you, m. gournay-martin." they went downstairs to the dining-room and found an elaborate and luxurious lunch, worthy of the hospitality of a millionaire, awaiting them. the skill of the cook seemed to have been quite unaffected by the losses of his master. m. formery, an ardent lover of good things, enjoyed himself immensely. he was in the highest spirits. germaine, a little upset by the night-journey, was rather querulous. her father was plunged in a gloom which lifted for but a brief space at the appearance of a fresh delicacy. guerchard ate and drank seriously, answering the questions of the duke in a somewhat absent-minded fashion. the duke himself seemed to have lost his usual flow of good spirits, and at times his brow was knitted in an anxious frown. his questions to guerchard showed a far less keen interest in the affair. to him the lunch seemed very long and very tedious; but at last it came to an end. m. gournay-martin seemed to have been much cheered by the wine he had drunk. he was almost hopeful. m. formery, who had not by any means trifled with the champagne, was raised to the very height of sanguine certainty. their coffee and liqueurs were served in the smoking-room. guerchard lighted a cigar, refused a liqueur, drank his coffee quickly, and slipped out of the room. the duke followed him, and in the hall said: "i will continue to watch you unravel the threads of this mystery, if i may, m. guerchard." good republican as guerchard was, he could not help feeling flattered by the interest of a duke; and the excellent lunch he had eaten disposed him to feel the honour even more deeply. "i shall be charmed," he said. "to tell the truth, i find the company of your grace really quite stimulating." "it must be because i find it all so extremely interesting," said the duke. they went up to the drawing-room and found the red-faced young policeman seated on a chair by the door eating a lunch, which had been sent up to him from the millionaire's kitchen, with a very hearty appetite. they went into the drawing-room. guerchard shut the door and turned the key: "now," he said, "i think that m. formery will give me half an hour to myself. his cigar ought to last him at least half an hour. in that time i shall know what the burglars really did with their plunder--at least i shall know for certain how they got it out of the house." "please explain," said the duke. "i thought we knew how they got it out of the house." and he waved his hand towards the window. "oh, that!--that's childish," said guerchard contemptuously. "those are traces for an examining magistrate. the ladder, the table on the window-sill, they lead nowhere. the only people who came up that ladder were the two men who brought it from the scaffolding. you can see their footsteps. nobody went down it at all. it was mere waste of time to bother with those traces." "but the footprint under the book?" said the duke. "oh, that," said guerchard. "one of the burglars sat on the couch there, rubbed plaster on the sole of his boot, and set his foot down on the carpet. then he dusted the rest of the plaster off his boot and put the book on the top of the footprint." "now, how do you know that?" said the astonished duke. "it's as plain as a pike-staff," said guerchard. "there must have been several burglars to move such pieces of furniture. if the soles of all of them had been covered with plaster, all the sweeping in the world would not have cleared the carpet of the tiny fragments of it. i've been over the carpet between the footprint and the window with a magnifying glass. there are no fragments of plaster on it. we dismiss the footprint. it is a mere blind, and a very fair blind too--for an examining magistrate." "i understand," said the duke. "that narrows the problem, the quite simple problem, how was the furniture taken out of the room. it did not go through that window down the ladder. again, it was not taken down the stairs, and out of the front door, or the back. if it had been, the concierge and his wife would have heard the noise. besides that, it would have been carried down into a main street, in which there are people at all hours. somebody would have been sure to tell a policeman that this house was being emptied. moreover, the police were continually patrolling the main streets, and, quickly as a man like lupin would do the job, he could not do it so quickly that a policeman would not have seen it. no; the furniture was not taken down the stairs or out of the front door. that narrows the problem still more. in fact, there is only one mode of egress left." "the chimney!" cried the duke. "you've hit it," said guerchard, with a husky laugh. "by that well-known logical process, the process of elimination, we've excluded all methods of egress except the chimney." he paused, frowning, in some perplexity; and then he said uneasily: "what i don't like about it is that victoire was set in the fireplace. i asked myself at once what was she doing there. it was unnecessary that she should be drugged and set in the fireplace--quite unnecessary." "it might have been to put off an examining magistrate," said the duke. "having found victoire in the fireplace, m. formery did not look for anything else." "yes, it might have been that," said guerchard slowly. "on the other hand, she might have been put there to make sure that i did not miss the road the burglars took. that's the worst of having to do with lupin. he knows me to the bottom of my mind. he has something up his sleeve--some surprise for me. even now, i'm nowhere near the bottom of the mystery. but come along, we'll take the road the burglars took. the inspector has put my lantern ready for me." as he spoke he went to the fireplace, picked up a lantern which had been set on the top of the iron fire-basket, and lighted it. the duke stepped into the great fireplace beside him. it was four feet deep, and between eight and nine feet broad. guerchard threw the light from the lantern on to the back wall of it. six feet from the floor the soot from the fire stopped abruptly, and there was a dappled patch of bricks, half of them clean and red, half of them blackened by soot, five feet broad, and four feet high. "the opening is higher up than i thought," said guerchard. "i must get a pair of steps." he went to the door of the drawing-room and bade the young policeman fetch him a pair of steps. they were brought quickly. he took them from the policeman, shut the door, and locked it again. he set the steps in the fireplace and mounted them. "be careful," he said to the duke, who had followed him into the fireplace, and stood at the foot of the steps. "some of these bricks may drop inside, and they'll sting you up if they fall on your toes." the duke stepped back out of reach of any bricks that might fall. guerchard set his left hand against the wall of the chimney-piece between him and the drawing-room, and pressed hard with his right against the top of the dappled patch of bricks. at the first push, half a dozen of them fell with a bang on to the floor of the next house. the light came flooding in through the hole, and shone on guerchard's face and its smile of satisfaction. quickly he pushed row after row of bricks into the next house until he had cleared an opening four feet square. "come along," he said to the duke, and disappeared feet foremost through the opening. the duke mounted the steps, and found himself looking into a large empty room of the exact size and shape of the drawing-room of m. gournay-martin, save that it had an ordinary modern fireplace instead of one of the antique pattern of that in which he stood. its chimney-piece was a few inches below the opening. he stepped out on to the chimney-piece and dropped lightly to the floor. "well," he said, looking back at the opening through which he had come. "that's an ingenious dodge." "oh, it's common enough," said guerchard. "robberies at the big jewellers' are sometimes worked by these means. but what is uncommon about it, and what at first sight put me off the track, is that these burglars had the cheek to pierce the wall with an opening large enough to enable them to remove the furniture of a house." "it's true," said the duke. "the opening's as large as a good-sized window. those burglars seem capable of everything--even of a first-class piece of mason's work." "oh, this has all been prepared a long while ago. but now i'm really on their track. and after all, i haven't really lost any time. dieusy wasted no time in making inquiries in sureau street; he's been working all this side of the house." guerchard drew up the blinds, opened the shutters, and let the daylight flood the dim room. he came back to the fireplace and looked down at the heap of bricks, frowning: "i made a mistake there," he said. "i ought to have taken those bricks down carefully, one by one." quickly he took brick after brick from the pile, and began to range them neatly against the wall on the left. the duke watched him for two or three minutes, then began to help him. it did not take them long, and under one of the last few bricks guerchard found a fragment of a gilded picture-frame. "here's where they ought to have done their sweeping," he said, holding it up to the duke. "i tell you what," said the duke, "i shouldn't wonder if we found the furniture in this house still." "oh, no, no!" said guerchard. "i tell you that lupin would allow for myself or ganimard being put in charge of the case; and he would know that we should find the opening in the chimney. the furniture was taken straight out into the side-street on to which this house opens." he led the way out of the room on to the landing and went down the dark staircase into the hall. he opened the shutters of the hall windows, and let in the light. then he examined the hall. the dust lay thick on the tiled floor. down the middle of it was a lane formed by many feet. the footprints were faint, but still plain in the layer of dust. guerchard came back to the stairs and began to examine them. half-way up the flight he stooped, and picked up a little spray of flowers: "fresh!" he said. "these have not been long plucked." "salvias," said the duke. "salvias they are," said guerchard. "pink salvias; and there is only one gardener in france who has ever succeeded in getting this shade--m. gournay-martin's gardener at charmerace. i'm a gardener myself." "well, then, last night's burglars came from charmerace. they must have," said the duke. "it looks like it," said guerchard. "the charolais," said the duke. "it looks like it," said guerchard. "it must be," said the duke. "this is interesting--if only we could get an absolute proof." "we shall get one presently," said guerchard confidently. "it is interesting," said the duke in a tone of lively enthusiasm. "these clues--these tracks which cross one another--each fact by degrees falling into its proper place--extraordinarily interesting." he paused and took out his cigarette-case: "will you have a cigarette?" he said. "are they caporal?" said guerchard. "no, egyptians--mercedes." "thank you," said guerchard; and he took one. the duke struck a match, lighted guerchard's cigarette, and then his own: "yes, it's very interesting," he said. "in the last quarter of an hour you've practically discovered that the burglars came from charmerace--that they were the charolais--that they came in by the front door of this house, and carried the furniture out of it." "i don't know about their coming in by it," said guerchard. "unless i'm very much mistaken, they came in by the front door of m. gournay-martin's house." "of course," said the duke. "i was forgetting. they brought the keys from charmerace." "yes, but who drew the bolts for them?" said guerchard. "the concierge bolted them before he went to bed. he told me so. he was telling the truth--i know when that kind of man is telling the truth." "by jove!" said the duke softly. "you mean that they had an accomplice?" "i think we shall find that they had an accomplice. but your grace is beginning to draw inferences with uncommon quickness. i believe that you would make a first-class detective yourself--with practice, of course--with practice." "can i have missed my true career?" said the duke, smiling. "it's certainly a very interesting game." "well, i'm not going to search this barracks myself," said guerchard. "i'll send in a couple of men to do it; but i'll just take a look at the steps myself." so saying, he opened the front door and went out and examined the steps carefully. "we shall have to go back the way we came," he said, when he had finished his examination. "the drawing-room door is locked. we ought to find m. formery hammering on it." and he smiled as if he found the thought pleasing. they went back up the stairs, through the opening, into the drawing-room of m. gournay-martin's house. sure enough, from the other side of the locked door came the excited voice of m. formery, crying: "guerchard! guerchard! what are you doing? let me in! why don't you let me in?" guerchard unlocked the door; and in bounced m. formery, very excited, very red in the face. "hang it all, guerchard! what on earth have you been doing?" he cried. "why didn't you open the door when i knocked?" "i didn't hear you," said guerchard. "i wasn't in the room." "then where on earth have you been?" cried m. formery. guerchard looked at him with a faint, ironical smile, and said in his gentle voice, "i was following the real track of the burglars." chapter xv the examination of sonia m. formery gasped: "the real track?" he muttered. "let me show you," said guerchard. and he led him to the fireplace, and showed him the opening between the two houses. "i must go into this myself!" cried m. formery in wild excitement. without more ado he began to mount the steps. guerchard followed him. the duke saw their heels disappear up the steps. then he came out of the drawing-room and inquired for m. gournay-martin. he was told that the millionaire was up in his bedroom; and he went upstairs, and knocked at the door of it. m. gournay-martin bade him enter in a very faint voice, and the duke found him lying on the bed. he was looking depressed, even exhausted, the shadow of the blusterous gournay-martin of the day before. the rich rosiness of his cheeks had faded to a moderate rose-pink. "that telegram," moaned the millionaire. "it was the last straw. it has overwhelmed me. the coronet is lost." "what, already?" said the duke, in a tone of the liveliest surprise. "no, no; it's still in the safe," said the millionaire. "but it's as good as lost--before midnight it will be lost. that fiend will get it." "if it's in this safe now, it won't be lost before midnight," said the duke. "but are you sure it's there now?" "look for yourself," said the millionaire, taking the key of the safe from his waistcoat pocket, and handing it to the duke. the duke opened the safe. the morocco case which held the coronet lay on the middle shell in front of him. he glanced at the millionaire, and saw that he had closed his eyes in the exhaustion of despair. whistling softly, the duke opened the case, took out the diadem, and examined it carefully, admiring its admirable workmanship. he put it back in the case, turned to the millionaire, and said thoughtfully: "i can never make up my mind, in the case of one of these old diadems, whether one ought not to take out the stones and have them re-cut. look at this emerald now. it's a very fine stone, but this old-fashioned cutting does not really do it justice." "oh, no, no: you should never interfere with an antique, historic piece of jewellery. any alteration decreases its value--its value as an historic relic," cried the millionaire, in a shocked tone. "i know that," said the duke, "but the question for me is, whether one ought not to sacrifice some of its value to increasing its beauty." "you do have such mad ideas," said the millionaire, in a tone of peevish exasperation. "ah, well, it's a nice question," said the duke. he snapped the case briskly, put it back on the shelf, locked the safe, and handed the key to the millionaire. then he strolled across the room and looked down into the street, whistling softly. "i think--i think--i'll go home and get out of these motoring clothes. and i should like to have on a pair of boots that were a trifle less muddy," he said slowly. m. gournay-martin sat up with a jerk and cried, "for heaven's sake, don't you go and desert me, my dear chap! you don't know what my nerves are like!" "oh, you've got that sleuth-hound, guerchard, and the splendid formery, and four other detectives, and half a dozen ordinary policemen guarding you. you can do without my feeble arm. besides, i shan't be gone more than half an hour--three-quarters at the outside. i'll bring back my evening clothes with me, and dress for dinner here. i don't suppose that anything fresh will happen between now and midnight; but i want to be on the spot, and hear the information as it comes in fresh. besides, there's guerchard. i positively cling to guerchard. it's an education, though perhaps not a liberal education, to go about with him," said the duke; and there was a sub-acid irony in his voice. "well, if you must, you must," said m. gournay-martin grumpily. "good-bye for the present, then," said the duke. and he went out of the room and down the stairs. he took his motor-cap from the hall-table, and had his hand on the latch of the door, when the policeman in charge of it said, "i beg your pardon, sir, but have you m. guerchard's permission to leave the house?" "m. guerchard's permission?" said the duke haughtily. "what has m. guerchard to do with me? i am the duke of charmerace." and he opened the door. "it was m. formery's orders, your grace," stammered the policeman doubtfully. "m. formery's orders?" said the duke, standing on the top step. "call me a taxi-cab, please." the concierge, who stood beside the policeman, ran down the steps and blew his whistle. the policeman gazed uneasily at the duke, shifting his weight from one foot to the other; but he said no more. a taxi-cab came up to the door, the duke went down the steps, stepped into it, and drove away. three-quarters of an hour later he came back, having changed into clothes more suited to a paris drawing-room. he went up to the drawing-room, and there he found guerchard, m. formery, and the inspector, who had just completed their tour of inspection of the house next door and had satisfied themselves that the stolen treasures were not in it. the inspector and his men had searched it thoroughly just to make sure; but, as guerchard had foretold, the burglars had not taken the chance of the failure of the police to discover the opening between the two houses. m. formery told the duke about their tour of inspection at length. guerchard went to the telephone and told the exchange to put him through to charmerace. he was informed that the trunk line was very busy and that he might have to wait half an hour. the duke inquired if any trace of the burglars, after they had left with their booty, had yet been found. m. formery told him that, so far, the detectives had failed to find a single trace. guerchard said that he had three men at work on the search, and that he was hopeful of getting some news before long. "the layman is impatient in these matters," said m. formery, with an indulgent smile. "but we have learnt to be patient, after long experience." he proceeded to discuss with guerchard the new theories with which the discovery of the afternoon had filled his mind. none of them struck the duke as being of great value, and he listened to them with a somewhat absent-minded air. the coming examination of sonia weighed heavily on his spirit. guerchard answered only in monosyllables to the questions and suggestions thrown out by m. formery. it seemed to the duke that he paid very little attention to him, that his mind was still working hard on the solution of the mystery, seeking the missing facts which would bring him to the bottom of it. in the middle of one of m. formery's more elaborate dissertations the telephone bell rang. guerchard rose hastily and went to it. they heard him say: "is that charmerace? ... i want the gardener.... out? when will he be back? ... tell him to ring me up at m. gournay-martin's house in paris the moment he gets back.... detective-inspector guerchard ... guerchard ... detective-inspector." he turned to them with a frown, and said, "of course, since i want him, the confounded gardener has gone out for the day. still, it's of very little importance--a mere corroboration i wanted." and he went back to his seat and lighted another cigarette. m. formery continued his dissertation. presently guerchard said, "you might go and see how victoire is, inspector--whether she shows any signs of waking. what did the doctor say?" "the doctor said that she would not really be sensible and have her full wits about her much before ten o'clock to-night," said the inspector; but he went to examine her present condition. m. formery proceeded to discuss the effects of different anesthetics. the others heard him with very little attention. the inspector came back and reported that victoire showed no signs of awaking. "well, then, m. formery, i think we might get on with the examination of mademoiselle kritchnoff," said guerchard. "will you go and fetch her, inspector?" "really, i cannot conceive why you should worry that poor child," the duke protested, in a tone of some indignation. "it seems to me hardly necessary," said m. formery. "excuse me," said guerchard suavely, "but i attach considerable importance to it. it seems to me to be our bounden duty to question her fully. one never knows from what quarter light may come." "oh, well, since you make such a point of it," said m. formery. "inspector, ask mademoiselle kritchnoff to come here. fetch her." the inspector left the room. guerchard looked at the duke with a faint air of uneasiness: "i think that we had better question mademoiselle kritchnoff by ourselves," he said. m. formery looked at him and hesitated. then he said: "oh, yes, of course, by ourselves." "certainly," said the duke, a trifle haughtily. and he rose and opened the door. he was just going through it when guerchard said sharply: "your grace--" the duke paid no attention to him. he shut the door quickly behind him and sprang swiftly up the stairs. he met the inspector coming down with sonia. barring their way for a moment he said, in his kindliest voice: "now you mustn't be frightened, mademoiselle sonia. all you have to do is to try to remember as clearly as you can the circumstances of the earlier thefts at charmerace. you mustn't let them confuse you." "thank you, your grace, i will try and be as clear as i can," said sonia; and she gave him an eloquent glance, full of gratitude for the warning; and went down the stairs with firm steps. the duke went on up the stairs, and knocked softly at the door of m. gournay-martin's bedroom. there was no answer to his knock, and he quietly opened the door and looked in. overcome by his misfortunes, the millionaire had sunk into a profound sleep and was snoring softly. the duke stepped inside the room, left the door open a couple of inches, drew a chair to it, and sat down watching the staircase through the opening of the door. he sat frowning, with a look of profound pity on his face. once the suspense grew too much for him. he rose and walked up and down the room. his well-bred calm seemed to have deserted him. he muttered curses on guerchard, m. formery, and the whole french criminal system, very softly, under his breath. his face was distorted to a mask of fury; and once he wiped the little beads of sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. then he recovered himself, sat down in the chair, and resumed his watch on the stairs. at last, at the end of half an hour, which had seemed to him months long, he heard voices. the drawing-room door shut, and there were footsteps on the stairs. the inspector and sonia came into view. he waited till they were at the top of the stairs: then he came out of the room, with his most careless air, and said: "well, mademoiselle sonia, i hope you did not find it so very dreadful, after all." she was very pale, and there were undried tears on her cheeks. "it was horrible," she said faintly. "horrible. m. formery was all right--he believed me; but that horrible detective would not believe a word i said. he confused me. i hardly knew what i was saying." the duke ground his teeth softly. "never mind, it's over now. you had better lie down and rest. i will tell one of the servants to bring you up a glass of wine." he walked with her to the door of her room, and said: "try to sleep--sleep away the unpleasant memory." she went into her room, and the duke went downstairs and told the butler to take a glass of champagne up to her. then he went upstairs to the drawing-room. m. formery was at the table writing. guerchard stood beside him. he handed what he had written to guerchard, and, with a smile of satisfaction, guerchard folded the paper and put it in his pocket. "well, m. formery, did mademoiselle kritchnoff throw any fresh light on this mystery?" said the duke, in a tone of faint contempt. "no--in fact she convinced me that she knew nothing whatever about it. m. guerchard seems to entertain a different opinion. but i think that even he is convinced that mademoiselle kritchnoff is not a friend of arsene lupin." "oh, well, perhaps she isn't. but there's no telling," said guerchard slowly. "arsene lupin?" cried the duke. "surely you never thought that mademoiselle kritchnoff had anything to do with arsene lupin?" "i never thought so," said m. formery. "but when one has a fixed idea ... well, one has a fixed idea." he shrugged his shoulders, and looked at guerchard with contemptuous eyes. the duke laughed, an unaffected ringing laugh, but not a pleasant one: "it's absurd!" he cried. "there are always those thefts," said guerchard, with a nettled air. "you have nothing to go upon," said m. formery. "what if she did enter the service of mademoiselle gournay-martin just before the thefts began? besides, after this lapse of time, if she had committed the thefts, you'd find it a job to bring them home to her. it's not a job worth your doing, anyhow--it's a job for an ordinary detective, guerchard." "there's always the pendant," said guerchard. "i am convinced that that pendant is in the house." "oh, that stupid pendant! i wish i'd never given it to mademoiselle gournay-martin," said the duke lightly. "i have a feeling that if i could lay my hand on that pendant--if i could find who has it, i should have the key to this mystery." "the devil you would!" said the duke softly. "that is odd. it is the oddest thing about this business i've heard yet." "i have that feeling--i have that feeling," said guerchard quietly. the duke smiled. chapter xvi victoire's slip they were silent. the duke walked to the fireplace, stepped into it, and studied the opening. he came out again and said: "oh, by the way, m. formery, the policeman at the front door wanted to stop me going out of the house when i went home to change. i take it that m. guerchard's prohibition does not apply to me?" "of course not--of course not, your grace," said m. formery quickly. "i saw that you had changed your clothes, your grace," said guerchard. "i thought that you had done it here." "no," said the duke, "i went home. the policeman protested; but he went no further, so i did not throw him into the middle of the street." "whatever our station, we should respect the law," said m. formery solemnly. "the republican law, m. formery? i am a royalist," said the duke, smiling at him. m. formery shook his head sadly. "i was wondering," said the duke, "about m. guerchard's theory that the burglars were let in the front door of this house by an accomplice. why, when they had this beautiful large opening, did they want a front door, too?" "i did not know that that was guerchard's theory?" said m. formery, a trifle contemptuously. "of course they had no need to use the front door." "perhaps they had no need to use the front door," said guerchard; "but, after all, the front door was unbolted, and they did not draw the bolts to put us off the scent. their false scent was already prepared"--he waved his hand towards the window--"moreover, you must bear in mind that that opening might not have been made when they entered the house. suppose that, while they were on the other side of the wall, a brick had fallen on to the hearth, and alarmed the concierge. we don't know how skilful they are; they might not have cared to risk it. i'm inclined to think, on the whole, that they did come in through the front door." m. formery sniffed contemptuously. "perhaps you're right," said the duke. "but the accomplice?" "i think we shall know more about the accomplice when victoire awakes," said guerchard. "the family have such confidence in victoire," said the duke. "perhaps lupin has, too," said guerchard grimly. "always lupin!" said m. formery contemptuously. there came a knock at the door, and a footman appeared on the threshold. he informed the duke that germaine had returned from her shopping expedition, and was awaiting him in her boudoir. he went to her, and tried to persuade her to put in a word for sonia, and endeavour to soften guerchard's rigour. she refused to do anything of the kind, declaring that, in view of the value of the stolen property, no stone must be left unturned to recover it. the police knew what they were doing; they must have a free hand. the duke did not press her with any great vigour; he realized the futility of an appeal to a nature so shallow, so self-centred, and so lacking in sympathy. he took his revenge by teasing her about the wedding presents which were still flowing in. her father's business friends were still striving to outdo one another in the costliness of the jewelry they were giving her. the great houses of the faubourg saint-germain were still refraining firmly from anything that savoured of extravagance or ostentation. while he was with her the eleventh paper-knife came--from his mother's friend, the duchess of veauleglise. the duke was overwhelmed with joy at the sight of it, and his delighted comments drove germaine to the last extremity of exasperation. the result was that she begged him, with petulant asperity, to get out of her sight. he complied with her request, almost with alacrity, and returned to m. formery and guerchard. he found them at a standstill, waiting for reports from the detectives who were hunting outside the house for information about the movements of the burglars with the stolen booty, and apparently finding none. the police were also hunting for the stolen motor-cars, not only in paris and its environs, but also all along the road between paris and charmerace. at about five o'clock guerchard grew tired of the inaction, and went out himself to assist his subordinates, leaving m. formery in charge of the house itself. he promised to be back by half-past seven, to let the examining magistrate, who had an engagement for the evening, get away. the duke spent his time between the drawing-room, where m. formery entertained him with anecdotes of his professional skill, and the boudoir, where germaine was entertaining envious young friends who came to see her wedding presents. the friends of germaine were always a little ill at ease in the society of the duke, belonging as they did to that wealthy middle class which has made france what she is. his indifference to the doings of the old friends of his family saddened them; and they were unable to understand his airy and persistent trifling. it seemed to them a discord in the cosmic tune. the afternoon wore away, and at half-past seven guerchard had not returned. m. formery waited for him, fuming, for ten minutes, then left the house in charge of the inspector, and went off to his engagement. m. gournay-martin was entertaining two financiers and their wives, two of their daughters, and two friends of the duke, the baron de vernan and the comte de vauvineuse, at dinner that night. thanks to the duke, the party was of a liveliness to which the gorgeous dining-room had been very little used since it had been so fortunate as to become the property of m. gournay-martin. the millionaire had been looking forward to an evening of luxurious woe, deploring the loss of his treasures--giving their prices--to his sympathetic friends. the duke had other views; and they prevailed. after dinner the guests went to the smoking-room, since the drawing-rooms were in possession of guerchard. soon after ten the duke slipped away from them, and went to the detective. guerchard's was not a face at any time full of expression, and all that the duke saw on it was a subdued dulness. "well, m. guerchard," he said cheerfully, "what luck? have any of your men come across any traces of the passage of the burglars with their booty?" "no, your grace; so far, all the luck has been with the burglars. for all that any one seems to have seen them, they might have vanished into the bowels of the earth through the floor of the cellars in the empty house next door. that means that they were very quick loading whatever vehicle they used with their plunder. i should think, myself, that they first carried everything from this house down into the hall of the house next door; and then, of course, they could be very quick getting them from hall to their van, or whatever it was. but still, some one saw that van--saw it drive up to the house, or waiting at the house, or driving away from it." "is m. formery coming back?" said the duke. "not to-night," said guerchard. "the affair is in my hands now; and i have my own men on it--men of some intelligence, or, at any rate, men who know my ways, and how i want things done." "it must be a relief," said the duke. "oh, no, i'm used to m. formery--to all the examining magistrates in paris, and in most of the big provincial towns. they do not really hamper me; and often i get an idea from them; for some of them are men of real intelligence." "and others are not: i understand," said the duke. the door opened and bonavent, the detective, came in. "the housekeeper's awake, m. guerchard," he said. "good, bring her down here," said guerchard. "perhaps you'd like me to go," said the duke. "oh, no," said guerchard. "if it would interest you to hear me question her, please stay." bonavent left the room. the duke sat down in an easy chair, and guerchard stood before the fireplace. "m. formery told me, when you were out this afternoon, that he believed this housekeeper to be quite innocent," said the duke idly. "there is certainly one innocent in this affair," said guerchard, grinning. "who is that?" said the duke. "the examining magistrate," said guerchard. the door opened, and bonavent brought victoire in. she was a big, middle-aged woman, with a pleasant, cheerful, ruddy face, black-haired, with sparkling brown eyes, which did not seem to have been at all dimmed by her long, drugged sleep. she looked like a well-to-do farmer's wife, a buxom, good-natured, managing woman. as soon as she came into the room, she said quickly: "i wish, mr. inspector, your man would have given me time to put on a decent dress. i must have been sleeping in this one ever since those rascals tied me up and put that smelly handkerchief over my face. i never saw such a nasty-looking crew as they were in my life." "how many were there, madame victoire?" said guerchard. "dozens! the house was just swarming with them. i heard the noise; i came downstairs; and on the landing outside the door here, one of them jumped on me from behind and nearly choked me--to prevent me from screaming, i suppose." "and they were a nasty-looking crew, were they?" said guerchard. "did you see their faces?" "no, i wish i had! i should know them again if i had; but they were all masked," said victoire. "sit down, madame victoire. there's no need to tire you," said guerchard. and she sat down on a chair facing him. "let's see, you sleep in one of the top rooms, madame victoire. it has a dormer window, set in the roof, hasn't it?" said guerchard, in the same polite, pleasant voice. "yes; yes. but what has that got to do with it?" said victoire. "please answer my questions," said guerchard sharply. "you went to sleep in your room. did you hear any noise on the roof?" "on the roof? how should i hear it on the roof? there wouldn't be any noise on the roof," said victoire. "you heard nothing on the roof?" said guerchard. "no; the noise i heard was down here," said victoire. "yes, and you came down to see what was making it. and you were seized from behind on the landing, and brought in here," said guerchard. "yes, that's right," said madame victoire. "and were you tied up and gagged on the landing, or in here?" said guerchard. "oh, i was caught on the landing, and pushed in here, and then tied up," said victoire. "i'm sure that wasn't one man's job," said guerchard, looking at her vigorous figure with admiring eyes. "you may be sure of that," said victoire. "it took four of them; and at least two of them have some nice bruises on their shins to show for it." "i'm sure they have. and it serves them jolly well right," said guerchard, in a tone of warm approval. "and, i suppose, while those four were tying you up the others stood round and looked on." "oh, no, they were far too busy for that," said victoire. "what were they doing?" said guerchard. "they were taking the pictures off the walls and carrying them out of the window down the ladder," said victoire. guerchard's eyes flickered towards the duke, but the expression of earnest inquiry on his face never changed. "now, tell me, did the man who took a picture from the walls carry it down the ladder himself, or did he hand it through the window to a man who was standing on the top of a ladder ready to receive it?" he said. victoire paused as if to recall their action; then she said, "oh, he got through the window, and carried it down the ladder himself." "you're sure of that?" said guerchard. "oh, yes, i am quite sure of it--why should i deceive you, mr. inspector?" said victoire quickly; and the duke saw the first shadow of uneasiness on her face. "of course not," said guerchard. "and where were you?" "oh, they put me behind the screen." "no, no, where were you when you came into the room?" "i was against the door," said victoire. "and where was the screen?" said guerchard. "was it before the fireplace?" "no; it was on one side--the left-hand side," said victoire. "oh, will you show me exactly where it stood?" said guerchard. victoire rose, and, guerchard aiding her, set the screen on the left-hand side of the fireplace. guerchard stepped back and looked at it. "now, this is very important," he said. "i must have the exact position of the four feet of that screen. let's see ... some chalk ... of course.... you do some dressmaking, don't you, madame victoire?" "oh, yes, i sometimes make a dress for one of the maids in my spare time," said victoire. "then you've got a piece of chalk on you," said guerchard. "oh, yes," said victoire, putting her hand to the pocket of her dress. she paused, took a step backwards, and looked wildly round the room, while the colour slowly faded in her ruddy cheeks. "what am i talking about?" she said in an uncertain, shaky voice. "i haven't any chalk--i--ran out of chalk the day before yesterday." "i think you have, madame victoire. feel in your pocket and see," said guerchard sternly. his voice had lost its suavity; his face its smile: his eyes had grown dangerous. "no, no; i have no chalk," cried victoire. with a sudden leap guerchard sprang upon her, caught her in a firm grip with his right arm, and his left hand plunged into her pocket. "let me go! let me go! you're hurting," she cried. guerchard loosed her and stepped back. "what's this?" he said; and he held up between his thumb and forefinger a piece of blue chalk. victoire drew herself up and faced him gallantly: "well, what of it?--it is chalk. mayn't an honest woman carry chalk in her pockets without being insulted and pulled about by every policeman she comes across?" she cried. "that will be for the examining magistrate to decide," said guerchard; and he went to the door and called bonavent. bonavent came in, and guerchard said: "when the prison van comes, put this woman in it; and send her down to the station." "but what have i done?" cried victoire. "i'm innocent! i declare i'm innocent. i've done nothing at all. it's not a crime to carry a piece of chalk in one's pocket." "now, that's a matter for the examining magistrate. you can explain it to him," said guerchard. "i've got nothing to do with it: so it's no good making a fuss now. do go quietly, there's a good woman." he spoke in a quiet, business-like tone. victoire looked him in the eyes, then drew herself up, and went quietly out of the room. chapter xvii sonia's escape "one of m. formery's innocents," said guerchard, turning to the duke. "the chalk?" said the duke. "is it the same chalk?" "it's blue," said guerchard, holding it out. "the same as that of the signatures on the walls. add that fact to the woman's sudden realization of what she was doing, and you'll see that they were written with it." "it is rather a surprise," said the duke. "to look at her you would think that she was the most honest woman in the world." "ah, you don't know lupin, your grace," said guerchard. "he can do anything with women; and they'll do anything for him. and, what's more, as far as i can see, it doesn't make a scrap of difference whether they're honest or not. the fair-haired lady i was telling you about was probably an honest woman; ganimard is sure of it. we should have found out long ago who she was if she had been a wrong 'un. and ganimard also swears that when he arrested lupin on board the provence some woman, some ordinary, honest woman among the passengers, carried away lady garland's jewels, which he had stolen and was bringing to america, and along with them a matter of eight hundred pounds which he had stolen from a fellow-passenger on the voyage." "that power of fascination which some men exercise on women is one of those mysteries which science should investigate before it does anything else," said the duke, in a reflective tone. "now i come to think of it, i had much better have spent my time on that investigation than on that tedious journey to the south pole. all the same, i'm deucedly sorry for that woman, victoire. she looks such a good soul." guerchard shrugged his shoulders: "the prisons are full of good souls," he said, with cynical wisdom born of experience. "they get caught so much more often than the bad." "it seems rather mean of lupin to make use of women like this, and get them into trouble," said the duke. "but he doesn't," said guerchard quickly. "at least he hasn't up to now. this victoire is the first we've caught. i look on it as a good omen." he walked across the room, picked up his cloak, and took a card-case from the inner pocket of it. "if you don't mind, your grace, i want you to show this permit to my men who are keeping the door, whenever you go out of the house. it's just a formality; but i attach considerable importance to it, for i really ought not to make exceptions in favour of any one. i have two men at the door, and they have orders to let nobody out without my written permission. of course m. gournay-martin's guests are different. bonavent has orders to pass them out. and, if your grace doesn't mind, it will help me. if you carry a permit, no one else will dream of complaining of having to do so." "oh, i don't mind, if it's of any help to you," said the duke cheerfully. "thank you," said guerchard. and he wrote on his card and handed it to the duke. the duke took it and looked at it. on it was written: "pass the duke of charmerace." "j. guerchard." "it's quite military," said the duke, putting the card into his waistcoat pocket. there came a knock at the door, and a tall, thin, bearded man came into the room. "ah, dieusy! at last! what news?" cried guerchard. dieusy saluted: "i've learnt that a motor-van was waiting outside the next house--in the side street," he said. "at what time?" said guerchard. "between four and five in the morning," said dieusy. "who saw it?" said guerchard. "a scavenger. he thinks that it was nearly five o'clock when the van drove off." "between four and five--nearly five. then they filled up the opening before they loaded the van. i thought they would," said guerchard, thoughtfully. "anything else?" "a few minutes after the van had gone a man in motoring dress came out of the house," said dieusy. "in motoring dress?" said guerchard quickly. "yes. and a little way from the house he threw away his cigarette. the scavenger thought the whole business a little queer, and he picked up the cigarette and kept it. here it is." he handed it to guerchard, whose eyes scanned it carelessly and then glued themselves to it. "a gold-tipped cigarette ... marked mercedes ... why, your grace, this is one of your cigarettes!" "but this is incredible!" cried the duke. "not at all," said guerchard. "it's merely another link in the chain. i've no doubt you have some of these cigarettes at charmerace." "oh, yes, i've had a box on most of the tables," said the duke. "well, there you are," said guerchard. "oh, i see what you're driving at," said the duke. "you mean that one of the charolais must have taken a box." "well, we know that they'd hardly stick at a box of cigarettes," said guerchard. "yes ... but i thought ..." said the duke; and he paused. "you thought what?" said guerchard. "then lupin ... since it was lupin who managed the business last night--since you found those salvias in the house next door ... then lupin came from charmerace." "evidently," said guerchard. "and lupin is one of the charolais." "oh, that's another matter," said guerchard. "but it's certain, absolutely certain," said the duke. "we have the connecting links ... the salvias ... this cigarette." "it looks very like it. you're pretty quick on a scent, i must say," said guerchard. "what a detective you would have made! only ... nothing is certain." "but it is. whatever more do you want? was he at charmerace yesterday, or was he not? did he, or did he not, arrange the theft of the motor-cars?" "certainly he did. but he himself might have remained in the background all the while," said guerchard. "in what shape? ... under what mask? ... by jove, i should like to see this fellow!" said the duke. "we shall see him to-night," said guerchard. "to-night?" said the duke. "of course we shall; for he will come to steal the coronet between a quarter to twelve and midnight," said guerchard. "never!" said the duke. "you don't really believe that he'll have the cheek to attempt such a mad act?" "ah, you don't know this man, your grace ... his extraordinary mixture of coolness and audacity. it's the danger that attracts him. he throws himself into the fire, and he doesn't get burnt. for the last ten years i've been saying to myself, 'here we are: this time i've got him! ... at last i'm going to nab him.' but i've said that day after day," said guerchard; and he paused. "well?" said the duke. "well, the days pass; and i never nab him. oh, he is thick, i tell you.... he's a joker, he is ... a regular artist"--he ground his teeth--"the damned thief!" the duke looked at him, and said slowly, "then you think that to-night lupin--" "you've followed the scent with me, your grace," guerchard interrupted quickly and vehemently. "we've picked up each clue together. you've almost seen this man at work.... you've understood him. isn't a man like this, i ask you, capable of anything?" "he is," said the duke, with conviction. "well, then," said guerchard. "perhaps you're right," said the duke. guerchard turned to dieusy and said, in a quieter voice, "and when the scavenger had picked up the cigarette, did he follow the motorist?" "yes, he followed him for about a hundred yards. he went down into sureau street, and turned westwards. then a motor-car came along; he got into it, and went off." "what kind of a motor-car?" said guerchard. "a big car, and dark red in colour," said dieusy. "the limousine!" cried the duke. "that's all i've got so far, sir," said dieusy. "well, off you go," said guerchard. "now that you've got started, you'll probably get something else before very long." dieusy saluted and went. "things are beginning to move," said guerchard cheerfully. "first victoire, and now this motor-van." "they are indeed," said the duke. "after all, it ought not to be very difficult to trace that motor-van," said guerchard, in a musing tone. "at any rate, its movements ought to be easy enough to follow up till about six. then, of course, there would be a good many others about, delivering goods." "you seem to have all the possible information you can want at your finger-ends," said the duke, in an admiring tone. "i suppose i know the life of paris as well as anybody," said guerchard. they were silent for a while. then germaine's maid, irma, came into the room and said: "if you please, your grace, mademoiselle kritchnoff would like to speak to you for a moment." "oh? where is she?" said the duke. "she's in her room, your grace." "oh, very well, i'll go up to her," said the duke. "i can speak to her in the library." he rose and was going towards the door when guerchard stepped forward, barring his way, and said, "no, your grace." "no? why?" said the duke haughtily. "i beg you will wait a minute or two till i've had a word with you," said guerchard; and he drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and held it up. the duke looked at guerchard's face, and he looked at the paper in his hand; then he said: "oh, very well." and, turning to irma, he added quietly, "tell mademoiselle kritchnoff that i'm in the drawing-room." "yes, your grace, in the drawing-room," said irma; and she turned to go. "yes; and say that i shall be engaged for the next five minutes--the next five minutes, do you understand?" said the duke. "yes, your grace," said irma; and she went out of the door. "ask mademoiselle kritchnoff to put on her hat and cloak," said guerchard. "yes, sir," said irma; and she went. the duke turned sharply on guerchard, and said: "now, why on earth? ... i don't understand." "i got this from m. formery," said guerchard, holding up the paper. "well," said the duke. "what is it?" "it's a warrant, your grace," said guerchard. "what! ... a warrant! ... not for the arrest of mademoiselle kritchnoff?" "yes," said guerchard. "oh, come, it's impossible," said the duke. "you're never going to arrest that child?" "i am, indeed," said guerchard. "her examination this afternoon was in the highest degree unsatisfactory. her answers were embarrassed, contradictory, and in every way suspicious." "and you've made up your mind to arrest her?" said the duke slowly, knitting his brow in anxious thought. "i have, indeed," said guerchard. "and i'm going to do it now. the prison van ought to be waiting at the door." he looked at his watch. "she and victoire can go together." "so ... you're going to arrest her ... you're going to arrest her?" said the duke thoughtfully: and he took a step or two up and down the room, still thinking hard. "well, you understand the position, don't you, your grace?" said guerchard, in a tone of apology. "believe me that, personally, i've no animosity against mademoiselle kritchnoff. in fact, the child attracts me." "yes," said the duke softly, in a musing tone. "she has the air of a child who has lost its way ... lost its way in life.... and that poor little hiding-place she found ... that rolled-up handkerchief ... thrown down in the corner of the little room in the house next door ... it was absolutely absurd." "what! a handkerchief!" cried guerchard, with an air of sudden, utter surprise. "the child's clumsiness is positively pitiful," said the duke. "what was in the handkerchief? ... the pearls of the pendant?" cried guerchard. "yes: i supposed you knew all about it. of course m. formery left word for you," said the duke, with an air of surprise at the ignorance of the detective. "no: i've heard nothing about it," cried guerchard. "he didn't leave word for you?" said the duke, in a tone of greater surprise. "oh, well, i dare say that he thought to-morrow would do. of course you were out of the house when he found it. she must have slipped out of her room soon after you went." "he found a handkerchief belonging to mademoiselle kritchnoff. where is it?" cried guerchard. "m. formery took the pearls, but he left the handkerchief. i suppose it's in the corner where he found it," said the duke. "he left the handkerchief?" cried guerchard. "if that isn't just like the fool! he ought to keep hens; it's all he's fit for!" he ran to the fireplace, seized the lantern, and began lighting it: "where is the handkerchief?" he cried. "in the left-hand corner of the little room on the right on the second floor. but if you're going to arrest mademoiselle kritchnoff, why are you bothering about the handkerchief? it can't be of any importance," said the duke. "i beg your pardon," said guerchard. "but it is." "but why?" said the duke. "i was arresting mademoiselle kritchnoff all right because i had a very strong presumption of her guilt. but i hadn't the slightest proof of it," said guerchard. "what?" cried the duke, in a horrified tone. "no, you've just given me the proof; and since she was able to hide the pearls in the house next door, she knew the road which led to it. therefore she's an accomplice," said guerchard, in a triumphant tone. "what? do you think that, too?" cried the duke. "good heavens! and it's me! ... it's my senselessness! ... it's my fault that you've got your proof!" he spoke in a tone of acute distress. "it was your duty to give it me," said guerchard sternly; and he began to mount the steps. "shall i come with you? i know where the handkerchief is," said the duke quickly. "no, thank you, your grace," said guerchard. "i prefer to go alone." "you'd better let me help you," said the duke. "no, your grace," said guerchard firmly. "i must really insist," said the duke. "no--no--no," said guerchard vehemently, with stern decision. "it's no use your insisting, your grace; i prefer to go alone. i shall only be gone a minute or two." "just as you like," said the duke stiffly. the legs of guerchard disappeared up the steps. the duke stood listening with all his ears. directly he heard the sound of guerchard's heels on the floor, when he dropped from the chimney-piece of the next room, he went swiftly to the door, opened it, and went out. bonavent was sitting on the chair on which the young policeman had sat during the afternoon. sonia, in her hat and cloak, was half-way down the stairs. the duke put his head inside the drawing-room door, and said to the empty room: "here is mademoiselle kritchnoff, m. guerchard." he held open the door, sonia came down the stairs, and went through it. the duke followed her into the drawing-room, and shut the door. "there's not a moment to lose," he said in a low voice. "oh, what is it, your grace?" said sonia anxiously. "guerchard has a warrant for your arrest." "then i'm lost!" cried sonia, in a panic-stricken voice. "no, you're not. you must go--at once," said the duke. "but how can i go? no one can get out of the house. m. guerchard won't let them," cried sonia, panic-stricken. "we can get over that," said the duke. he ran to guerchard's cloak, took the card-case from the inner pocket, went to the writing-table, and sat down. he took from his waist-coat pocket the permit which guerchard had given him, and a pencil. then he took a card from the card-case, set the permit on the table before him, and began to imitate guerchard's handwriting with an amazing exactness. he wrote on the card: "pass mademoiselle kritchnoff." "j. guerchard." sonia stood by his side, panting quickly with fear, and watched him do it. he had scarcely finished the last stroke, when they heard a noise on the other side of the opening into the empty house. the duke looked at the fireplace, and his teeth bared in an expression of cold ferocity. he rose with clenched fists, and took a step towards the fireplace. "your grace? your grace?" called the voice of guerchard. "what is it?" answered the duke quietly. "i can't see any handkerchief," said guerchard. "didn't you say it was in the left-hand corner of the little room on the right?" "i told you you'd better let me come with you, and find it," said the duke, in a tone of triumph. "it's in the right-hand corner of the little room on the left." "i could have sworn you said the little room on the right," said guerchard. they heard his footfalls die away. "now, you must get out of the house quickly." said the duke. "show this card to the detectives at the door, and they'll pass you without a word." he pressed the card into her hand. "but--but--this card?" stammered sonia. "there's no time to lose," said the duke. "but this is madness," said sonia. "when guerchard finds out about this card--that you--you--" "there's no need to bother about that," interrupted the duke quickly. "where are you going to?" "a little hotel near the star. i've forgotten the name of it," said sonia. "but this card--" "has it a telephone?" said the duke. "yes--no. , central," said sonia. "if i haven't telephoned to you before half-past eight to-morrow morning, come straight to my house," said the duke, scribbling the telephone number on his shirt-cuff. "yes, yes," said sonia. "but this card.... when guerchard knows ... when he discovers.... oh, i can't let you get into trouble for me." "i shan't. but go--go," said the duke, and he slipped his right arm round her and drew her to the door. "oh, how good you are to me," said sonia softly. the duke's other arm went round her; he drew her to him, and their lips met. he loosed her, and opened the door, saying loudly: "you're sure you won't have a cab, mademoiselle kritchnoff?" "no; no, thank you, your grace. goodnight," said sonia. and she went through the door with a transfigured face. chapter xviii the duke stays the duke shut the door and leant against it, listening anxiously, breathing quickly. there came the bang of the front door. with a deep sigh of relief he left the door, came briskly, smiling, across the room, and put the card-case back into the pocket of guerchard's cloak. he lighted a cigarette, dropped into an easy chair, and sat waiting with an entirely careless air for the detective's return. presently he heard quick footsteps on the bare boards of the empty room beyond the opening. then guerchard came down the steps and out of the fireplace. his face wore an expression of extreme perplexity: "i can't understand it," he said. "i found nothing." "nothing?" said the duke. "no. are you sure you saw the handkerchief in one of those little rooms on the second floor--quite sure?" said guerchard. "of course i did," said the duke. "isn't it there?" "no," said guerchard. "you can't have looked properly," said the duke, with a touch of irony in his voice. "if i were you, i should go back and look again." "no. if i've looked for a thing, i've looked for it. there's no need for me to look a second time. but, all the same, it's rather funny. doesn't it strike you as being rather funny, your grace?" said guerchard, with a worried air. "it strikes me as being uncommonly funny," said the duke, with an ambiguous smile. guerchard looked at him with a sudden uneasiness; then he rang the bell. bonavent came into the room. "mademoiselle kritchnoff, bonavent. it's quite time," said guerchard. "mademoiselle kritchnoff?" said bonavent, with an air of surprise. "yes, it's time that she was taken to the police-station." "mademoiselle kritchnoff has gone, sir," said bonavent, in a tone of quiet remonstrance. "gone? what do you mean by gone?" said guerchard. "gone, sir, gone!" said bonavent patiently. "but you're mad.... mad!" cried guerchard. "no, i'm not mad," said bonavent. "gone! but who let her go?" cried guerchard. "the men at the door," said bonavent. "the men at the door," said guerchard, in a tone of stupefaction. "but she had to have my permit ... my permit on my card! send the fools up to me!" bonavent went to the top of the staircase, and called down it. guerchard followed him. two detectives came hurrying up the stairs and into the drawing-room. "what the devil do you mean by letting mademoiselle kritchnoff leave the house without my permit, written on my card?" cried guerchard violently. "but she had your permit, sir, and it was written on your card," stammered one of the detectives. "it was? ... it was?" said guerchard. "then, by jove, it was a forgery!" he stood thoughtful for a moment. then quietly he told his two men to go back to their post. he did not stir for a minute or two, puzzling it out, seeking light. then he came back slowly into the drawing-room and looked uneasily at the duke. the duke was sitting in his easy chair, smoking a cigarette with a listless air. guerchard looked at him, and looked at him, almost as if he now saw him for the first time. "well?" said the duke, "have you sent that poor child off to prison? if i'd done a thing like that i don't think i should sleep very well, m. guerchard." "that poor child has just escaped, by means of a forged permit," said guerchard very glumly. "by jove, i am glad to hear that!" cried the duke. "you'll forgive my lack of sympathy, m. guerchard; but she was such a child." "not too young to be lupin's accomplice," said guerchard drily. "you really think she is?" said the duke, in a tone of doubt. "i'm sure of it," said guerchard, with decision; then he added slowly, with a perplexed air: "but how--how--could she get that forged permit?" the duke shook his head, and looked as solemn as an owl. guerchard looked at him uneasily, went out of the drawing-room, and shut the door. "how long has mademoiselle kritchnoff been gone?" he said to bonavent. "not much more than five minutes," said bonavent. "she came out from talking to you in the drawing-room--" "talking to me in the drawing-room!" exclaimed guerchard. "yes," said bonavent. "she came out and went straight down the stairs and out of the house." a faint, sighing gasp came from guerchard's lips. he dashed into the drawing-room, crossed the room quickly to his cloak, picked it up, took the card-case out of the pocket, and counted the cards in it. then he looked at the duke. the duke smiled at him, a charming smile, almost caressing. there seemed to be a lump in guerchard's throat; he swallowed it loudly. he put the card-case into the breast-pocket of the coat he was wearing. then he cried sharply, "bonavent! bonavent!" bonavent opened the door, and stood in the doorway. "you sent off victoire in the prison-van, i suppose," said guerchard. "oh, a long while ago, sir," said bonavent. "the van had been waiting at the door since half-past nine." "since half-past nine? ... but i told them i shouldn't want it till a quarter to eleven. i suppose they were making an effort to be in time for once. well, it doesn't matter," said guerchard. "then i suppose i'd better send the other prison-van away?" said bonavent. "what other van?" said guerchard. "the van which has just arrived," said bonavent. "what! what on earth are you talking about?" cried guerchard, with a sudden anxiety in his voice and on his face. "didn't you order two prison-vans?" said bonavent. guerchard jumped; and his face went purple with fury and dismay. "you don't mean to tell me that two prison-vans have been here?" he cried. "yes, sir," said bonavent. "damnation!" cried guerchard. "in which of them did you put victoire? in which of them?" "why, in the first, sir," said bonavent. "did you see the police in charge of it? the coachman?" "yes, sir," said bonavent. "did you recognize them?" said guerchard. "no," said bonavent; "they must have been new men. they told me they came from the sante." "you silly fool!" said guerchard through his teeth. "a fine lot of sense you've got." "why, what's the matter?" said bonavent. "we're done, done in the eye!" roared guerchard. "it's a stroke--a stroke--" "of lupin's!" interposed the duke softly. "but i don't understand," said bonavent. "you don't understand, you idiot!" cried guerchard. "you've sent victoire away in a sham prison-van--a prison-van belonging to lupin. oh, that scoundrel! he always has something up his sleeve." "he certainly shows foresight," said the duke. "it was very clever of him to foresee the arrest of victoire and provide against it." "yes, but where is the leakage? where is the leakage?" cried guerchard, fuming. "how did he learn that the doctor said that she would recover her wits at ten o'clock? here i've had a guard at the door all day; i've imprisoned the household; all the provisions have been received directly by a man of mine; and here he is, ready to pick up victoire the very moment she gives herself away! where is the leakage?" he turned on bonavent, and went on: "it's no use your standing there with your mouth open, looking like a fool. go upstairs to the servants' quarters and search victoire's room again. that fool of an inspector may have missed something, just as he missed victoire herself. get on! be smart!" bonavent went off briskly. guerchard paced up and down the room, scowling. "really, i'm beginning to agree with you, m. guerchard, that this lupin is a remarkable man," said the duke. "that prison-van is extraordinarily neat." "i'll prison-van him!" cried guerchard. "but what fools i have to work with. if i could get hold of people of ordinary intelligence it would be impossible to play such a trick as that." "i don't know about that," said the duke thoughtfully. "i think it would have required an uncommon fool to discover that trick." "what on earth do you mean? why?" said guerchard. "because it's so wonderfully simple," said the duke. "and at the same time it's such infernal cheek." "there's something in that," said guerchard grumpily. "but then, i'm always saying to my men, 'suspect everything; suspect everybody; suspect, suspect, suspect.' i tell you, your grace, that there is only one motto for the successful detective, and that is that one word, 'suspect.'" "it can't be a very comfortable business, then," said the duke. "but i suppose it has its charms." "oh, one gets used to the disagreeable part," said guerchard. the telephone bell rang; and he rose and went to it. he put the receiver to his ear and said, "yes; it's i--chief-inspector guerchard." he turned and said to the duke, "it's the gardener at charmerace, your grace." "is it?" said the duke indifferently. guerchard turned to the telephone. "are you there?" he said. "can you hear me clearly? ... i want to know who was in your hot-house yesterday ... who could have gathered some of your pink salvias?" "i told you that it was i," said the duke. "yes, yes, i know," said guerchard. and he turned again to the telephone. "yes, yesterday," he said. "nobody else? ... no one but the duke of charmerace? ... are you sure?... quite sure?... absolutely sure? ... yes, that's all i wanted to know ... thank you." he turned to the duke and said, "did you hear that, your grace? the gardener says that you were the only person in his hot-houses yesterday, the only person who could have plucked any pink salvias." "does he?" said the duke carelessly. guerchard looked at him, his brow knitted in a faint, pondering frown. then the door opened, and bonavent came in: "i've been through victoire's room," he said, "and all i could find that might be of any use is this--a prayer-book. it was on her dressing-table just as she left it. the inspector hadn't touched it." "what about it?" said guerchard, taking the prayer-book. "there's a photograph in it," said bonavent. "it may come in useful when we circulate her description; for i suppose we shall try to get hold of victoire." guerchard took the photograph from the prayer-book and looked at it: "it looks about ten years old," he said. "it's a good deal faded for reproduction. hullo! what have we here?" the photograph showed victoire in her sunday best, and with her a boy of seventeen or eighteen. guerchard's eyes glued themselves to the face of the boy. he stared at it, holding the portrait now nearer, now further off. his eyes kept stealing covertly from the photograph to the face of the duke. the duke caught one of those covert glances, and a vague uneasiness flickered in his eyes. guerchard saw it. he came nearer to the duke and looked at him earnestly, as if he couldn't believe his eyes. "what's the matter?" said the duke. "what are you looking at so curiously? isn't my tie straight?" and he put up his hand and felt it. "oh, nothing, nothing," said guerchard. and he studied the photograph again with a frowning face. there was a noise of voices and laughter in the hall. "those people are going," said the duke. "i must go down and say good-bye to them." and he rose and went out of the room. guerchard stood staring, staring at the photograph. the duke ran down the stairs, and said goodbye to the millionaire's guests. after they had gone, m. gournay-martin went quickly up the stairs; germaine and the duke followed more slowly. "my father is going to the ritz to sleep," said germaine, "and i'm going with him. he doesn't like the idea of my sleeping in this house to-night. i suppose he's afraid that lupin will make an attack in force with all his gang. still, if he did, i think that guerchard could give a good account of himself--he's got men enough in the house, at any rate. irma tells me it's swarming with them. it would never do for me to be in the house if there were a fight." "oh, come, you don't really believe that lupin is coming to-night?" said the duke, with a sceptical laugh. "the whole thing is sheer bluff--he has no more intention of coming tonight to steal that coronet than--than i have." "oh, well, there's no harm in being on the safe side," said germaine. "everybody's agreed that he's a very terrible person. i'll just run up to my room and get a wrap; irma has my things all packed. she can come round tomorrow morning to the ritz and dress me." she ran up the stairs, and the duke went into the drawing-room. he found guerchard standing where he had left him, still frowning, still thinking hard. "the family are off to the ritz. it's rather a reflection on your powers of protecting them, isn't it?" said the duke. "oh, well, i expect they'd be happier out of the house," said guerchard. he looked at the duke again with inquiring, searching eyes. "what's the matter?" said the duke. "is my tie crooked?" "oh, no, no; it's quite straight, your grace," said guerchard, but he did not take his eyes from the duke's face. the door opened, and in came m. gournay-martin, holding a bag in his hand. "it seems to be settled that i'm never to sleep in my own house again," he said in a grumbling tone. "there's no reason to go," said the duke. "why are you going?" "danger," said m. gournay-martin. "you read lupin's telegram: 'i shall come to-night between a quarter to twelve and midnight to take the coronet.' he knows that it was in my bedroom. do you think i'm going to sleep in that room with the chance of that scoundrel turning up and cutting my throat?" "oh, you can have a dozen policemen in the room if you like," said the duke. "can't he, m. guerchard?" "certainly," said guerchard. "i can answer for it that you will be in no danger, m. gournay-martin." "thank you," said the millionaire. "but all the same, outside is good enough for me." germaine came into the room, cloaked and ready to start. "for once in a way you are ready first, papa," she said. "are you coming, jacques?" "no; i think i'll stay here, on the chance that lupin is not bluffing," said the duke. "i don't think, myself, that i'm going to be gladdened by the sight of him--in fact, i'm ready to bet against it. but you're all so certain about it that i really must stay on the chance. and, after all, there's no doubt that he's a man of immense audacity and ready to take any risk." "well, at any rate, if he does come he won't find the diadem," said m. gournay-martin, in a tone of triumph. "i'm taking it with me--i've got it here." and he held up his bag. "you are?" said the duke. "yes, i am," said m. gournay-martin firmly. "do you think it's wise?" said the duke. "why not?" said m. gournay-martin. "if lupin's really made up his mind to collar that coronet, and if you're so sure that, in spite of all these safeguards, he's going to make the attempt, it seems to me that you're taking a considerable risk. he asked you to have it ready for him in your bedroom. he didn't say which bedroom." "good lord! i never thought of that!" said m. gournay-martin, with an air of sudden and very lively alarm. "his grace is right," said guerchard. "it would be exactly like lupin to send that telegram to drive you out of the house with the coronet to some place where you would be less protected. that is exactly one of his tricks." "good heavens!" said the millionaire, pulling out his keys and unlocking the bag. he opened it, paused hesitatingly, and snapped it to again. "half a minute," he said. "i want a word with you, duke." he led the way out of the drawing-room door and the duke followed him. he shut the door and said in a whisper: "in a case like this, i suspect everybody." "everybody suspects everybody, apparently," said the duke. "are you sure you don't suspect me?" "now, now, this is no time for joking," said the millionaire impatiently. "what do you think about guerchard?" "about guerchard?" said the duke. "what do you mean?" "do you think i can put full confidence in guerchard?" said m. gournay-martin. "oh, i think so," said the duke. "besides, i shall be here to look after guerchard. and, though i wouldn't undertake to answer for lupin, i think i can answer for guerchard. if he tries to escape with the coronet, i will wring his neck for you with pleasure. it would do me good. and it would do guerchard good, too." the millionaire stood reflecting for a minute or two. then he said, "very good; i'll trust him." hardly had the door closed behind the millionaire and the duke, when guerchard crossed the room quickly to germaine and drew from his pocket the photograph of victoire and the young man. "do you know this photograph of his grace, mademoiselle?" he said quickly. germaine took the photograph and looked at it. "it's rather faded," she said. "yes; it's about ten years old," said guerchard. "i seem to know the face of the woman," said germaine. "but if it's ten years old it certainly isn't the photograph of the duke." "but it's like him?" said guerchard. "oh, yes, it's like the duke as he is now--at least, it's a little like him. but it's not like the duke as he was ten years ago. he has changed so," said germaine. "oh, has he?" said guerchard. "yes; there was that exhausting journey of his--and then his illness. the doctors gave up all hope of him, you know." "oh, did they?" said guerchard. "yes; at montevideo. but his health is quite restored now." the door opened and the millionaire and the duke came into the room. m. gournay-martin set his bag upon the table, unlocked it, and with a solemn air took out the case which held the coronet. he opened it; and they looked at it. "isn't it beautiful?" he said with a sigh. "marvellous!" said the duke. m. gournay-martin closed the case, and said solemnly: "there is danger, m. guerchard, so i am going to trust the coronet to you. you are the defender of my hearth and home--you are the proper person to guard the coronet. i take it that you have no objection?" "not the slightest, m. gournay-martin," said guerchard. "it's exactly what i wanted you to ask me to do." m. gournay-martin hesitated. then he handed the coronet to guerchard, saying with a frank and noble air, "i have every confidence in you, m. guerchard." "thank you," said guerchard. "good-night," said m. gournay-martin. "good-night, m. guerchard," said germaine. "i think, after all, i'll change my mind and go with you. i'm very short of sleep," said the duke. "good-night, m. guerchard." "you're never going too, your grace!" cried guerchard. "why, you don't want me to stay, do you?" said the duke. "yes," said guerchard slowly. "i think i would rather go to bed," said the duke gaily. "are you afraid?" said guerchard, and there was challenge, almost an insolent challenge, in his tone. there was a pause. the duke frowned slightly with a reflective air. then he drew himself up; and said a little haughtily: "you've certainly found the way to make me stay, m. guerchard." "yes, yes; stay, stay," said m. gournay-martin hastily. "it's an excellent idea, excellent. you're the very man to help m. guerchard, duke. you're an intrepid explorer, used to danger and resourceful, absolutely fearless." "do you really mean to say you're not going home to bed, jacques?" said germaine, disregarding her father's wish with her usual frankness. "no; i'm going to stay with m. guerchard," said the duke slowly. "well, you will be fresh to go to the princess's to-morrow night." said germaine petulantly. "you didn't get any sleep at all last night, you couldn't have. you left charmerace at eight o'clock; you were motoring all the night, and only got to paris at six o'clock this morning." "motoring all night, from eight o'clock to six!" muttered guerchard under his breath. "oh, that will be all right," said the duke carelessly. "this interesting affair is to be over by midnight, isn't it?" "well, i warn you that, tired or fresh, you will have to come with me to the princess's to-morrow night. all paris will be there--all paris, that is, who are in paris." "oh, i shall be fresh enough," said the duke. they went out of the drawing-room and down the stairs, all four of them. there was an alert readiness about guerchard, as if he were ready to spring. he kept within a foot of the duke right to the front door. the detective in charge opened it; and they went down the steps to the taxi-cab which was awaiting them. the duke kissed germaine's fingers and handed her into the taxi-cab. m. gournay-martin paused at the cab-door, and turned and said, with a pathetic air, "am i never to sleep in my own house again?" he got into the cab and drove off. the duke turned and came up the steps, followed by guerchard. in the hall he took his opera-hat and coat from the stand, and went upstairs. half-way up the flight he paused and said: "where shall we wait for lupin, m. guerchard? in the drawing-room, or in m. gournay-martin's bedroom?" "oh, the drawing-room," said guerchard. "i think it very unlikely that lupin will look for the coronet in m. gournay-martin's bedroom. he would know very well that that is the last place to find it now." the duke went on into the drawing-room. at the door guerchard stopped and said: "i will just go and post my men, your grace." "very good," said the duke; and he went into the drawing-room. he sat down, lighted a cigarette, and yawned. then he took out his watch and looked at it. "another twenty minutes," he said. chapter xix the duke goes when guerchard joined the duke in the drawing-room, he had lost his calm air and was looking more than a little nervous. he moved about the room uneasily, fingering the bric-a-brac, glancing at the duke and looking quickly away from him again. then he came to a standstill on the hearth-rug with his back to the fireplace. "do you think it's quite safe to stand there, at least with your back to the hearth? if lupin dropped through that opening suddenly, he'd catch you from behind before you could wink twice," said the duke, in a tone of remonstrance. "there would always be your grace to come to my rescue," said guerchard; and there was an ambiguous note in his voice, while his piercing eyes now rested fixed on the duke's face. they seemed never to leave it; they explored, and explored it. "it's only a suggestion," said the duke. "this is rather nervous work, don't you know." "yes; and of course you're hardly fit for it," said guerchard. "if i'd known about your break-down in your car last night, i should have hesitated about asking you--" "a break-down?" interrupted the duke. "yes, you left charmerace at eight o'clock last night. and you only reached paris at six this morning. you couldn't have had a very high-power car?" said guerchard. "i had a h.-p. car," said the duke. "then you must have had a devil of a break-down," said guerchard. "yes, it was pretty bad, but i've known worse," said the duke carelessly. "it lost me about three hours: oh, at least three hours. i'm not a first-class repairer, though i know as much about an engine as most motorists." "and there was nobody there to help you repair it?" said guerchard. "no; m. gournay-martin could not let me have his chauffeur to drive me to paris, because he was keeping him to help guard the chateau. and of course there was nobody on the road, because it was two o'clock in the morning." "yes, there was no one," said guerchard slowly. "not a soul," said the duke. "it was unfortunate," said guerchard; and there was a note of incredulity in his voice. "my having to repair the car myself?" said the duke. "yes, of course," said guerchard, hesitating a little over the assent. the duke dropped the end of his cigarette into a tray, and took out his case. he held it out towards guerchard, and said, "a cigarette? or perhaps you prefer your caporal?" "yes, i do, but all the same i'll have one," said guerchard, coming quickly across the room. and he took a cigarette from the case, and looked at it. "all the same, all this is very curious," he said in a new tone, a challenging, menacing, accusing tone. "what?" said the duke, looking at him curiously. "everything: your cigarettes ... the salvias ... the photograph that bonavent found in victoire's prayer-book ... that man in motoring dress ... and finally, your break-down," said guerchard; and the accusation and the threat rang clearer. the duke rose from his chair quickly and said haughtily, in icy tones: "m. guerchard, you've been drinking!" he went to the chair on which he had set his overcoat and his hat, and picked them up. guerchard sprang in front of him, barring his way, and cried in a shaky voice: "no; don't go! you mustn't go!" "what do you mean?" said the duke, and paused. "what do you mean?" guerchard stepped back, and ran his hand over his forehead. he was very pale, and his forehead was clammy to his touch: "no ... i beg your pardon ... i beg your pardon, your grace ... i must be going mad," he stammered. "it looks very like it," said the duke coldly. "what i mean to say is," said guerchard in a halting, uncertain voice, "what i mean to say is: help me ... i want you to stay here, to help me against lupin, you understand. will you, your grace?" "yes, certainly; of course i will, if you want me to," said the duke, in a more gentle voice. "but you seem awfully upset, and you're upsetting me too. we shan't have a nerve between us soon, if you don't pull yourself together." "yes, yes, please excuse me," muttered guerchard. "very good," said the duke. "but what is it we're going to do?" guerchard hesitated. he pulled out his handkerchief, and mopped his forehead: "well ... the coronet ... is it in this case?" he said in a shaky voice, and set the case on the table. "of course it is," said the duke impatiently. guerchard opened the case, and the coronet sparkled and gleamed brightly in the electric light: "yes, it is there; you see it?" said guerchard. "yes, i see it; well?" said the duke, looking at him in some bewilderment, so unlike himself did he seem. "we're going to wait," said guerchard. "what for?" said the duke. "lupin," said guerchard. "lupin? and you actually do believe that, just as in a fairy tale, when that clock strikes twelve, lupin will enter and take the coronet?" "yes, i do; i do," said guerchard with stubborn conviction. and he snapped the case to. "this is most exciting," said the duke. "you're sure it doesn't bore you?" said guerchard huskily. "not a bit of it," said the duke, with cheerful derision. "to make the acquaintance of this scoundrel who has fooled you for ten years is as charming a way of spending the evening as i can think of." "you say that to me?" said guerchard with a touch of temper. "yes," said the duke, with a challenging smile. "to you." he sat down in an easy chair by the table. guerchard sat down in a chair on the other side of it, and set his elbows on it. they were silent. suddenly the duke said, "somebody's coming." guerchard started, and said: "no, i don't hear any one." then there came distinctly the sound of a footstep and a knock at the door. "you've got keener ears than i," said guerchard grudgingly. "in all this business you've shown the qualities of a very promising detective." he rose, went to the door, and unlocked it. bonavent came in: "i've brought you the handcuffs, sir," he said, holding them out. "shall i stay with you?" "no," said guerchard. "you've two men at the back door, and two at the front, and a man in every room on the ground-floor?" "yes, and i've got three men on every other floor," said bonavent, in a tone of satisfaction. "and the house next door?" said guerchard. "there are a dozen men in it," said bonavent. "no communication between the two houses is possible any longer." guerchard watched the duke's face with intent eyes. not a shadow flickered its careless serenity. "if any one tries to enter the house, collar him. if need be, fire on him," said guerchard firmly. "that is my order; go and tell the others." "very good, sir," said bonavent; and he went out of the room. "by jove, we are in a regular fortress," said the duke. "it's even more of a fortress than you think, your grace. i've four men on that landing," said guerchard, nodding towards the door. "oh, have you?" said the duke, with a sudden air of annoyance. "you don't like that?" said guerchard quickly. "i should jolly well think not," said the duke. "with these precautions, lupin will never be able to get into this room at all." "he'll find it a pretty hard job," said guerchard, smiling. "unless he falls from the ceiling, or unless--" "unless you're arsene lupin," interrupted the duke. "in that case, you'd be another, your grace," said guerchard. they both laughed. the duke rose, yawned, picked up his coat and hat, and said, "ah, well, i'm off to bed." "what?" said guerchard. "well," said the duke, yawning again, "i was staying to see lupin. as there's no longer any chance of seeing him--" "but there is ... there is ... so stay," cried guerchard. "do you still cling to that notion?" said the duke wearily. "we shall see him," said guerchard. "nonsense!" said the duke. guerchard lowered his voice and said with an air of the deepest secrecy: "he's already here, your grace." "lupin? here?" cried the duke. "yes; lupin," said guerchard. "where?" cried the astonished duke. "he is," said guerchard. "as one of your men?" said the duke eagerly. "i don't think so," said guerchard, watching him closely. "well, but, well, but--if he's here we've got him.... he is going to turn up," said the duke triumphantly; and he set down his hat on the table beside the coronet. "i hope so," said guerchard. "but will he dare to?" "how do you mean?" said the duke, with a puzzled air. "well, you have said yourself that this is a fortress. an hour ago, perhaps, lupin was resolved to enter this room, but is he now?" "i see what you mean," said the duke, in a tone of disappointment. "yes; you see that now it needs the devil's own courage. he must risk everything to gain everything, and throw off the mask. is lupin going to throw himself into the wolf's jaws? i dare not think it. what do you think about it?" guerchard's husky voice had hardened to a rough harshness; there was a ring of acute anxiety in it, and under the anxiety a faint note of challenge, of a challenge that dare not make itself too distinct. his anxious, challenging eyes burned on the face of the duke, as if they strove with all intensity to pierce a mask. the duke looked at him curiously, as if he were trying to divine what he would be at, but with a careless curiosity, as if it were a matter of indifference to him what the detective's object was; then he said carelessly: "well, you ought to know better than i. you have known him for ten years ...." he paused, and added with just the faintest stress in his tone, "at least, by reputation." the anxiety in the detective's face grew plainer, it almost gave him the air of being unnerved; and he said quickly, in a jerky voice: "yes, and i know his way of acting too. during the last ten years i have learnt to unravel his intrigues--to understand and anticipate his manoeuvres.... oh, his is a clever system! ... instead of lying low, as you'd expect, he attacks his opponent ... openly.... he confuses him--at least, he tries to." he smiled a half-confident, a half-doubtful smile, "it is a mass of entangled, mysterious combinations. i've been caught in them myself again and again. you smile?" "it interests me so," said the duke, in a tone of apology. "oh, it interests me," said guerchard, with a snarl. "but this time i see my way clearly. no more tricks--no more secret paths ... we're fighting in the light of day." he paused, and said in a clear, sneering voice, "lupin has pluck, perhaps, but it's only thief's pluck." "oh, is it?" said the duke sharply, and there was a sudden faint glitter in his eyes. "yes; rogues have very poor qualities," sneered guerchard. "one can't have everything," said the duke quietly; but his languid air had fallen from him. "their ambushes, their attacks, their fine tactics aren't up to much," said guerchard, smiling contemptuously. "you go a trifle too far, i think," said the duke, smiling with equal contempt. they looked one another in the eyes with a long, lingering look. they had suddenly the air of fencers who have lost their tempers, and are twisting the buttons off their foils. "not a bit of it, your grace," said guerchard; and his voice lingered on the words "your grace" with a contemptuous stress. "this famous lupin is immensely overrated." "however, he has done some things which aren't half bad," said the duke, with his old charming smile. he had the air of a duelist drawing his blade lovingly through his fingers before he falls to. "oh, has he?" said guerchard scornfully. "yes; one must be fair. last night's burglary, for instance: it is not unheard of, but it wasn't half bad. and that theft of the motorcars: it was a neat piece of work," said the duke in a gentle, insolent voice, infinitely aggravating. guerchard snorted scornfully. "and a robbery at the british embassy, another at the treasury, and a third at m. lepine's--all in the same week--it wasn't half bad, don't you know?" said the duke, in the same gentle, irritating voice. "oh, no, it wasn't. but--" "and the time when he contrived to pass as guerchard--the great guerchard--do you remember that?" the duke interrupted. "come, come--to give the devil his due--between ourselves--it wasn't half bad." "no," snarled guerchard. "but he has done better than that lately.... why don't you speak of that?" "of what?" said the duke. "of the time when he passed as the duke of charmerace," snapped guerchard. "what! did he do that?" cried the duke; and then he added slowly, "but, you know, i'm like you--i'm so easy to imitate." "what would have been amusing, your grace, would have been to get as far as actual marriage," said guerchard more calmly. "oh, if he had wanted to," said the duke; and he threw out his hands. "but you know--married life--for lupin." "a large fortune ... a pretty girl," said guerchard, in a mocking tone. "he must be in love with some one else," said the duke. "a thief, perhaps," sneered guerchard. "like himself.... and then, if you wish to know what i think, he must have found his fiancee rather trying," said the duke, with his charming smile. "after all, it's pitiful--heartrending, you must admit it, that, on the very eve of his marriage, he was such a fool as to throw off the mask. and yet at bottom it's quite logical; it's lupin coming out through charmerace. he had to grab at the dowry at the risk of losing the girl," said guerchard, in a reflective tone; but his eyes were intent on the face of the duke. "perhaps that's what one should call a marriage of reason," said the duke, with a faint smile. "what a fall!" said guerchard, in a taunting voice. "to be expected, eagerly, at the princess's to-morrow evening, and to pass the evening in a police-station ... to have intended in a month's time, as the duke of charmerace, to mount the steps of the madeleine with all pomp and to fall down the father-in-law's staircase this evening--this very evening"--his voice rose suddenly on a note of savage triumph--"with the handcuffs on! what? is that a good enough revenge for guerchard--for that poor old idiot, guerchard? the rogues' brummel in a convict's cap! the gentleman-burglar in a gaol! for lupin it's only a trifling annoyance, but for a duke it's a disaster! come, in your turn, be frank: don't you find that amusing?" the duke rose quietly, and said coldly, "have you finished?" "do you?" cried guerchard; and he rose and faced him. "oh, yes; i find it quite amusing," said the duke lightly. "and so do i," cried guerchard. "no; you're frightened," said the duke calmly. "frightened!" cried guerchard, with a savage laugh. "yes, you're frightened," said the duke. "and don't think, policeman, that because i'm familiar with you, i throw off a mask. i don't wear one. i've none to throw off. i am the duke of charmerace." "you lie! you escaped from the sante four years ago. you are lupin! i recognize you now." "prove it," said the duke scornfully. "i will!" cried guerchard. "you won't. i am the duke of charmerace." guerchard laughed wildly. "don't laugh. you know nothing--nothing, dear boy," said the duke tauntingly. "dear boy?" cried guerchard triumphantly, as if the word had been a confession. "what do i risk?" said the duke, with scathing contempt. "can you arrest me? ... you can arrest lupin ... but arrest the duke of charmerace, an honourable gentleman, member of the jockey club, and of the union, residing at his house, b, university street ... arrest the duke of charmerace, the fiance of mademoiselle gournay-martin?" "scoundrel!" cried guerchard, pale with sudden, helpless fury. "well, do it," taunted the duke. "be an ass.... make yourself the laughing-stock of paris ... call your coppers in. have you a proof--one single proof? not one." "oh, i shall get them," howled guerchard, beside himself. "i think you may," said the duke coolly. "and you might be able to arrest me next week ... the day after to-morrow perhaps ... perhaps never ... but not to-night, that's certain." "oh, if only somebody could hear you!" gasped guerchard. "now, don't excite yourself," said the duke. "that won't produce any proofs for you.... the fact is, m. formery told you the truth when he said that, when it is a case of lupin, you lose your head. ah, that formery--there is an intelligent man if you like." "at all events, the coronet is safe ... to-night--" "wait, my good chap ... wait," said the duke slowly; and then he snapped out: "do you know what's behind that door?" and he flung out his hand towards the door of the inner drawing-room, with a mysterious, sinister air. "what?" cried guerchard; and he whipped round and faced the door, with his eyes starting out of his head. "get out, you funk!" said the duke, with a great laugh. "hang you!" said guerchard shrilly. "i said that you were going to be absolutely pitiable," said the duke, and he laughed again cruelly. "oh, go on talking, do!" cried guerchard, mopping his forehead. "absolutely pitiable," said the duke, with a cold, disquieting certainty. "as the hand of that clock moves nearer and nearer midnight, you will grow more and more terrified." he paused, and then shouted violently, "attention!" guerchard jumped; and then he swore. "your nerves are on edge," said the duke, laughing. "joker!" snarled guerchard. "oh, you're as brave as the next man. but who can stand the anguish of the unknown thing which is bound to happen? ... i'm right. you feel it, you're sure of it. at the end of these few fixed minutes an inevitable, fated event must happen. don't shrug your shoulders, man; you're green with fear." the duke was no longer a smiling, cynical dandy. there emanated from him an impression of vivid, terrible force. his voice had deepened. it thrilled with a consciousness of irresistible power; it was overwhelming, paralyzing. his eyes were terrible. "my men are outside ... i'm armed," stammered guerchard. "child! bear in mind ... bear in mind that it is always when you have foreseen everything, arranged everything, made every combination ... bear in mind that it is always then that some accident dashes your whole structure to the ground," said the duke, in the same deep, thrilling voice. "remember that it is always at the very moment at which you are going to triumph that he beats you, that he only lets you reach the top of the ladder to throw you more easily to the ground." "confess, then, that you are lupin," muttered guerchard. "i thought you were sure of it," said the duke in a jeering tone. guerchard dragged the handcuffs out of his pocket, and said between his teeth, "i don't know what prevents me, my boy." the duke drew himself up, and said haughtily, "that's enough." "what?" cried guerchard. "i say that that's enough," said the duke sternly. "it's all very well for me to play at being familiar with you, but don't you call me 'my boy.'" "oh, you won't impose on me much longer," muttered guerchard; and his bloodshot, haggard eyes scanned the duke's face in an agony, an anguish of doubting impotence. "if i'm lupin, arrest me," said the duke. "i'll arrest you in three minutes from now, or the coronet will be untouched," cried guerchard in a firmer tone. "in three minutes from now the coronet will have been stolen; and you will not arrest me," said the duke, in a tone of chilling certainty. "but i will! i swear i will!" cried guerchard. "don't swear any foolish oaths! ... there are only two minutes left," said the duke; and he drew a revolver from his pocket. "no, you don't!" cried guerchard, drawing a revolver in his turn. "what's the matter?" said the duke, with an air of surprise. "you haven't forbidden me to shoot lupin. i have my revolver ready, since he's going to come.... there's only a minute left." "there are plenty of us," said guerchard; and he went towards the door. "funk!" said the duke scornfully. guerchard turned sharply. "very well," he said, "i'll stick it out alone." "how rash!" sneered the duke. guerchard ground his teeth. he was panting; his bloodshot eyes rolled in their sockets; the beads of cold sweat stood out on his forehead. he came back towards the table on unsteady feet, trembling from head to foot in the last excitation of the nerves. he kept jerking his head to shake away the mist which kept dimming his eyes. "at your slightest gesture, at your slightest movement, i'll fire," he said jerkily, and covered the duke with his revolver. "i call myself the duke of charmerace. you will be arrested to-morrow!" said the duke, in a compelling, thrilling voice. "i don't care a curse!" cried guerchard. "only fifty seconds!" said the duke. "yes, yes," muttered guerchard huskily. and his eyes shot from the coronet to the duke, from the duke to the coronet. "in fifty seconds the coronet will be stolen," said the duke. "no!" cried guerchard furiously. "yes," said the duke coldly. "no! no! no!" cried guerchard. their eyes turned to the clock. to guerchard the hands seemed to be standing still. he could have sworn at them for their slowness. then the first stroke rang out; and the eyes of the two men met like crossing blades. twice the duke made the slightest movement. twice guerchard started forward to meet it. at the last stroke both their hands shot out. guerchard's fell heavily on the case which held the coronet. the duke's fell on the brim of his hat; and he picked it up. guerchard gasped and choked. then he cried triumphantly: "i have it; now then, have i won? have i been fooled this time? has lupin got the coronet?" "it doesn't look like it. but are you quite sure?" said the duke gaily. "sure?" cried guerchard. "it's only the weight of it," said the duke, repressing a laugh. "doesn't it strike you that it's just a trifle light?" "what?" cried guerchard. "this is merely an imitation." said the duke, with a gentle laugh. "hell and damnation!" howled guerchard. "bonavent! dieusy!" the door flew open, and half a dozen detectives rushed in. guerchard sank into a chair, stupefied, paralyzed; this blow, on the top of the strain of the struggle with the duke, had broken him. "gentlemen," said the duke sadly, "the coronet has been stolen." they broke into cries of surprise and bewilderment, surrounding the gasping guerchard with excited questions. the duke walked quietly out of the room. guerchard sobbed twice; his eyes opened, and in a dazed fashion wandered from face to face; he said faintly: "where is he?" "where's who?" said bonavent. "the duke--the duke!" gasped guerchard. "why, he's gone!" said bonavent. guerchard staggered to his feet and cried hoarsely, frantically: "stop him from leaving the house! follow him! arrest him! catch him before he gets home!" chapter xx lupin comes home the cold light of the early september morning illumined but dimly the charming smoking-room of the duke of charmerace in his house at b, university street, though it stole in through two large windows. the smoking-room was on the first floor; and the duke's bedroom opened into it. it was furnished in the most luxurious fashion, but with a taste which nowadays infrequently accompanies luxury. the chairs were of the most comfortable, but their lines were excellent; the couch against the wall, between the two windows, was the last word in the matter of comfort. the colour scheme, of a light greyish-blue, was almost too bright for a man's room; it would have better suited a boudoir. it suggested that the owner of the room enjoyed an uncommon lightness and cheerfulness of temperament. on the walls, with wide gaps between them so that they did not clash, hung three or four excellent pictures. two ballet-girls by degas, a group of shepherdesses and shepherds, in pink and blue and white beribboned silk, by fragonard, a portrait of a woman by bastien-lepage, a charming corot, and two conder fans showed that the taste of their fortunate owner was at any rate eclectic. at the end of the room was, of all curious things, the opening into the well of a lift. the doors of it were open, though the lift itself was on some other floor. to the left of the opening stood a book-case, its shelves loaded with books of a kind rather suited to a cultivated, thoughtful man than to an idle dandy. beside the window, half-hidden, and peering through the side of the curtain into the street, stood m. charolais. but it was hardly the m. charolais who had paid m. gournay-martin that visit at the chateau de charmerace, and departed so firmly in the millionaire's favourite motor-car. this was a paler m. charolais; he lacked altogether the rich, ruddy complexion of the millionaire's visitor. his nose, too, was thinner, and showed none of the ripe acquaintance with the vintages of the world which had been so plainly displayed on it during its owner's visit to the country. again, hair and eyebrows were no longer black, but fair; and his hair was no longer curly and luxuriant, but thin and lank. his moustache had vanished, and along with it the dress of a well-to-do provincial man of business. he wore a livery of the charmeraces, and at that early morning hour had not yet assumed the blue waistcoat which is an integral part of it. indeed it would have required an acute and experienced observer to recognize in him the bogus purchaser of the mercrac. only his eyes, his close-set eyes, were unchanged. walking restlessly up and down the middle of the room, keeping out of sight of the windows, was victoire. she wore a very anxious air, as did charolais too. by the door stood bernard charolais; and his natural, boyish timidity, to judge from his frightened eyes, had assumed an acute phase. "by the lord, we're done!" cried charolais, starting back from the window. "that was the front-door bell." "no, it was only the hall clock," said bernard. "that's seven o'clock! oh, where can he be?" said victoire, wringing her hands. "the coup was fixed for midnight.... where can he be?" "they must be after him," said charolais. "and he daren't come home." gingerly he drew back the curtain and resumed his watch. "i've sent down the lift to the bottom, in case he should come back by the secret entrance," said victoire; and she went to the opening into the well of the lift and stood looking down it, listening with all her ears. "then why, in the devil's name, have you left the doors open?" cried charolais irritably. "how do you expect the lift to come up if the doors are open?" "i must be off my head!" cried victoire. she stepped to the side of the lift and pressed a button. the doors closed, and there was a grunting click of heavy machinery settling into a new position. "suppose we telephone to justin at the passy house?" said victoire. "what on earth's the good of that?" said charolais impatiently. "justin knows no more than we do. how can he know any more?" "the best thing we can do is to get out," said bernard, in a shaky voice. "no, no; he will come. i haven't given up hope," victoire protested. "he's sure to come; and he may need us." "but, hang it all! suppose the police come! suppose they ransack his papers.... he hasn't told us what to do ... we are not ready for them.... what are we to do?" cried charolais, in a tone of despair. "well, i'm worse off than you are; and i'm not making a fuss. if the police come they'll arrest me," said victoire. "perhaps they've arrested him," said bernard, in his shaky voice. "don't talk like that," said victoire fretfully. "isn't it bad enough to wait and wait, without your croaking like a scared crow?" she started again her pacing up and down the room, twisting her hands, and now and again moistening her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. presently she said: "are those two plain-clothes men still there watching?" and in her anxiety she came a step nearer the window. "keep away from the window!" snapped charolais. "do you want to be recognized, you great idiot?" then he added, more quietly, "they're still there all right, curse them, in front of the cafe.... hullo!" "what is it, now?" cried victoire, starting. "a copper and a detective running," said charolais. "they are running for all they're worth." "are they coming this way?" said victoire; and she ran to the door and caught hold of the handle. "no," said charolais. "thank goodness!" said victoire. "they're running to the two men watching the house ... they're telling them something. oh, hang it, they're all running down the street." "this way? ... are they coming this way?" cried victoire faintly; and she pressed her hand to her side. "they are!" cried charolais. "they are!" and he dropped the curtain with an oath. "and he isn't here! suppose they come.... suppose he comes to the front door! they'll catch him!" cried victoire. there came a startling peal at the front-door bell. they stood frozen to stone, their eyes fixed on one another, staring. the bell had hardly stopped ringing, when there was a slow, whirring noise. the doors of the lift flew open, and the duke stepped out of it. but what a changed figure from the admirably dressed dandy who had walked through the startled detectives and out of the house of m. gournay-martin at midnight! he was pale, exhausted, almost fainting. his eyes were dim in a livid face; his lips were grey. he was panting heavily. he was splashed with mud from head to foot: one sleeve of his coat was torn along half its length. the sole of his left-hand pump was half off; and his cut foot showed white and red through the torn sock. "the master! the master!" cried charolais in a tone of extravagant relief; and he danced round the room snapping his fingers. "you're wounded?" cried victoire. "no," said arsene lupin. the front-door bell rang out again, startling, threatening, terrifying. the note of danger seemed to brace lupin, to spur him to a last effort. he pulled himself together, and said in a hoarse but steady voice: "your waistcoat, charolais.... go and open the door ... not too quickly ... fumble the bolts.... bernard, shut the book-case. victoire, get out of sight, do you want to ruin us all? be smart now, all of you. be smart!" he staggered past them into his bedroom, and slammed the door. victoire and charolais hurried out of the room, through the anteroom, on to the landing. victoire ran upstairs, charolais went slowly down. bernard pressed the button. the doors of the lift shut and there was a slow whirring as it went down. he pressed another button, and the book-case slid slowly across and hid the opening into the lift-well. bernard ran out of the room and up the stairs. charolais went to the front door and fumbled with the bolts. he bawled through the door to the visitors not to be in such a hurry at that hour in the morning; and they bawled furiously at him to be quick, and knocked and rang again and again. he was fully three minutes fumbling with the bolts, which were already drawn. at last he opened the door an inch or two, and looked out. on the instant the door was dashed open, flinging him back against the wall; and bonavent and dieusy rushed past him, up the stairs, as hard as they could pelt. a brown-faced, nervous, active policeman followed them in and stopped to guard the door. on the landing the detectives paused, and looked at one another, hesitating. "which way did he go?" said bonavent. "we were on his very heels." "i don't know; but we've jolly well stopped his getting into his own house; and that's the main thing," said dieusy triumphantly. "but are you sure it was him?" said bonavent, stepping into the anteroom. "i can swear to it," said dieusy confidently; and he followed him. charolais came rushing up the stairs and caught them up as they were entering the smoking-room: "here! what's all this?" he cried. "you mustn't come in here! his grace isn't awake yet." "awake? awake? your precious duke has been galloping all night," cried dieusy. "and he runs devilish well, too." the door of the bedroom opened; and lupin stood on the threshold in slippers and pyjamas. "what's all this?" he snapped, with the irritation of a man whose sleep has been disturbed; and his tousled hair and eyes dim with exhaustion gave him every appearance of being still heavy with sleep. the eyes and mouths of bonavent and dieusy opened wide; and they stared at him blankly, in utter bewilderment and wonder. "is it you who are making all this noise?" said lupin, frowning at them. "why, i know you two; you're in the service of m. guerchard." "yes, your grace," stammered bonavent. "well, what are you doing here? what is it you want?" said lupin. "oh, nothing, your grace ... nothing ... there's been a mistake," stammered bonavent. "a mistake?" said lupin haughtily. "i should think there had been a mistake. but i take it that this is guerchard's doing. i'd better deal with him directly. you two can go." he turned to charolais and added curtly, "show them out." charolais opened the door, and the two detectives went out of the room with the slinking air of whipped dogs. they went down the stairs in silence, slowly, reflectively; and charolais let them out of the front door. as they went down the steps dieusy said: "what a howler! guerchard risks getting the sack for this!" "i told you so," said bonavent. "a duke's a duke." when the door closed behind the two detectives lupin tottered across the room, dropped on to the couch with a groan of exhaustion, and closed his eyes. presently the door opened, victoire came in, saw his attitude of exhaustion, and with a startled cry ran to his side. "oh, dearie! dearie!" she cried. "pull yourself together! oh, do try to pull yourself together." she caught his cold hands and began to rub them, murmuring words of endearment like a mother over a young child. lupin did not open his eyes; charolais came in. "some breakfast!" she cried. "bring his breakfast ... he's faint ... he's had nothing to eat this morning. can you eat some breakfast, dearie?" "yes," said lupin faintly. "hurry up with it," said victoire in urgent, imperative tones; and charolais left the room at a run. "oh, what a life you lead!" said victoire, or, to be exact, she wailed it. "are you never going to change? you're as white as a sheet.... can't you speak, dearie?" she stooped and lifted his legs on to the couch. he stretched himself, and, without opening his eyes, said in a faint voice: "oh, victoire, what a fright i've had!" "you? you've been frightened?" cried victoire, amazed. "yes. you needn't tell the others, though. but i've had a night of it ... i did play the fool so ... i must have been absolutely mad. once i had changed the coronet under that fat old fool gournay-martin's very eyes ... once you and sonia were out of their clutches, all i had to do was to slip away. did i? not a bit of it! i stayed there out of sheer bravado, just to score off guerchard.... and then i ... i, who pride myself on being as cool as a cucumber ... i did the one thing i ought not to have done.... instead of going quietly away as the duke of charmerace ... what do you think i did? ... i bolted ... i started running ... running like a thief.... in about two seconds i saw the slip i had made. it did not take me longer; but that was too long--guerchard's men were on my track ... i was done for." "then guerchard understood--he recognized you?" said victoire anxiously. "as soon as the first paralysis had passed, guerchard dared to see clearly ... to see the truth," said lupin. "and then it was a chase. there were ten--fifteen of them on my heels. out of breath--grunting, furious--a mob--a regular mob. i had passed the night before in a motor-car. i was dead beat. in fact, i was done for before i started ... and they were gaining ground all the time." "why didn't you hide?" said victoire. "for a long while they were too close. they must have been within five feet of me. i was done. then i was crossing one of the bridges. ... there was the seine ... handy ... i made up my mind that, rather than be taken, i'd make an end of it ... i'd throw myself over." "good lord!--and then?" cried victoire. "then i had a revulsion of feeling. at any rate, i'd stick it out to the end. i gave myself another minute... one more minute--the last, and i had my revolver on me... but during that minute i put forth every ounce of strength i had left ... i began to gain ground ... i had them pretty well strung out already ... they were blown too. the knowledge gave me back my courage, and i plugged on ... my feet did not feel so much as though they were made of lead. i began to run away from them ... they were dropping behind ... all of them but one ... he stuck to me. we went at a jog-trot, a slow jog-trot, for i don't know how long. then we dropped to a walk--we could run no more; and on we went. my strength and wind began to come back. i suppose my pursuer's did too; for exactly what i expected happened. he gave a yell and dashed for me. i was ready for him. i pretended to start running, and when he was within three yards of me i dropped on one knee, caught his ankles, and chucked him over my head. i don't know whether he broke his neck or not. i hope he did." "splendid!" said victoire. "splendid!" "well, there i was, outside paris, and i'm hanged if i know where. i went on half a mile, and then i rested. oh, how sleepy i was! i would have given a hundred thousand francs for an hour's sleep--cheerfully. but i dared not let myself sleep. i had to get back here unseen. there were you and sonia." "sonia? another woman?" cried victoire. "oh, it's then that i'm frightened ... when you get a woman mixed up in your game. always, when you come to grief ... when you really get into danger, there's a woman in it." "oh, but she's charming!" protested lupin. "they always are," said victoire drily. "but go on. tell me how you got here." "well, i knew it was going to be a tough job, so i took a good rest--an hour, i should think. and then i started to walk back. i found that i had come a devil of a way--i must have gone at marathon pace. i walked and walked, and at last i got into paris, and found myself with still a couple of miles to go. it was all right now; i should soon find a cab. but the luck was dead against me. i heard a man come round the corner of a side-street into a long street i was walking down. he gave a yell, and came bucketing after me. it was that hound dieusy. he had recognized my figure. off i went; and the chase began again. i led him a dance, but i couldn't shake him off. all the while i was working my way towards home. then, just at last, i spurted for all i was worth, got out of his sight, bolted round the corner of the street into the secret entrance, and here i am." he smiled weakly, and added, "oh, my dear victoire, what a profession it is!" chapter xxi the cutting of the telephone wires the door opened, and in came charolais, bearing a tray. "here's your breakfast, master," he said. "don't call me master--that's how his men address guerchard. it's a disgusting practice," said lupin severely. victoire and charolais were quick laying the table. charolais kept up a running fire of questions as he did it; but lupin did not trouble to answer them. he lay back, relaxed, drawing deep breaths. already his lips had lost their greyness, and were pink; there was a suggestion of blood under the skin of his pale face. they soon had the table laid; and he walked to it on fairly steady feet. he sat down; charolais whipped off a cover, and said: "anyhow, you've got out of the mess neatly. it was a jolly smart escape." "oh, yes. so far it's all right," said lupin. "but there's going to be trouble presently--lots of it. i shall want all my wits. we all shall." he fell upon his breakfast with the appetite but not the manners of a wolf. charolais went out of the room. victoire hovered about him, pouring out his coffee and putting sugar into it. "by jove, how good these eggs are!" he said. "i think that, of all the thousand ways of cooking eggs, en cocotte is the best." "heavens! how empty i was!" he said presently. "what a meal i'm making! it's really a very healthy life, this of mine, victoire. i feel much better already." "oh, yes; it's all very well to talk," said victoire, in a scolding tone; for since he was better, she felt, as a good woman should, that the time had come to put in a word out of season. "but, all the same, you're trying to kill yourself--that's what you're doing. just because you're young you abuse your youth. it won't last for ever; and you'll be sorry you used it up before it's time. and this life of lies and thefts and of all kinds of improper things--i suppose it's going to begin all over again. it's no good your getting a lesson. it's just thrown away upon you." "what i want next is a bath," said lupin. "it's all very well your pretending not to listen to me, when you know very well that i'm speaking for your good," she went on, raising her voice a little. "but i tell you that all this is going to end badly. to be a thief gives you no position in the world--no position at all--and when i think of what you made me do the night before last, i'm just horrified at myself." "we'd better not talk about that--the mess you made of it! it was positively excruciating!" said lupin. "and what did you expect? i'm an honest woman, i am!" said victoire sharply. "i wasn't brought up to do things like that, thank goodness! and to begin at my time of life!" "it's true, and i often ask myself how you bring yourself to stick to me," said lupin, in a reflective, quite impersonal tone. "please pour me out another cup of coffee." "that's what i'm always asking myself," said victoire, pouring out the coffee. "i don't know--i give it up. i suppose it is because i'm fond of you." "yes, and i'm very fond of you, my dear victoire," said lupin, in a coaxing tone. "and then, look you, there are things that there's no understanding. i often talked to your poor mother about them. oh, your poor mother! whatever would she have said to these goings-on?" lupin helped himself to another cutlet; his eyes twinkled and he said, "i'm not sure that she would have been very much surprised. i always told her that i was going to punish society for the way it had treated her. do you think she would have been surprised?" "oh, nothing you did would have surprised her," said victoire. "when you were quite a little boy you were always making us wonder. you gave yourself such airs, and you had such nice manners of your own--altogether different from the other boys. and you were already a bad boy, when you were only seven years old, full of all kinds of tricks; and already you had begun to steal." "oh, only sugar," protested lupin. "yes, you began by stealing sugar," said victoire, in the severe tones of a moralist. "and then it was jam, and then it was pennies. oh, it was all very well at that age--a little thief is pretty enough. but now--when you're twenty-eight years old." "really, victoire, you're absolutely depressing," said lupin, yawning; and he helped himself to jam. "i know very well that you're all right at heart," said victoire. "of course you only rob the rich, and you've always been kind to the poor.... yes; there's no doubt about it: you have a good heart." "i can't help it--what about it?" said lupin, smiling. "well, you ought to have different ideas in your head. why are you a burglar?" "you ought to try it yourself, my dear victoire," said lupin gently; and he watched her with a humorous eye. "goodness, what a thing to say!" cried victoire. "i assure you, you ought," said lupin, in a tone of thoughtful conviction. "i've tried everything. i've taken my degree in medicine and in law. i have been an actor, and a professor of jiu-jitsu. i have even been a member of the detective force, like that wretched guerchard. oh, what a dirty world that is! then i launched out into society. i have been a duke. well, i give you my word that not one of these professions equals that of burglar--not even the profession of duke. there is so much of the unexpected in it, victoire--the splendid unexpected.... and then, it's full of variety, so terrible, so fascinating." his voice sank a little, and he added, "and what fun it is!" "fun!" cried victoire. "yes ... these rich men, these swells in their luxury--when one relieves them of a bank-note, how they do howl! ... you should have seen that fat old gournay-martin when i relieved him of his treasures--what an agony! you almost heard the death-rattle in his throat. and then the coronet! in the derangement of their minds--and it was sheer derangement, mind you--already prepared at charmerace, in the derangement of guerchard, i had only to put out my hand and pluck the coronet. and the joy, the ineffable joy of enraging the police! to see guerchard's furious eyes when i downed him.... and look round you!" he waved his hand round the luxurious room. "duke of charmerace! this trade leads to everything ... to everything on condition that one sticks to it ....i tell you, victoire, that when one cannot be a great artist or a great soldier, the only thing to be is a great thief!" "oh, be quiet!" cried victoire. "don't talk like that. you're working yourself up; you're intoxicating yourself! and all that, it is not catholic. come, at your age, you ought to have one idea in your head which should drive out all these others, which should make you forget all these thefts.... love ... that would change you, i'm sure of it. that would make another man of you. you ought to marry." "yes ... perhaps ... that would make another man of me. that's what i've been thinking. i believe you're right," said lupin thoughtfully. "is that true? have you really been thinking of it?" cried victoire joyfully. "yes," said lupin, smiling at her eagerness. "i have been thinking about it--seriously." "no more messing about--no more intrigues. but a real woman ... a woman for life?" cried victoire. "yes," said lupin softly; and his eyes were shining in a very grave face. "is it serious--is it real love, dearie?" said victoire. "what's she like?" "she's beautiful," said lupin. "oh, trust you for that. is she a blonde or a brunette?" "she's very fair and delicate--like a princess in a fairy tale," said lupin softly. "what is she? what does she do?" said victoire. "well, since you ask me, she's a thief," said lupin with a mischievous smile. "good heavens!" cried victoire. "but she's a very charming thief," said lupin; and he rose smiling. he lighted a cigar, stretched himself and yawned: "she had ever so much more reason for stealing than ever i had," he said. "and she has always hated it like poison." "well, that's something," said victoire; and her blank and fallen face brightened a little. lupin walked up and down the room, breathing out long luxurious puffs of smoke from his excellent cigar, and watching victoire with a humorous eye. he walked across to his book-shelf, and scanned the titles of his books with an appreciative, almost affectionate smile. "this is a very pleasant interlude," he said languidly. "but i don't suppose it's going to last very long. as soon as guerchard recovers from the shock of learning that i spent a quiet night in my ducal bed as an honest duke should, he'll be getting to work with positively furious energy, confound him! i could do with a whole day's sleep--twenty-four solid hours of it." "i'm sure you could, dearie," said victoire sympathetically. "the girl i'm going to marry is sonia kritchnoff," he said. "sonia? that dear child! but i love her already!" cried victoire. "sonia, but why did you say she was a thief? that was a silly thing to say." "it's my extraordinary sense of humour," said lupin. the door opened and charolais bustled in: "shall i clear away the breakfast?" he said. lupin nodded; and then the telephone bell rang. he put his finger on his lips and went to it. "are you there?" he said. "oh, it's you, germaine.... good morning.... oh, yes, i had a good night--excellent, thank you.... you want to speak to me presently? ... you're waiting for me at the ritz?" "don't go--don't go--it isn't safe," said victoire, in a whisper. "all right, i'll be with you in about half an hour, or perhaps three-quarters. i'm not dressed yet ... but i'm ever so much more impatient than you ... good-bye for the present." he put the receiver on the stand. "it's a trap," said charolais. "never mind, what if it is? is it so very serious?" said lupin. "there'll be nothing but traps now; and if i can find the time i shall certainly go and take a look at that one." "and if she knows everything? if she's taking her revenge ... if she's getting you there to have you arrested?" said victoire. "yes, m. formery is probably at the ritz with gournay-martin. they're probably all of them there, weighing the coronet," said lupin, with a chuckle. he hesitated a moment, reflecting; then he said, "how silly you are! if they wanted to arrest me, if they had the material proof which they haven't got, guerchard would be here already!" "then why did they chase you last night?" said charolais. "the coronet," said lupin. "wasn't that reason enough? but, as it turned out, they didn't catch me: and when the detectives did come here, they disturbed me in my sleep. and that me was ever so much more me than the man they followed. and then the proofs ... they must have proofs. there aren't any--or rather, what there are, i've got!" he pointed to a small safe let into the wall. "in that safe are the coronet, and, above all, the death certificate of the duke of charmerace ... everything that guerchard must have to induce m. formery to proceed. but still, there is a risk--i think i'd better have those things handy in case i have to bolt." he went into his bedroom and came back with the key of the safe and a kit-bag. he opened the safe and took out the coronet, the real coronet of the princesse de lamballe, and along with it a pocket-book with a few papers in it. he set the pocket-book on the table, ready to put in his coat-pocket when he should have dressed, and dropped the coronet into the kit-bag. "i'm glad i have that death certificate; it makes it much safer," he said. "if ever they do nab me, i don't wish that rascal guerchard to accuse me of having murdered the duke. it might prejudice me badly. i've not murdered anybody yet." "that comes of having a good heart," said victoire proudly. "not even the duke of charmerace," said charolais sadly. "and it would have been so easy when he was ill--just one little draught. and he was in such a perfect place--so out of the way--no doctors." "you do have such disgusting ideas, charolais," said lupin, in a tone of severe reproof. "instead of which you went and saved his life," said charolais, in a tone of deep discontent; and he went on clearing the table. "i did, i did: i had grown quite fond of him," said lupin, with a meditative air. "for one thing, he was so very like one. i'm not sure that he wasn't even better-looking." "no; he was just like you," said victoire, with decision. "any one would have said you were twin brothers." "it gave me quite a shock the first time i saw his portrait," said lupin. "you remember, charolais? it was three years ago, the day, or rather the night, of the first gournay-martin burglary at charmerace. do you remember?" "do i remember?" said charolais. "it was i who pointed out the likeness to you. i said, 'he's the very spit of you, master.' and you said, 'there's something to be done with that, charolais.' and then off you started for the ice and snow and found the duke, and became his friend; and then he went and died, not that you'd have helped him to, if he hadn't." "poor charmerace. he was indeed grand seigneur. with him a great name was about to be extinguished.... did i hesitate? ... no.... i continued it," said lupin. he paused and looked at the clock. "a quarter to eight," he said, hesitating. "shall i telephone to sonia, or shall i not? oh, there's no hurry; let the poor child sleep on. she must be worn out after that night-journey and that cursed guerchard's persecution yesterday. i'll dress first, and telephone to her afterwards. i'd better be getting dressed, by the way. the work i've got to do can't be done in pyjamas. i wish it could; for bed's the place for me. my wits aren't quite as clear as i could wish them to deal with an awkward business like this. well, i must do the best i can with them." he yawned and went to the bedroom, leaving the pocket-book on the table. "bring my shaving-water, charolais, and shave me," he said, pausing; and he went into the bedroom and shut the door. "ah," said victoire sadly, "what a pity it is! a few years ago he would have gone to the crusades; and to-day he steals coronets. what a pity it is!" "i think myself that the best thing we can do is to pack up our belongings," said charolais. "and i don't think we've much time to do it either. this particular game is at an end, you may take it from me." "i hope to goodness it is: i want to get back to the country," said victoire. he took up the tray; and they went out of the room. on the landing they separated; she went upstairs and he went down. presently he came up with the shaving water and shaved his master; for in the house in university street he discharged the double functions of valet and butler. he had just finished his task when there came a ring at the front-door bell. "you'd better go and see who it is," said lupin. "bernard is answering the door," said charolais. "but perhaps i'd better keep an eye on it myself; one never knows." he put away the razor leisurely, and went. on the stairs he found bonavent, mounting--bonavent, disguised in the livery and fierce moustache of a porter from the ritz. "why didn't you come to the servants' entrance?" said charolais, with the truculent air of the servant of a duke and a stickler for his master's dignity. "i didn't know that there was one," said bonavent humbly. "well, you ought to have known that there was; and it's plain enough to see. what is it you want?" said charolais. "i've brought a letter--a letter for the duke of charmerace," said bonavent. "give it to me," said charolais. "i'll take it to him." "no, no; i'm to give it into the hands of the duke himself and to nobody else," said bonavent. "well, in that case, you'll have to wait till he's finished dressing," said charolais. they went on up to the stairs into the ante-room. bonavent was walking straight into the smoking-room. "here! where are you going to? wait here," said charolais quickly. "take a chair; sit down." bonavent sat down with a very stolid air, and charolais looked at him doubtfully, in two minds whether to leave him there alone or not. before he had decided there came a thundering knock on the front door, not only loud but protracted. charolais looked round with a scared air; and then ran out of the room and down the stairs. on the instant bonavent was on his feet, and very far from stolid. he opened the door of the smoking-room very gently and peered in. it was empty. he slipped noiselessly across the room, a pair of clippers ready in his hand, and cut the wires of the telephone. his quick eye glanced round the room and fell on the pocket-book on the table. he snatched it up, and slipped it into the breast of his tunic. he had scarcely done it--one button of his tunic was still to fasten--when the bedroom door opened, and lupin came out: "what do you want?" he said sharply; and his keen eyes scanned the porter with a disquieting penetration. "i've brought a letter to the duke of charmerace, to be given into his own hands," said bonavent, in a disguised voice. "give it to me," said lupin, holding out his hand. "but the duke?" said bonavent, hesitating. "i am the duke," said lupin. bonavent gave him the letter, and turned to go. "don't go," said lupin quietly. "wait, there may be an answer." there was a faint glitter in his eyes; but bonavent missed it. charolais came into the room, and said, in a grumbling tone, "a run-away knock. i wish i could catch the brats; i'd warm them. they wouldn't go fetching me away from my work again, in a hurry, i can tell you." lupin opened the letter, and read it. as he read it, at first he frowned; then he smiled; and then he laughed joyously. it ran: "sir," "m. guerchard has told me everything. with regard to sonia i have judged you: a man who loves a thief can be nothing but a rogue. i have two pieces of news to announce to you: the death of the duke of charmerace, who died three years ago, and my intention of becoming engaged to his cousin and heir, m. de relzieres, who will assume the title and the arms." "for mademoiselle gournay-martin," "her maid, irma." "she does write in shocking bad taste," said lupin, shaking his head sadly. "charolais, sit down and write a letter for me." "me?" said charolais. "yes; you. it seems to be the fashion in financial circles; and i am bound to follow it when a lady sets it. write me a letter," said lupin. charolais went to the writing-table reluctantly, sat down, set a sheet of paper on the blotter, took a pen in his hand, and sighed painfully. "ready?" said lupin; and he dictated: "mademoiselle," "i have a very robust constitution, and my indisposition will very soon be over. i shall have the honour of sending, this afternoon, my humble wedding present to the future madame de relzieres." "for jacques de bartut, marquis de relzieres, prince of virieux, duke of charmerace." "his butler, arsene." "shall i write arsene?" said charolais, in a horrified tone. "why not?" said lupin. "it's your charming name, isn't it?" bonavent pricked up his ears, and looked at charolais with a new interest. charolais shrugged his shoulders, finished the letter, blotted it, put it in an envelope, addressed it, and handed it to lupin. "take this to mademoiselle gournay-martin," said lupin, handing it to bonavent. bonavent took the letter, turned, and had taken one step towards the door when lupin sprang. his arm went round the detective's neck; he jerked him backwards off his feet, scragging him. "stir, and i'll break your neck!" he cried in a terrible voice; and then he said quietly to charolais, "just take my pocket-book out of this fellow's tunic." charolais, with deft fingers, ripped open the detective's tunic, and took out the pocket-book. "this is what they call jiu-jitsu, old chap! you'll be able to teach it to your colleagues," said lupin. he loosed his grip on bonavent, and knocked him straight with a thump in the back, and sent him flying across the room. then he took the pocket-book from charolais and made sure that its contents were untouched. "tell your master from me that if he wants to bring me down he'd better fire the gun himself," said lupin contemptuously. "show the gentleman out, charolais." bonavent staggered to the door, paused, and turned on lupin a face livid with fury. "he will be here himself in ten minutes," he said. "many thanks for the information," said lupin quietly. chapter xxii the bargain charolais conducted the detective down the stairs and let him out of the front door, cursing and threatening vengeance as he went. charolais took no notice of his words--he was the well-trained servant. he came back upstairs, and on the landing called to victoire and bernard. they came hurrying down; and the three of them went into the smoking-room. "now we know where we are," said lupin, with cheerful briskness. "guerchard will be here in ten minutes with a warrant for my arrest. all of you clear out." "it won't be so precious easy. the house is watched," said charolais. "and i'll bet it's watched back and front." "well, slip out by the secret entrance. they haven't found that yet," said lupin. "and meet me at the house at passy." charolais and bernard wanted no more telling; they ran to the book-case and pressed the buttons; the book-case slid aside; the doors opened and disclosed the lift. they stepped into it. victoire had followed them. she paused and said: "and you? are you coming?" "in an instant i shall slip out the same way," he said. "i'll wait for him. you go on," said victoire; and the lift went down. lupin went to the telephone, rang the bell, and put the receiver to his ear. "you've no time to waste telephoning. they may be here at any moment!" cried victoire anxiously. "i must. if i don't telephone sonia will come here. she will run right into guerchard's arms. why the devil don't they answer? they must be deaf!" and he rang the bell again. "let's go to her! let's get out of here!" cried victoire, more anxiously. "there really isn't any time to waste." "go to her? but i don't know where she is. i lost my head last night," cried lupin, suddenly anxious himself. "are you there?" he shouted into the telephone. "she's at a little hotel near the star. ... are you there? ... but there are twenty hotels near the star.... are you there? ... oh, i did lose my head last night. ... are you there? oh, hang this telephone! here i'm fighting with a piece of furniture. and every second is important!" he picked up the machine, shook it, saw that the wires were cut, and cried furiously: "ha! they've played the telephone trick on me! that's guerchard.... the swine!" "and now you can come along!" cried victoire. "but that's just what i can't do!" he cried. "but there's nothing more for you to do here, since you can no longer telephone," said victoire, bewildered. lupin caught her arm and shook her, staring into her face with panic-stricken eyes. "but don't you understand that, since i haven't telephoned, she'll come here?" he cried hoarsely. "five-and-twenty minutes past eight! at half-past eight she will start--start to come here." his face had suddenly grown haggard; this new fear had brought back all the exhaustion of the night; his eyes were panic-stricken. "but what about you?" said victoire, wringing her hands. "what about her?" said lupin; and his voice thrilled with anguished dread. "but you'll gain nothing by destroying both of you--nothing at all." "i prefer it," said lupin slowly, with a suddenly stubborn air. "but they're coming to take you," cried victoire, gripping his arm. "take me?" cried lupin, freeing himself quietly from her grip. and he stood frowning, plunged in deep thought, weighing the chances, the risks, seeking a plan, saving devices. he crossed the room to the writing-table, opened a drawer, and took out a cardboard box about eight inches square and set it on the table. "they shall never take me alive," he said gloomily. "oh, hush, hush!" said victoire. "i know very well that you're capable of anything ... and they too--they'll destroy you. no, look you, you must go. they won't do anything to her--a child like that--so frail. she'll get off quite easily. you're coming, aren't you?" "no, i'm not," said lupin stubbornly. "oh, well, if you won't," said victoire; and with an air of resolution she went to the side of the lift-well, and pressed the buttons. the doors closed; the book-case slid across. she sat down and folded her arms. "what, you're not going to stop here?" cried lupin. "make me stir if you can. i'm as fond of you as she is--you know i am," said victoire, and her face set stonily obstinate. lupin begged her to go; ordered her to go; he seized her by the shoulder, shook her, and abused her like a pickpocket. she would not stir. he abandoned the effort, sat down, and knitted his brow again in profound and painful thought, working out his plan. now and again his eyes flashed, once or twice they twinkled. victoire watched his face with just the faintest hope on her own. it was past five-and-twenty minutes to nine when the front-door bell rang. they gazed at one another with an unspoken question on their lips. the eyes of victoire were scared, but in the eyes of lupin the light of battle was gathering. "it's her," said victoire under her breath. "no," said lupin. "it's guerchard." he sprang to his feet with shining eyes. his lips were curved in a fighting smile. "the game isn't lost yet," he said in a tense, quiet voice. "i'm going to play it to the end. i've a card or two left still--good cards. i'm still the duke of charmerace." he turned to her. "now listen to me," he said. "go down and open the door for him." "what, you want me to?" said victoire, in a shaky voice. "yes, i do. listen to me carefully. when you have opened the door, slip out of it and watch the house. don't go too far from it. look out for sonia. you'll see her coming. stop her from entering, victoire--stop her from entering." he spoke coolly, but his voice shook on the last words. "but if guerchard arrests me?" said victoire. "he won't. when he comes in, stand behind the door. he will be too eager to get to me to stop for you. besides, for him you don't count in the game. once you're out of the house, i'll hold him here for--for half an hour. that will leave a margin. sonia will hurry here. she should be here in twelve minutes. get her away to the house at passy. if i don't come keep her there; she's to live with you. but i shall come." as he spoke he was pushing her towards the door. the bell rang again. they were at the top of the stairs. "and suppose he does arrest me?" said victoire breathlessly. "never mind, you must go all the same," said lupin. "don't give up hope--trust to me. go--go--for my sake." "i'm going, dearie," said victoire; and she went down the stairs steadily, with a brave air. he watched her half-way down the flight; then he muttered: "if only she gets to sonia in time." he turned, went into the smoking-room, and shut the door. he sat quietly down in an easy chair, lighted a cigarette, and took up a paper. he heard the noise of the traffic in the street grow louder as the front door was opened. there was a pause; then he heard the door bang. there was the sound of a hasty footstep on the stairs; the door flew open, and guerchard bounced into the room. he stopped short in front of the door at the sight of lupin, quietly reading, smoking at his ease. he had expected to find the bird flown. he stood still, hesitating, shuffling his feet--all his doubts had returned; and lupin smiled at him over the lowered paper. guerchard pulled himself together by a violent effort, and said jerkily, "good-morning, lupin." "good-morning, m. guerchard," said lupin, with an ambiguous smile and all the air of the duke of charmerace. "you were expecting me? ... i hope i haven't kept you waiting," said guerchard, with an air of bravado. "no, thank you: the time has passed quite quickly. i have so much to do in the morning always," said lupin. "i hope you had a good night after that unfortunate business of the coronet. that was a disaster; and so unexpected too." guerchard came a few steps into the room, still hesitating: "you've a very charming house here," he said, with a sneer. "it's central," said lupin carelessly. "you must please excuse me, if i cannot receive you as i should like; but all my servants have bolted. those confounded detectives of yours have frightened them away." "you needn't bother about that. i shall catch them," said guerchard. "if you do, i'm sure i wish you joy of them. do, please, keep your hat on," said lupin with ironic politeness. guerchard came slowly to the middle of the room, raising his hand to his hat, letting it fall again without taking it off. he sat down slowly facing him, and they gazed at one another with the wary eyes of duellists crossing swords at the beginning of a duel. "did you get m. formery to sign a little warrant?" said lupin, in a caressing tone full of quiet mockery. "i did," said guerchard through his teeth. "and have you got it on you?" said lupin. "i have," said guerchard. "against lupin, or against the duke of charmerace?" said lupin. "against lupin, called charmerace," said guerchard. "well, that ought to cover me pretty well. why don't you arrest me? what are you waiting for?" said lupin. his face was entirely serene, his eyes were careless, his tone indifferent. "i'm not waiting for anything," said guerchard thickly; "but it gives me such pleasure that i wish to enjoy this minute to the utmost, lupin," said guerchard; and his eyes gloated on him. "lupin, himself," said lupin, smiling. "i hardly dare believe it," said guerchard. "you're quite right not to," said lupin. "yes, i hardly dare believe it. you alive, here at my mercy?" "oh, dear no, not yet," said lupin. "yes," said guerchard, in a decisive tone. "and ever so much more than you think." he bent forwards towards him, with his hands on his knees, and said, "do you know where sonia kritchnoff is at this moment?" "what?" said lupin sharply. "i ask if you know where sonia kritchnoff is?" said guerchard slowly, lingering over the words. "do you?" said lupin. "i do," said guerchard triumphantly. "where is she?" said lupin, in a tone of utter incredulity. "in a small hotel near the star. the hotel has a telephone; and you can make sure," said guerchard. "indeed? that's very interesting. what's the number of it?" said lupin, in a mocking tone. " central: would you like to telephone to her?" said guerchard; and he smiled triumphantly at the disabled instrument. lupin shock his head with a careless smile, and said, "why should i telephone to her? what are you driving at?" "nothing ... that's all," said guerchard. and he leant back in his chair with an ugly smile on his face. "evidently nothing. for, after all, what has that child got to do with you? you're not interested in her, plainly. she's not big enough game for you. it's me you are hunting ... it's me you hate ... it's me you want. i've played you tricks enough for that, you old scoundrel. so you're going to leave that child in peace? ... you're not going to revenge yourself on her? ... it's all very well for you to be a policeman; it's all very well for you to hate me; but there are things one does not do." there was a ring of menace and appeal in the deep, ringing tones of his voice. "you're not going to do that, guerchard.... you will not do it.... me--yes--anything you like. but her--her you must not touch." he gazed at the detective with fierce, appealing eyes. "that depends on you," said guerchard curtly. "on me?" cried lupin, in genuine surprise. "yes, i've a little bargain to propose to you," said guerchard. "have you?" said lupin; and his watchful face was serene again, his smile almost pleasant. "yes," said guerchard. and he paused, hesitating. "well, what is it you want?" said lupin. "out with it! don't be shy about it." "i offer you--" "you offer me?" cried lupin. "then it isn't true. you're fooling me." "reassure yourself," said guerchard coldly. "to you personally i offer nothing." "then you are sincere," said lupin. "and putting me out of the question?" "i offer you liberty." "who for? for my concierge?" said lupin. "don't play the fool. you care only for a single person in the world. i hold you through her: sonia kritchnoff." lupin burst into a ringing, irrepressible laugh: "why, you're trying to blackmail me, you old sweep!" he cried. "if you like to call it so," said guerchard coldly. lupin rose and walked backwards and forwards across the room, frowning, calculating, glancing keenly at guerchard, weighing him. twice he looked at the clock. he stopped and said coldly: "so be it. for the moment you're the stronger.... that won't last.... but you offer me this child's liberty." "that's my offer," said guerchard; and his eyes brightened at the prospect of success. "her complete liberty? ... on your word of honour?" said lupin; and he had something of the air of a cat playing with a mouse. "on my word of honour," said guerchard. "can you do it?" said lupin, with a sudden air of doubt; and he looked sharply from guerchard to the clock. "i undertake to do it," said guerchard confidently. "but how?" said lupin, looking at him with an expression of the gravest doubt. "oh, i'll put the thefts on your shoulders. that will let her out all right," said guerchard. "i've certainly good broad shoulders," said lupin, with a bitter smile. he walked slowly up and down with an air that grew more and more depressed: it was almost the air of a beaten man. then he stopped and faced guerchard, and said: "and what is it you want in exchange?" "everything," said guerchard, with the air of a man who is winning. "you must give me back the pictures, tapestry, renaissance cabinets, the coronet, and all the information about the death of the duke of charmerace. did you kill him?" "if ever i commit suicide, you'll know all about it, my good guerchard. you'll be there. you may even join me," said lupin grimly; he resumed his pacing up and down the room. "done for, yes; i shall be done for," he said presently. "the fact is, you want my skin." "yes, i want your skin," said guerchard, in a low, savage, vindictive tone. "my skin," said lupin thoughtfully. "are you going to do it? think of that girl," said guerchard, in a fresh access of uneasy anxiety. lupin laughed: "i can give you a glass of port," he said, "but i'm afraid that's all i can do for you." "i'll throw victoire in," said guerchard. "what?" cried lupin. "you've arrested victoire?" there was a ring of utter dismay, almost despair, in his tone. "yes; and i'll throw her in. she shall go scot-free. i won't bother with her," said guerchard eagerly. the front-door bell rang. "wait, wait. let me think," said lupin hoarsely; and he strove to adjust his jostling ideas, to meet with a fresh plan this fresh disaster. he stood listening with all his ears. there were footsteps on the stairs, and the door opened. dieusy stood on the threshold. "who is it?" said guerchard. "i accept--i accept everything," cried lupin in a frantic tone. "it's a tradesman; am i to detain him?" said dieusy. "you told me to let you know who came and take instructions." "a tradesman? then i refuse!" cried lupin, in an ecstasy of relief. "no, you needn't keep him," said guerchard, to dieusy. dieusy went out and shut the door. "you refuse?" said guerchard. "i refuse," said lupin. "i'm going to gaol that girl," said guerchard savagely; and he took a step towards the door. "not for long," said lupin quietly. "you have no proof." "she'll furnish the proof all right herself--plenty of proofs," said guerchard brutally. "what chance has a silly child like that got, when we really start questioning her? a delicate creature like that will crumple up before the end of the third day's cross-examination." "you swine!" said lupin. "you know well enough that i can do it--on my head--with a feeble child like that; and you know your code; five years is the minimum," said guerchard, in a tone of relentless brutality, watching him carefully, sticking to his hope. "by jove, i could wring your neck!" said lupin, trembling with fury. by a violent effort he controlled himself, and said thoughtfully, "after all, if i give up everything to you, i shall be free to take it back one of these days." "oh, no doubt, when you come out of prison," said guerchard ironically; and he laughed a grim, jeering laugh. "i've got to go to prison first," said lupin quietly. "pardon me--if you accept, i mean to arrest you," said guerchard. "manifestly you'll arrest me if you can," said lupin. "do you accept?" said guerchard. and again his voice quivered with anxiety. "well," said lupin. and he paused as if finally weighing the matter. "well?" said guerchard, and his voice shook. "well--no!" said lupin; and he laughed a mocking laugh. "you won't?" said guerchard between his teeth. "no; you wish to catch me. this is just a ruse," said lupin, in quiet, measured tones. "at bottom you don't care a hang about sonia, mademoiselle kritchnoff. you will not arrest her. and then, if you did you have no proofs. there are no proofs. as for the pendant, you'd have to prove it. you can't prove it. you can't prove that it was in her possession one moment. where is the pendant?" he paused, and then went on in the same quiet tone: "no, guerchard; after having kept out of your clutches for the last ten years, i'm not going to be caught to save this child, who is not even in danger. she has a very useful friend in the duke of charmerace. i refuse." guerchard stared at him, scowling, biting his lips, seeking a fresh point of attack. for the moment he knew himself baffled, but he still clung tenaciously to the struggle in which victory would be so precious. the front-door bell rang again. "there's a lot of ringing at your bell this morning," said guerchard, under his breath; and hope sprang afresh in him. again they stood silent, waiting. dieusy opened the door, put in his head, and said, "it's mademoiselle kritchnoff." "collar her! ... here's the warrant! ... collar her!" shouted guerchard, with savage, triumphant joy. "never! you shan't touch her! by heaven, you shan't touch her!" cried lupin frantically; and he sprang like a tiger at guerchard. guerchard jumped to the other side of the table. "will you accept, then?" he cried. lupin gripped the edge of the table with both hands, and stood panting, grinding his teeth, pale with fury. he stood silent and motionless for perhaps half a minute, gazing at guerchard with burning, murderous eyes. then he nodded his head. "let mademoiselle kritchnoff wait," said guerchard, with a sigh of deep relief. dieusy went out of the room. "now let us settle exactly how we stand," said lupin, in a clear, incisive voice. "the bargain is this: if i give you the pictures, the tapestry, the cabinets, the coronet, and the death-certificate of the duke of charmerace, you give me your word of honour that mademoiselle kritchnoff shall not be touched." "that's it!" said guerchard eagerly. "once i deliver these things to you, mademoiselle kritchnoff passes out of the game." "yes," said guerchard. "whatever happens afterwards. if i get back anything--if i escape--she goes scot-free," said lupin. "yes," said guerchard; and his eyes were shining. "on your word of honour?" said lupin. "on my word of honour," said guerchard. "very well," said lupin, in a quiet, businesslike voice. "to begin with, here in this pocket-book you'll find all the documents relating to the death of the duke of charmerace. in it you will also find the receipt of the plantin furniture repository at batignolles for the objects of art which i collected at gournay-martin's. i sent them to batignolles because, in my letters asking the owners of valuables to forward them to me, i always make batignolles the place to which they are to be sent; therefore i knew that you would never look there. they are all in cases; for, while you were making those valuable inquiries yesterday, my men were putting them into cases. you'll not find the receipt in the name of either the duke of charmerace or my own. it is in the name of a respected proprietor of batignolles, a m. pierre servien. but he has lately left that charming suburb, and i do not think he will return to it." guerchard almost snatched the pocket-book out of his hand. he verified the documents in it with greedy eyes; and then he put them back in it, and stuffed it into the breast-pocket of his coat. "and where's the coronet?" he said, in an excited voice. "you're nearly standing on it," said lupin. "it's in that kit-bag at your feet, on the top of the change of clothes in it." guerchard snatched up the kit-bag, opened it, and took out the coronet. "i'm afraid i haven't the case," said lupin, in a tone of regret. "if you remember, i left it at gournay-martin's--in your charge." guerchard examined the coronet carefully. he looked at the stones in it; he weighed it in his right hand, and he weighed it in his left. "are you sure it's the real one?" said lupin, in a tone of acute but affected anxiety. "do not--oh, do not let us have any more of these painful mistakes about it. they are so wearing." "yes--yes--this is the real one," said guerchard, with another deep sigh of relief. "well, have you done bleeding me?" said lupin contemptuously. "your arms," said guerchard quickly. "they weren't in the bond," said lupin. "but here you are." and he threw his revolver on the table. guerchard picked it up and put it into his pocket. he looked at lupin as if he could not believe his eyes, gloating over him. then he said in a deep, triumphant tone: "and now for the handcuffs!" chapter xxiii the end of the duel "the handcuffs?" said lupin; and his face fell. then it cleared; and he added lightly, "after all, there's nothing like being careful; and, by jove, with me you need to be. i might get away yet. what luck it is for you that i'm so soft, so little of a charmerace, so human! truly, i can't be much of a man of the world, to be in love like this!" "come, come, hold out your hands!" said guerchard, jingling the handcuffs impatiently. "i should like to see that child for the last time," said lupin gently. "all right," said guerchard. "arsene lupin--and nabbed by you! if you aren't in luck! here you are!" said lupin bitterly; and he held out his wrists. guerchard snapped the handcuffs on them with a grunt of satisfaction. lupin gazed down at them with a bitter face, and said: "oh, you are in luck! you're not married by any chance?" "yes, yes; i am," said guerchard hastily; and he went quickly to the door and opened it: "dieusy!" he called. "dieusy! mademoiselle kritchnoff is at liberty. tell her so, and bring her in here." lupin started back, flushed and scowling; he cried: "with these things on my hands! ... no! ... i can't see her!" guerchard stood still, looking at him. lupin's scowl slowly softened, and he said, half to himself, "but i should have liked to see her ... very much ... for if she goes like that ... i shall not know when or where--" he stopped short, raised his eyes, and said in a decided tone: "ah, well, yes; i should like to see her." "if you've quite made up your mind," said guerchard impatiently, and he went into the anteroom. lupin stood very still, frowning thoughtfully. he heard footsteps on the stairs, and then the voice of guerchard in the anteroom, saying, in a jeering tone, "you're free, mademoiselle; and you can thank the duke for it. you owe your liberty to him." "free! and i owe it to him?" cried the voice of sonia, ringing and golden with extravagant joy. "yes, mademoiselle," said guerchard. "you owe it to him." she came through the open door, flushed deliciously and smiling, her eyes brimming with tears of joy. lupin had never seen her look half so adorable. "is it to you i owe it? then i shall owe everything to you. oh, thank you--thank you!" she cried, holding out her hands to him. lupin half turned away from her to hide his handcuffs. she misunderstood the movement. her face fell suddenly like that of a child rebuked: "oh, i was wrong. i was wrong to come here!" she cried quickly, in changed, dolorous tones. "i thought yesterday ... i made a mistake ... pardon me. i'm going. i'm going." lupin was looking at her over his shoulder, standing sideways to hide the handcuffs. he said sadly. "sonia--" "no, no, i understand! it was impossible!" she cried quickly, cutting him short. "and yet if you only knew--if you knew how i have changed--with what a changed spirit i came here.... ah, i swear that now i hate all my past. i loathe it. i swear that now the mere presence of a thief would overwhelm me with disgust." "hush!" said lupin, flushing deeply, and wincing. "hush!" "but, after all, you're right," she said, in a gentler voice. "one can't wipe out what one has done. if i were to give back everything i've taken--if i were to spend years in remorse and repentance, it would be no use. in your eyes i should always be sonia kritchnoff, the thief!" the great tears welled slowly out of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks; she let them stream unheeded. "sonia!" cried lupin, protesting. but she would not hear him. she broke out with fresh vehemence, a feverish passion: "and yet, if i'd been a thief, like so many others... but you know why i stole. i'm not trying to defend myself, but, after all, i did it to keep honest; and when i loved you it was not the heart of a thief that thrilled, it was the heart of a poor girl who loved...that's all...who loved." "you don't know what you're doing! you're torturing me! be quiet!" cried lupin hoarsely, beside himself. "never mind...i'm going...we shall never see one another any more," she sobbed. "but will you...will you shake hands just for the last time?" "no!" cried lupin. "you won't?" wailed sonia in a heartrending tone. "i can't!" cried lupin. "you ought not to be like this.... last night ... if you were going to let me go like this ... last night ... it was wrong," she wailed, and turned to go. "wait, sonia! wait!" cried lupin hoarsely. "a moment ago you said something.... you said that the mere presence of a thief would overwhelm you with disgust. is that true?" "yes, i swear it is," cried sonia. guerchard appeared in the doorway. "and if i were not the man you believe?" said lupin sombrely. "what?" said sonia; and a faint bewilderment mingled with her grief. "if i were not the duke of charmerace?" "not the duke?" "if i were not an honest man?" said lupin. "you?" cried sonia. "if i were a thief? if i were--" "arsene lupin," jeered guerchard from the door. lupin turned and held out his manacled wrists for her to see. "arsene lupin! ... it's ... it's true!" stammered sonia. "but then, but then ... it must be for my sake that you've given yourself up. and it's for me you're going to prison. oh, heavens! how happy i am!" she sprang to him, threw her arms round his neck, and pressed her lips to his. "and that's what women call repenting," said guerchard. he shrugged his shoulders, went out on to the landing, and called to the policeman in the hall to bid the driver of the prison-van, which was waiting, bring it up to the door. "oh, this is incredible!" cried lupin, in a trembling voice; and he kissed sonia's lips and eyes and hair. "to think that you love me enough to go on loving me in spite of this--in spite of the fact that i'm arsene lupin. oh, after this, i'll become an honest man! it's the least i can do. i'll retire." "you will?" cried sonia. "upon my soul, i will!" cried lupin; and he kissed her again and again. guerchard came back into the room. he looked at them with a cynical grin, and said, "time's up." "oh, guerchard, after so many others, i owe you the best minute of my life!" cried lupin. bonavent, still in his porter's livery, came hurrying through the anteroom: "master," he cried, "i've found it." "found what?" said guerchard. "the secret entrance. it opens into that little side street. we haven't got the door open yet; but we soon shall." "the last link in the chain," said guerchard, with warm satisfaction. "come along, lupin." "but he's going to take you away! we're going to be separated!" cried sonia, in a sudden anguish of realization. "it's all the same to me now!" cried lupin, in the voice of a conqueror. "yes, but not to me!" cried sonia, wringing her hands. "now you must keep calm and go. i'm not going to prison," said lupin, in a low voice. "wait in the hall, if you can. stop and talk to victoire; condole with her. if they turn you out of the house, wait close to the front door." "come, mademoiselle," said guerchard. "you must go." "go, sonia, go--good-bye--good-bye," said lupin; and he kissed her. she went quietly out of the room, her handkerchief to her eyes. guerchard held open the door for her, and kept it open, with his hand still on the handle; he said to lupin: "come along." lupin yawned, stretched himself, and said coolly, "my dear guerchard, what i want after the last two nights is rest--rest." he walked quickly across the room and stretched himself comfortably at full length on the couch. "come, get up," said guerchard roughly. "the prison-van is waiting for you. that ought to fetch you out of your dream." "really, you do say the most unlucky things," said lupin gaily. he had resumed his flippant, light-hearted air; his voice rang as lightly and pleasantly as if he had not a care in the world. "do you mean that you refuse to come?" cried guerchard in a rough, threatening tone. "oh, no," said lupin quickly: and he rose. "then come along!" said guerchard. "no," said lupin, "after all, it's too early." once more he stretched himself out on the couch, and added languidly, "i'm lunching at the english embassy." "now, you be careful!" cried guerchard angrily. "our parts are changed. if you're snatching at a last straw, it's waste of time. all your tricks--i know them. understand, you rogue, i know them." "you know them?" said lupin with a smile, rising. "it's fatality!" he stood before guerchard, twisting his hands and wrists curiously. half a dozen swift movements; and he held out his handcuffs in one hand and threw them on the floor. "did you know that trick, guerchard? one of these days i shall teach you to invite me to lunch," he said slowly, in a mocking tone; and he gazed at the detective with menacing, dangerous eyes. "come, come, we've had enough of this!" cried guerchard, in mingled astonishment, anger, and alarm. "bonavent! boursin! dieusy! here! help! help!" he shouted. "now listen, guerchard, and understand that i'm not humbugging," said lupin quickly, in clear, compelling tones. "if sonia, just now, had had one word, one gesture of contempt for me, i'd have given way--yielded ... half-yielded, at any rate; for, rather than fall into your triumphant clutches, i'd have blown my brains out. i've now to choose between happiness, life with sonia, or prison. well, i've chosen. i will live happy with her, or else, my dear guerchard, i'll die with you. now let your men come--i'm ready for them." guerchard ran to the door and shouted again. "i think the fat's in the fire now," said lupin, laughing. he sprang to the table, opened the cardboard box, whipped off the top layer of cotton-wool, and took out a shining bomb. he sprang to the wall, pressed the button, the bookshelf glided slowly to one side, the lift rose to the level of the floor and its doors flew open just as the detectives rushed in. "collar him!" yelled guerchard. "stand back--hands up!" cried lupin, in a terrible voice, raising his right hand high above his head. "you know what this is ... a bomb.... come and collar me now, you swine! ... hands up, you ... guerchard!" "you silly funks!" roared guerchard. "do you think he'd dare?" "come and see!" cried lupin. "i will!" cried guerchard. and he took a step forward. as one man his detectives threw themselves upon him. three of them gripped his arms, a fourth gripped him round the waist; and they all shouted at him together, not to be a madman! ... to look at lupin's eyes! ... that lupin was off his head! "what miserable swine you are!" cried lupin scornfully. he sprang forward, caught up the kit-bag in his left hand, and tossed it behind him into the lift. "you dirty crew!" he cried again. "oh, why isn't there a photographer here? and now, guerchard, you thief, give me back my pocket-book." "never!" screamed guerchard, struggling with his men, purple with fury. "oh, lord, master! do be careful! don't rile him!" cried bonavent in an agony. "what? do you want me to smash up the whole lot?" roared lupin, in a furious, terrible voice. "do i look as if i were bluffing, you fools?" "let him have his way, master!" cried dieusy. "yes, yes!" cried bonavent. "let him have his way!" cried another. "give him his pocket-book!" cried a third. "never!" howled guerchard. "it's in his pocket--his breast-pocket! be smart!" roared lupin. "come, come, it's got to be given to him," cried bonavent. "hold the master tight!" and he thrust his hand into the breast of guerchard's coat, and tore out the pocket-book. "throw it on the table!" cried lupin. bonavent threw it on to the table; and it slid along it right to lupin. he caught it in his left hand, and slipped it into his pocket. "good!" he said. and then he yelled ferociously, "look out for the bomb!" and made a feint of throwing it. the whole group fell back with an odd, unanimous, sighing groan. lupin sprang into the lift, and the doors closed over the opening. there was a great sigh of relief from the frightened detectives, and then the chunking of machinery as the lift sank. their grip on guerchard loosened. he shook himself free, and shouted, "after him! you've got to make up for this! down into the cellars, some of you! others go to the secret entrance! others to the servants' entrance! get into the street! be smart! dieusy, take the lift with me!" the others ran out of the room and down the stairs, but with no great heartiness, since their minds were still quite full of the bomb, and lupin still had it with him. guerchard and dieusy dashed at the doors of the opening of the lift-well, pulling and wrenching at them. suddenly there was a click; and they heard the grunting of the machinery. there was a little bump and a jerk, the doors flew open of themselves; and there was the lift, empty, ready for them. they jumped into it; guerchard's quick eye caught the button, and he pressed it. the doors banged to, and, to his horror, the lift shot upwards about eight feet, and stuck between the floors. as the lift stuck, a second compartment, exactly like the one guerchard and dieusy were in, came up to the level of the floor of the smoking-room; the doors opened, and there was lupin. but again how changed! the clothes of the duke of charmerace littered the floor; the kit-bag was open; and he was wearing the very clothes of chief-inspector guerchard, his seedy top-hat, his cloak. he wore also guerchard's sparse, lank, black hair, his little, bristling, black moustache. his figure, hidden by the cloak, seemed to have shrunk to the size of guerchard's. he sat before a mirror in the wall of the lift, a make-up box on the seat beside him. he darkened his eyebrows, and put a line or two about his eyes. that done he looked at himself earnestly for two or three minutes; and, as he looked, a truly marvellous transformation took place: the features of arsene lupin, of the duke of charmerace, decomposed, actually decomposed, into the features of jean guerchard. he looked at himself and laughed, the gentle, husky laugh of guerchard. he rose, transferred the pocket-book to the coat he was wearing, picked up the bomb, came out into the smoking-room, and listened. a muffled roaring thumping came from the well of the lift. it almost sounded as if, in their exasperation, guerchard and dieusy were engaged in a struggle to the death. smiling pleasantly, he stole to the window and looked out. his eyes brightened at the sight of the motor-car, guerchard's car, waiting just before the front door and in charge of a policeman. he stole to the head of the stairs, and looked down into the hall. victoire was sitting huddled together on a chair; sonia stood beside her, talking to her in a low voice; and, keeping guard on victoire, stood a brown-faced, active, nervous policeman, all alertness, briskness, keenness. "hi! officer! come up here! be smart," cried lupin over the bannisters, in the husky, gentle voice of chief-inspector guerchard. the policeman looked up, recognized the great detective, and came bounding zealously up the stairs. lupin led the way through the anteroom into the sitting-room. then he said sharply: "you have your revolver?" "yes," said the young policeman. and he drew it with a flourish. "put it away! put it away at once!" said lupin very smartly. "you're not to use it. you're not to use it on any account! you understand?" "yes," said the policeman firmly; and with a slightly bewildered air he put the revolver away. "here! stand here!" cried lupin, raising his voice. and he caught the policeman's arm, and hustled him roughly to the front of the doors of the lift-well. "do you see these doors? do you see them?" he snapped. "yes, yes," said the policeman, glaring at them. "they're the doors of a lift," said lupin. "in that lift are dieusy and lupin. you know dieusy?" "yes, yes," said the policeman. "there are only dieusy and lupin in the lift. they are struggling together. you can hear them," shouted lupin in the policeman's ear. "lupin is disguised. you understand--dieusy and a disguised man are in the lift. the disguised man is lupin. directly the lift descends and the doors open, throw yourself on him! hold him! shout for assistance!" he almost bellowed the last words into the policeman's ear. "yes, yes," said the policeman. and he braced himself before the doors of the lift-well, gazing at them with harried eyes, as if he expected them to bite him. "be brave! be ready to die in the discharge of your duty!" bellowed lupin; and he walked out of the room, shut the door, and turned the key. the policeman stood listening to the noise of the struggle in the lift, himself strung up to fighting point; he was panting. lupin's instructions were whirling and dancing in his head. lupin went quietly down the stairs. victoire and sonia saw him coming. victoire rose; and as he came to the bottom of the stairs sonia stepped forward and said in an anxious, pleading voice: "oh, m. guerchard, where is he?" "he's here," said lupin, in his natural voice. sonia sprang to him with outstretched arms. "it's you! it is you!" she cried. "just look how like him i am!" said lupin, laughing triumphantly. "but do i look quite ruffian enough?" "oh, no! you couldn't!" cried sonia. "isn't he a wonder?" said victoire. "this time the duke of charmerace is dead, for good and all," said lupin. "no; it's lupin that's dead," said sonia softly. "lupin?" he said, surprised. "yes," said sonia firmly. "it would be a terrible loss, you know--a loss for france," said lupin gravely. "never mind," said sonia. "oh, i must be in love with you!" said lupin, in a wondering tone; and he put his arm round her and kissed her violently. "and you won't steal any more?" said sonia, holding him back with both hands on his shoulders, looking into his eyes. "i shouldn't dream of such a thing," said lupin. "you are here. guerchard is in the lift. what more could i possibly desire?" his voice softened and grew infinitely caressing as he went on: "yet when you are at my side i shall always have the soul of a lover and the soul of a thief. i long to steal your kisses, your thoughts, the whole of your heart. ah, sonia, if you want me to steal nothing else, you have only to stay by my side." their lips met in a long kiss. sonia drew herself out of his arms and cried, "but we're wasting time! we must make haste! we must fly!" "fly?" said lupin sharply. "no, thank you; never again. i did flying enough last night to last me a lifetime. for the rest of my life i'm going to crawl--crawl like a snail. but come along, you two, i must take you to the police-station." he opened the front door, and they came out on the steps. the policeman in charge of the car saluted. lupin paused and said softly: "hark! i hear the sound of wedding bells." they went down the steps. even as they were getting into the car some chance blow of guerchard or dieusy struck a hidden spring and released the lift. it sank to the level of lupin's smoking-room and stopped. the doors flew open, dieusy and guerchard sprang out of it; and on the instant the brown-faced, nervous policeman sprang actively on guerchard and pinned him. taken by surprise, guerchard yelled loudly, "you stupid idiot!" somehow entangled his legs in those of his captor, and they rolled on the floor. dieusy surveyed them for a moment with blank astonishment. then, with swift intelligence, grasped the fact that the policeman was lupin in disguise. he sprang upon them, tore them asunder, fell heavily on the policeman, and pinned him to the floor with a strangling hand on his throat. guerchard dashed to the door, tried it, and found it locked, dashed for the window, threw it open, and thrust out his head. forty yards down the street a motor-car was rolling smoothly away--rolling to a honeymoon. "oh, hang it!" he screamed. "he's doing a bunk in my motor-car!" [illustration: leaving mrs. champney seated alone and helpless in the midst of the confusion, smilk marched mr. yollop to his bedroom] yollop by george barr mccutcheon frontispiece by edward c. caswell new york yollop chapter one in the first place, mr. yollop knew nothing about firearms. and so, after he had overpowered the burglar and relieved him of a fully loaded thirty-eight, he was singularly unimpressed by the following tribute from the bewildered and somewhat exasperated captive: "say, ain't you got any more sense than to tackle a man with a gun, you chuckle-headed idiot?" (only he did not say "chuckle-headed," and he inserted several expletives between "say" and "ain't.") the dazed intruder was hunched limply, in a sitting posture, over against the wall, one hand clamped tightly to his jaw, the other being elevated in obedience to a command that had to be thrice repeated before it found lodgment in his whirling brain. mr. yollop, who seemed to be satisfied with the holding up of but one hand, cupped his own hand at the back of one ear, and demanded querulously: "what say!" "are you hard o' hearin'?" "hey?" "well for the--say, are you deef?" "don't say deef. say deaf,--as if it were spelled d-e-double f. yes,--i am a little hard of hearing." "now, how the hell did you hear--i say, how did you hear me in the room, if it's a fair question?" "if you've got anything in your mouth, spit it out. i can't make out half what you say. sounds like 'ollo--ollo--ollo'!" the thief opened his mouth and with his tongue instituted a visible search for the obstruction that appeared to annoy mr. yollop. "they're all here except the one i had pulled last year," he announced vastly relieved. a sharp spasm of pain in his jaw caused him to abruptly take advantage of a recent discovery; and while he was careful to couch his opinions in an undertone, he told mr. yollop what he thought of him in terms that would have put the hardiest pirate to blush. something in mr. yollop's eye, however, and the fidgety way in which he was fingering the trigger of the pistol, moved him to interrupt a particularly satisfying paean of blasphemy by breaking off short in the very middle of it to wonder why in god's name he hadn't had sense enough to remember that all deaf people are lip-readers. "spit it out!" repeated mr. yollop, with energy. "don't talk with your mouth full. i can't understand a word you say." this was reassuring but not convincing. there was still the ominous glitter in the speaker's eye to be reckoned with. the man on the floor took the precaution to explain: "i hope you didn't hear what i was callin' myself." he spoke loudly and very distinctly. "that's better," said mr. yollop, his face brightening. "i was 'afraid my hearing had got worse without my knowing it. all you have to do is to enunciate distinctly and speak slowly like that,--as if you were isolating the words,--so to speak,--and i can make out everything you say. what were you calling yourself?" "oh, just a lot of names. i'd sooner not repeat 'em if there's any women in the house." "well, bless my soul, that's uncommonly thoughtful of you. my sister and her young daughter are here to spend the holidays with me. they sleep at the back of the apartment. now, if you will just remain as you are,--i dare say you'd better put up the other hand, too, if you can spare it,--i will back up to the table here and get my listening apparatus. now you won't have to shout so. i don't know much about revolvers, but i assume that all one has to do to make it go off is to press rather firmly on this little contrivance--" "yes! but don't!" "not so loud! not so loud! i'm not as deaf as all that. and don't move! i give you fair warning. watch me closely. if you see me shut my eyes, you will know i'm going to shoot. remember that, will you? the instant you detect the slightest indication that my eyes are about to close,--dodge!" "by thunder,--i--i wonder if you're as much of a blame fool as you seem to be,--or are you just playing horse with me," muttered the victim, as he raised his other hand. "i'd give ten years of my life to know,--" "i won't be a second," announced mr. yollop, backing gingerly toward the table. with his free hand he felt for and found the rather elaborate contraption that furnished him with the means to counteract his auricular deficiencies. the hand holding the revolver wobbled a bit; nevertheless, the little black hole at which the dazed robber stared as if fascinated was amazingly steadfast in its regard for the second or perhaps the third button of his coat. "it's a rather complicated arrangement," he went on to explain, "but very simple once you get it adjusted to the ear. it took me some time to get used to wearing this steel band over the top of my head. i never have tried to put it on with one hand before. amazing how awkward one can be with his left hand, isn't it? now, you see how it goes. this little receiver business clamps right down to the ear,--so. then this disc hangs over my chest--and you talk right at it. for awhile i made a practice of concealing it under my vest, being somewhat sensitive about having strangers see that i am deaf, but one day my niece, a very bright child often, asked me why i did it. i told her it was because i didn't want people to know i was deaf. have you ever felt so foolish that you wanted to kick yourself all over town? well, then you know how i felt when that blessed infant pointed to this thing on my ear and--what say?" "i say, that's the way i've been feeling ever since i came to," repeated the disgusted burglar. "of course, i realize that it's a physical, you might well say, a scientific impossibility, for one to kick himself all over town, but just the same, i believe you are as nearly in the mood to accomplish it as any man alive to-day." "you bet i could," snapped the thief, with great earnestness. "when i think how i let a skinny, half-witted boob like you walk right into a clinch with me, and me holdin' a gun, and weighin' forty pounds more than you do, i--can you hear what i'm saying?" "perfectly. it's a wonderful invention," said mr. yollop, who had approached to within four or five feet of the speaker and was bending over to afford him every facility for planting his words squarely upon the disc. "speak in the same tone of voice that you would employ if i were about thirty feet away and perfectly sound of hearing. just imagine, if you can, that i am out in the hall, with the door open, and you are carrying on a conversation with me at that--" "i've said all i want to say," growled the other sullenly. "what is your name?" "none of your damn business." mr. yollop was silent for a moment. then he inquired steadily: "have you any recollection of receiving a blow on the jaw, and subsequently lying on the flat of your back with my knees jouncing up and down on your stomach while your bump of amativeness was being roughly and somewhat regularly pounded against the wall in response to a certain nervous and uncontrollable movement of my hands which happened to be squeezing your windpipe so tightly that your tongue hung out and--" "you bet i remember it!" ruefully. "well, then," said mr. yollop, "what is your name?" "jones." "what?" "i thought you said you could hear with that thing!" "i heard you say jones quite distinctly, but why can't you answer my question? it was civil enough, wasn't it?" "well," said the crook, still decidedly uncertain as to the expression in mr. yollop's eye, "if you insist on a civil answer, it's smilk." "smith?" "no, not smith," hastily and earnestly; "smilk,--s-m-i-l-k." "smilk?" "smilk." "extraordinary name. i've never heard it before, have you?" the rascal blinked. "sure. it was my father's name before me, and my--" "look me in the eye!" "i am lookin' you in the eye. it's smilk,--cassius smilk." "sounds convincing," admitted mr. yollop. "nobody would take the name of cassius in vain, i am sure. as a sensible, discriminating thief, you would not deliberately steal a name like cassius, now would you?" "well, you see, they call me cash for short," explained smilk. "that's something i can steal with a clear conscience." "i perceive you are recovering your wits, mr. smilk. you appear to be a most ingenuous rogue. have you ever tried writing the book for a musical comedy?" "a--what?" "a musical comedy. a forty-legged thing you see on broadway." mr. smilk pondered. "no, sir," he replied, allowing himself a prideful leer; "if i do say it as shouldn't, i'm an honest thief." "bless my soul," cried mr. yollop delightedly; "you get brighter every minute. perhaps you have at one time or another conducted a humorous column for a metropolitan newspaper?" "well, i've done my share towards fillin' up the 'lost' column," said mr. smilk modestly. "say, if we're going to keep up this talkfest much longer, i got to let my hands down. the blood's runnin' out of 'em. what are you goin' to do with me? keep me sittin' here till morning?" "i'm glad you reminded me of it. i want to call the police." "well, i'm not hindering you, am i?" "in a way, yes. how can i call them and keep an eye on you at the same time?" "i'll tell what i'll do," said cassius smilk obligingly. "i'll take a message 'round to the police station for you." "ah! that gives me an idea. you shall telephone to the police for me. if my memory serves me well, spring is the number. or is it spring that calls out the fire department? it would be very awkward to call out the fire department, wouldn't it? they'd probably come rushing around here and drown both of us before they found out wer'd made a mistake and really wanted the police." "all you have to do is to say to central: 'i want a policeman.'" "right you are. that's what the telephone book says. still i believe spring --" "the simplest way to get the police," broke in the burglar, not without hope, "is to fire five shots out of a window as rapidly as possible. they always come for that." "i see what you are after. you want them to come here and arrest me for violating the sullivan law. don't you know it's against the law in new york to have a revolver on your premises or person? and what's more, you would testify against me, confound you. also probably have me up for assault and battery. no, mr. smilk, your suggestion is not a good one. we will stick to the telephone. now, if you will be kind enough to fold your arms tightly across your breast,--that's the idea,--and arise slowly to your feet, i will instruct you--yes, i know it is harder to get up without the aid of the hands than it was to go down, but i think you can manage it. try again, if you please." then, as mr. smilk sank sullenly back against the wall, apparently resolved not to budge: "i'm going to count three, cassius. if you are not on your feet at the end of the count, i shall be obliged to do the telephoning myself." "that suits me," said cassius grimly. "do you object to the smell of powder?" "huh?" "i don't like it myself, but i should, of course, open the windows immediately and air the room out--" "i'll get up," said cassius, and did so, clumsily but promptly. "say, i--i believe you would shoot. you're just the kind of boob that would do a thing like that." "i dare say i should miss you if i were to fire all five bullets,--but that's neither here nor there. you're on your feet, so--by the way, are you sure this thing is loaded?" "it wouldn't make any difference if it wasn't. it would go off just the same. they always do when some darn fool idiot is pointin' them at people." "don't be crotchetty, cassius," reproached mr. yollop. "now, if you will just sidle around to the left you will come in due time to the telephone over there on that desk. i shall not be far behind you. sit down. now unfold your arms and lean both elbows on the desk. that's the idea. you might keep your right hand exposed,--sort of perpendicular from the elbow up. take the receiver off the hook and--" "oh, i know how to use a telephone all right." "now, the main thing is to get central," said mr. yollop imperturbably. "sometimes it is very difficult to wake them after two o'clock a.m. just jiggle it if she doesn't respond at once. seems that jiggling wakes them when nothing else will." mr. yollop, very tall and spare in his pajamas, stood behind the burly mr. smilk, the dangling disc almost touching the latter's hunched up shoulders. "this is a devil of a note," quoth mr. smilk, taking down the receiver. "makin' a guy telephone to the police to come and arrest him." "i wish i had thought to close that window while you were hors de combat," complained mr. yollop shivering. "i'll probably catch my death of cold standing around here with almost nothing on. that wind comes straight from the north pole. doesn't she answer?" "no." "jiggle it." "i did jiggle it." "what?" "i said i jiggled it." "well, jiggle it again." "rottenest telephone service in the world," growled mr. smilk. "when you think what we have to pay for telephones these days, you'd think--hello! hell--lo!" "got her?" "i thought i had for a second, but i guess it was somebody yawning." "awning?" "say, if you'll hold that thing around so's i can talk at it, you'll hear what i'm saying. how do you expect me to--hello! central? central! hello! where the hell have you been all--hello! well, can you beat it? i had her and she got away." "no use trying to get her now," said mr. yollop, resignedly. "hang up for a few minutes. it makes 'em stubborn when you swear at 'em. like mules. i've just thought of something else you can do for me while we're waiting for her to make up her mind to forgive you. come along over here and close this window you left open." mr. smilk in closing the window, looked searchingly up and down the fire escape, peered intently into the street below, sighed profoundly and muttered something that mr. yollop did not hear. "i've got a fur coat hanging in that closet over there, cassius. we will get it out." carefully following mr. yollop's directions, the obliging rascal produced the coat and laid it upon the table in the center of the room. "turn your back," commanded the owner of the coat, "and hold up your hands." then, after he had slipped into the coat: "now if i only had my slippers--but never mind. we won't bother about 'em. they're in my bed room, and probably lost under the bed. they always are, even when i take 'em off out in the middle of the room. ah! nothing like a fur coat, cassius. do you know what cockles are?" "no, i don't." "well, never mind. now, let's try central again. please remember that no matter how distant she is, she still expects you to look upon her as a lady. no lady likes to be sworn at at two o'clock in the morning. speak gently to her. call her madamoiselle. that always gets them. makes 'em think if they keep their ears open they'll hear something spicy." "they general fall for dearie," said mr. smilk, taking down the receiver. "be good enough to remember that you are calling from my apartment," said mr. yollop severely. "jiggle it." mr. smilk jiggled it. "i guess she's still mad." "jiggle it slowly, tenderly, caressingly. sort of seductively. don't be so savage about it." "hello! central? what number do i have to call to get spring ? ... i'm not trying to be fresh: ... yes, that's what i want ... i know the book says to tell you 'i want to call a policeman' but-- ... yes, there's a burglar in my apartment and i want you to--what's that? ... i don't want to go to bed. ... say, now you're gettin' fresh. you give me police--" "tell her i've got you surrounded," whispered mr. yollop. "hello! hell--lo! central!" "jiggle it." "ah, mademoiselle! pardon my--" voice at the other end of the wire: "ring off! you've got wrong number. this is police headquarters." audible sound of distant receiver being slapped upon its hook. "gee whiz! now, we're up against it, mister. we'll be all night gettin' central again." "be patient, cassius. start all over again. ask for the morgue this time. that will make her realize the grave danger you are in." "say, i wish you'd put that gun in your pocket. it makes the goose flesh creep out all over me. i'm not going to try to get away. give you my word of honor i ain't. you seem to have some sort of idea that i don't want to be arrested." "i confess i had some such idea, cassius." "well, i don't mind it a bit. fact is, i've been doin' my best to get nabbed for the last three months." "you have?" "sure. the trouble is with the police. they somehow seem to overlook me, no matter how open i am about it. i suppose i've committed twenty burglaries in the past three months and i'll be cussed if i can make 'em understand. take to-night, for instance. i clumb up that fire escape,--this is the third floor, ain't it?--i clumb up here with a big electric street light shinin' square on my back,--why, darn the luck, i had to turn my back on it 'cause the light hurt my eyes,--and there were two cops standin' right down below here talkin' about the crime wave bein' all bunk, both of 'em arguin' that the best proof that there ain't no crime wave is the fact that the jails are only half full, showin' that the city is gettin' more and more honest all the time. i could hear 'em plain as anything. they were talkin' loud, so as to make everybody in this buildin' rest easy, i guess. i stopped at the second floor and monkeyed with the window, hopin' to attract their attention. didn't work. so i had to climb up another flight. this window of yours was up about six inches, so there wasn't anything for me to do but to raise it and come in. what i had in mind was to stick my head out after a minute or two and yell 'thieves', 'police', and so on. then before i knowed what was happenin', you walks in, switches on the light, and comes straight over and biffs me in the jaw. does that look as if i was tryin' to avoid arrest?" "that's a very pretty story, cassius, and no doubt will make a tremendous hit with the jury, but what were you doing with a loaded revolver in your hand, and why were you so full of vituperation,--i mean, what made you swear so when i--" "you let somebody hit you a wallop on the jaw and bang your head against the wall and dance on your ribs, and you'll cuss worse than i did." "but,--about the revolver?" "well, to be honest with you, i probably would have shot you if i hadn't been so low in my mind. i won't deny that. it's a sort of principle with us, you see. no self-respecting burglar wants to be captured by the party he's tryin' to rob. its so damn' mortifyin'. besides, if that sort of thing happens to you, the police lose all kinds of respect for you and try to use you as a stool-pigeon, if you know what that means." "this is most interesting, i must say. i should like to hear more about it, mr. smilk. i dare say we can have quite a long and edifying chat while we are waiting for the police to respond to our call for help. in the meantime, you might see if you can get them now. spring, three one hundred." "as i was sayin' awhile ago, would you mind puttin' that gun in your pocket?" "while you've been chinning, cassius, i have been making a most thrilling and amazing experiment. do you call this thing under here a trigger?" "yes. don't monkey with it, you--you--" "i've been pressing it,--very gently and cautiously, of course,--to see just how near i can come to making it go off without actually--" "for god's sake! cut that--hey, central! give me police headquarters again. ... lively, please. ... yes, it's life or death. ... come on, mademoiselle,--please!" "that's the way," complimented mr. yollop. "by gosh, nobody ever wanted the police more than i do at this minute," gulped mr. smilk. he was perspiring freely. "hello! police headquarters? ... hustle someone to--to--(over his shoulder to mr. yollop, in a whisper,)--quick! what's the number of this,--" " sagamore terrace." into the transmitter: "to sagamore terrace, third floor front. burglar. hurry up!" telephone: "what's yer name?" smilk, to yollop: "what is my name?" mr. yollop: "crittenden yollop." smilk, to telephone: "crittelyum yop." telephone, languidly: "spell it." smilk: "aw, go to--" mr. yollop: "after me now,--y-o-l-l-o-p." telephone: "first name." smilk, prompted. "c-r-i-t-t-e-n-d-e-n." telephone, after interval: "what floor?" smilk: "third." telephone: "are you sure it's a burglar, or is it just a noise somewhere?" smilk: "it's a burglar. he's got me covered." telephone: "what's that?" smilk: "i say, i've got him covered. hurry up or he'll blow my head off--" telephone: "say, what is this? get back to bed, you. you're drunk." smilk: "i'm as sober as you are. can't you get me straight? i tell you i beat his head off. he's down and out,--but---" telephone: "all right. we'll have someone there in a few minutes. did you say yullup?" smilk: "no. i said hurry up." chapter two "the thing that's troubling me now," said mr. yollop, as smilk hung up the receiver and twisted his head slightly to peek out of the corner of his eye, "is how to get hold of my slippers. you've no idea how cold this floor is." "if it's half as cold as the sweat i'm---" "we're likely to have a long wait," went on the other, frowning. "it will probably take the police a couple of hours to find this building, with absolutely no clue except the number and the name of the street." "i'll tell you what you might do, mr. scollop, seein' as you won't trust me to go in and find your slippers for you. why don't you sit on your feet? take that big arm chair over there and--" "splendid! by jove, cassius, you are an uncommonly clever chap. i'll do it. and then, when the police arrive, we'll have something for them to do. we'll let them see if they can find my slippers. that ought to be really quite interesting." "there's something about you," said mr. smilk, not without a touch of admiration in his voice, "that i simply can't help liking." "that's what the wolf said to little red riding-hood, if i remember correctly. however, i thank you, cassius. in spite of the thump i gave you and the disgusting way in which i treated you, a visitor in my own house, you express a liking for me. it is most gratifying. still, for the time being, i believe we can be much better friends if i keep this pistol pointed at you. now we 'll do a little maneuvering. you may remain seated where you are. however, i must ask you to pull out the two lower drawers in the desk,--one on either side of where your knees go. you will find them quite empty and fairly commodious. now, put your right foot in the drawer on this side and your left foot in the other one--yes, i know it's quite a stretch, but i dare say you can manage it. sort of recalls the old days when evil-doers were put in the stocks, doesn't it? they seem to be quite a snug fit, don't they? if it is as difficult for you to extricate your feet from those drawers as it was to insert them, i fancy i'm pretty safe from a sudden and impulsive dash in my direction. rather bright idea of mine, eh?" "i'm beginnin' to change my opinion of you," announced mr. smilk. mr. yollop pushed a big unholstered library chair up to the opposite side of the desk and, after several awkward attempts, succeeded in sitting down, tailor fashion, with his feet neatly tucked away beneath him. "i wasn't quite sure i could do it," said he, rather proudly. "i suppose my feet will go to sleep in a very short time, but i am assuming, cassius, that you are too much of a gentleman to attack a man whose feet are asleep." "i wouldn't even attack you if they were snoring," said cassius, grinning in spite of himself. "say, this certainly beats anything i've ever come up against. if one of my pals was to happen to look in here right now and see me with my feet in these drawers and you squattin' on yours,--well, i can't help laughin' myself, and god knows i hate to." "you were saying a little while ago," said mr. yollop, shifting his position slightly, "that you rather fancy the idea of being arrested. isn't that a little quixotic, mr. smilk?" "huh?" "i mean to say, do you expect me to believe you when you say you relish being arrested?" "i don't care a whoop whether you believe it or not. it's true." "have you no fear of the law?" "bless your heart, sir, i don't know how i'd keep body and soul together if it wasn't for the law. if people would only let the law alone, i'd be one of the happiest guys on earth. but, damn 'em, they won't let it alone. first, they put their heads together and frame up this blasted parole game on us. just about the time we begin to think we're comfortably settled up the river, 'long comes some doggone home-wrecker and gets us out on parole. then we got to go to work and begin all over again. sometimes, the way things are nowadays, it takes months to get back into the pen again. we got to live, ain't we? we got to eat, ain't we? well, there you are. why can't they leave us alone instead of drivin' us out into a cold, unfeelin' world where we got to either steal or starve to death? there wouldn't be one tenth as much stealin' and murderin' as there is if they didn't force us into it. why, doggone it, i've seen some of the most cruel and pitiful sights you ever heard of up there at sing sing. fellers leadin' a perfectly honest life suddenly chucked out into a world full of vice and iniquity and forced--absolutely forced,--into a life of crime. there they were, livin' a quiet, peaceful life, harmin' nobody, and bing! they wake up some mornin' and find themselves homeless. do you realize what that means, mr. strumpet? it means--" "yollop, if you please." "it means they got to go out and slug some innocent citizen, some poor guy that had nothing whatever to do with drivin' them out, and then if they happen to be caught they got to go through with all the uncertainty of a trial by jury, never knowin' but what some pin-headed juror will stick out for acquittal and make it necessary to go through with it all over again. and more than that, they got to listen to the testimony of a lot of policemen, and their own derned fool lawyers, tryin' to deprive them of their bread and butter, and the judge's instructions that nobody pays any attention to except the shorthand reporter,--and them just settin' there sort of helpless and not even able to say a word in their own behalf because the law says they're innocent till they're proved guilty,--why, i tell you, mr. dewlap, it's heart-breakin'. and all because some weak-minded smart aleck gets them paroled. as i was sayin', the law's all right if it wasn't for the people that abuse it." "this is most interesting," said mr. yollop. "i've never quite understood why ninety per cent of the paroled convicts go back to the penitentiary so soon after they've been liberated." "of course," explained mr. smilk, "there are a few that don't get back. that's because, in their anxiety to make good, they get killed by some inexperienced policeman who catches 'em comin' out of somebody's window or--" "by the way, cassius, let me interrupt you. will you have a cigar? nice, pleasant way to pass an hour or two--beg pardon?" "i was only sayin', if you don't mind i'll take one of these cigarettes. cigars are a little too heavy for me." "i have some very light grade domestic--" "i don't mean in quality. i mean in weight. what's the sense of wastin' a lot of strength holding a cigar in your mouth when it requires no effort at all to smoke a cigarette? why, i got it all figured out scientifically. with the same amount of energy you expend in smokin' one cigar you could smoke between thirty and forty cigarettes, and being sort of gradual, you wouldn't begin to feel half as fatigued as if you--" "did i understand you to say 'scientifically', or was it satirically?" "i'm tryin' to use common, every-day words, mr. shallop," said mr. smilk, with dignity, "and i wish you'd do the same." "ahem! well, light up, cassius. i think i'll smoke a cigar. when you get through with the matches, push 'em over this way, will you? help yourself to those chocolate creams. there's a pound box of them at your elbow, cassius. i eat a great many. they're supposed to be fattening. help yourself." after lighting his cigar mr. yollop inquired: "by the way, since you speak so feelingly i gather that you are a paroled convict." "that's what i am. and the worst of it is, it ain't my first offense. i mean it ain't the first time i've been paroled. to begin with, when i was somewhat younger than i am now, i was twice turned loose by judges on what they call 'suspended sentences.' then i was sent up for two years for stealin' something or other,--i forgot just what it was. i served my time and a little later on went up again for three years for holdin' up a man over in brooklyn. well, i got paroled out inside of two years, and for nearly six months i had to report to the police ever' so often. every time i reported i had my pockets full of loot i'd snitched durin' the month, stuff the bulls were lookin' for in every pawn-shop in town, but to save my soul i couldn't somehow manage to get myself caught with the goods on me. say, i'd give two years off of my next sentence if i could cross my legs for five or ten minutes. this is gettin' worse and worse all the--" "you might try putting your left foot in the right hand drawer and your right foot in the other one," suggested mr. yollop. mr. smilk stared. "i've seen a lot of kidders in my time, but you certainly got 'em all skinned to death," said he. mr. yollop puffed reflectively for awhile, pondering the situation. "well, suppose you remove one foot at a time, cassius. as soon it is fairly well rested, put it back again and then take the other one out for a spell,--and so on. half a loaf is better than no loaf at all." smilk withdrew his left foot from its drawer and sighed gratefully. "as i was sayin'," he resumed, "if we could only put some kind of a curb on these here tender-hearted boobs--and boobesses--the world would be a much better place to live in. the way it is now, nine tenths of the fellers up in sing sing never know when they'll have to pack up and leave, and it's a constant strain on the nerves, i tell you. there seems to be a well-organized movement to interfere with the personal liberty of criminals, mr. poppup. these here sentimental reformers take it upon themselves to say whether a feller shall stay in prison or not. first, they come up there and pick out some poor helpless feller and say 'it's a crime to keep a good-lookin', intelligent boy like you in prison, so we're going to get you out on parole and make an honest, upright citizen of you. we're going to get you a nice job',--and so on and so forth. well, before he knows it, he's out and has to put up a bluff of workin' for a livin'. course, he just has to go to stealin' again. it makes him sore when he thinks of the good, honest life he was leadin' up there in the pen, with nothin' to worry about, satisfactory hours, plenty to eat, and practically divorced from his wife without havin' to go through the mill. if my calculations are correct, more than fifty per cent of the crime that's bein' committed these days is the work of paroled convicts who depended on the law to protect and support them for a given period of time. and does the law protect them? it does not. it allows a lot of pinheads to interfere with it, and what's the answer? a lot of poor devils are forced to go out and risk their lives tryin' to--" "just a moment, please," interrupted mr. yollop. "you are talking a trifle too fast, cassius. moderate your speed a little. before we go any further, i would like to be set straight on one point. do you mean to tell me that you actually prefer being in prison?" "well, now, that's a difficult question to answer," mused mr. smilk. "sometimes i do and sometimes i don't. it's sort of like being married, i suppose. sometimes you're glad you're married and sometimes you wish to god you wasn't. course, i've only been married three or four times, and i've been in the pen six times, one place or another, so i guess i'm not what you'd call an unbiased witness. i seem to have a leanin' toward jail,--about three to one in favor of jail, you might say, with the odds likely to be increased pretty shortly if all goes well. do you mind if i change drawers?" "eh! oh, i see. go ahead." mr. smilk put his right foot back into its drawer and withdrew the left. "gets you right across this tendon on the back of your ankle," he said. "now, you take the daily life of the average laboring man," he went on earnestly. "what does he get out of it? nothin' but expenses. the only thing that don't cost him something is work. and all the time he's at work his expenses are goin' on just the same, pilin' up durin' his absence from home. rent, food, fuel, light, doctor, liquor, clothes, shoes,--everything pilin' up on him while he's workin' for absolutely nothin' between pay days. the only time he gets anything for his work is on pay day. the rest of the time he's workin' for nothin', week in and week out. say he works forty-four hours a week. when does he get his pay? while he's workin'? not much. he has to work over time anywhere from fifteen minutes to half an hour--on his own time, mind you--standin' in line to get his pay envelope. and then when he gets it, what does he have to do? he has to go home and wonder how the hell he's goin' to get through the next week with nothin' but carfare to go on after his wife has told him to come across. now you take a convict. he hasn't an expense in the world. free grub, free bed, free doctor, free clothes,--he could have free liquor if the keepers would let his friends bring it in,--and his hours ain't any longer than any union man's hours. he don't have to pay dues to any labor union, he don't have to worry about strikes or strike benefits, he don't give a whoop what gompers or anybody else says about gary, and he don't care a darn whether the working man gets his beer or whether the revenue officers get it. he--" "wait a second, please. just as a matter of curiosity, cassius, i'd like to know what your views are on prohibition." "are you thinkin' of askin' me if i'll have something to drink?" inquired mr. smilk craftily. "what has that to do with it?" "a lot," said mr. smilk, with decision. "do you approve of prohibition?" "i do," said the rogue. "in moderation." "well, as soon as the police arrive i'll open a bottle of scotch. in the meantime go ahead with your very illuminating dissertation. i am beginning to understand why crime is so attractive, so alluring. i am almost able to see why you fellows like to go to the penitentiary." "if you could only get shut up for a couple of years, mr. wollop, you'd appreciate just what has been done in the last few years to make us fellers like it. you wouldn't believe how much the reformers have done to induce us to come back as soon as possible. they give us all kinds of entertainment, free of charge. three times a week we have some sort of a show, generally a band concert, a movin' picture show and a vaudeville show. then, once a month they bring up some crackin' good show right out of a broadway theater to make us forget that it's sunday and we'll have to go to work the next morning. scenery and costumes and everything and--and--" here mr. smilk showed signs of blubbering, a weakness that suddenly gave way to the most energetic indignation. "why, doggone it, every time i think of what that woman done to me, i could bite a nail in two. if it hadn't been for--" "woman? what woman?" "the woman that got me paroled out. she got i don't know how many people to sign a petition, sayin' i was a fine feller and all that kind o' bunk, and all i needed was a chance to show the world how honest i am and--why, of course, i was honest. how could i help bein' honest up there? what's eatin' the darn fools? the only thing you can steal up there is a nap, and you got to be mighty slick if you want to do that, they watch you so close. but do you know what's going on in this country right now, mr. popple? there's a regular organized band of law-breakers operating from one end of the nation to the other. we're tryin' to bust it up, but it's a tough job. the best way to reform a reformer is to rob him. the minute he finds out he's been robbed he turns over a new leaf and begins to beller like a bull about how rotten the police are. ninety nine times out of a hundred he quits his cussed interferin' with the law and becomes a decent, law-observin' citizen. our scheme is to get busy as soon as we've been turned loose and while our so-called benefactors are still rejoicin' over havin' snatched a brand from the burnin', we up and show 'em the error of their ways. first offenders get off fairly easy. we simply sneak in and take their silver and some loose jewelry. the more hardened they are, the worse we treat 'em. ring leaders some times get beat up so badly it's impossible to identify 'em at the morgue. but in time we'll smash the gang, and then if a feller goes up for ten, twenty or even thirty years he'll know there's no underhanded work goin' on and he can settle down to an honest life. the only way to stop crime in this country, mr. yollop, is to--" "thank you." "--is to make everybody respect the law. and with conditions so pleasant and so happy in the prison i want to tell you there's nobody in the country that respects and admires the law more than we do,--'specially us fellers that remember what the penitentiaries used to be like a few years ago when conditions were so tough that most of us managed to earn an honest livin' outside sooner than run the risk of gettin' sent up." he sighed deeply. then with a trace of real solicitude in his manner: "are your feet warm yet?" "warm as toast. your discourse, cassius, has moved me deeply. perhaps it would comfort you to call up police headquarters again and tell 'em to hurry along?" "wouldn't be a bad idea," said mr. smilk. he took down the receiver. presently: "police headquarters? ... how about sending over to sagamore for that burglar i was speakin' to you about recently? ... sure, he's here yet. ... the same name i gave you earlier in the evening. ... spell it yourself. you got it written down on a pad right there in front of you, haven't you? ... say, if you don't get somebody around here pretty quick, i'm goin' to call up two or three of the newspaper offices and have 'em send--... all right. see that you do." turning to mr. yollop, he said: "the police are a pretty decent lot when you get to know 'em, mr. yollop. they do their share towards enforcin' the law. they do their best to get us the limit. the trouble is, they got to fight tooth and nail against almost everybody that ain't on the police force. specially jurymen. there ain't a juryman in new york city that wants to believe a policeman on oath. he'd sooner believe a crook, any day. and sometimes the judges are worse than the juries. a pal of mine, bein' in considerable of a hurry to get back home one very cold winter, figured that if he went up and plead guilty before a judge he'd save a lot of time. well, sir, the doggone judge looked him over for a minute or two, and suddenly, out of a clear sky, asked him if he had a family,--and when he acknowledged, being an honest though ignorant guy, that he had a wife and three children, the judge said, if he'd promise to go out and earn a livin' for them he'd let him off with a suspended sentence, and before he had a chance to say he'd be damned if he'd make any such fool promise, the bailiff hustled him out the runway and told him to 'beat it'. he had to go out and slug a poor old widow woman and rob her of all the money she'd saved since her husband died--say, that reminds me. i got a favor i'd like to ask of you, mr. yollop." "i'm inclined to grant almost any favor you may ask," said mr. yollop, sympathetically. "i know how miserable you must feel, cassius, and how hard life is for you. do you want me to shoot you?" "no, i don't," exclaimed mr. smilk hastily. "i want you to take my roll of bills and hide it before the police come. that ain't much to ask, is it?" "bless my soul! how extraordinary!" "there's something over six hundred dollars in the roll," went on cassius confidentially. "it ain't that i'm afraid the cops will grab it for themselves, understand. but, you see, it's like this. the first thing the judge asks you when you are arraigned is whether you got the means to employ a lawyer. if you ain't, he appoints some one and it don't cost you a cent. now, if i go down to the tombs with all this money, why, by gosh, it will cost me just that much to get sent to sing sing, 'cause whatever you've got in the shape of real money is exactly what your lawyer's fee will be, and it don't seem sensible to spend all that money to get sent up when you can obtain the same result for nothin'. ain't that so?" "it sounds reasonable, cassius. you appear to be a thrifty as well as an honest fellow. but, may i be permitted to ask what the devil you are doing with six hundred dollars on your person while actively engaged in the pursuit of your usual avocation? why didn't you leave it at home?" "home? my god, man, don't you know it ain't safe these days to have a lot of money around the house? with all these burglaries going on? not on your life. even if i had had all this dough when i left home to-night, i wouldn't have taken any such chance as leavin' it there. the feller i'm roomin' with is figurin' on turning over a new leaf; he's thinkin' of gettin' married for five or six months and i don't think he could stand temptation." "do you mean to say, you acquired your roll after leaving home tonight, eh?" "to be perfectly honest with you, mr. moppup, i--" "yollop, please." "--yollop, i found this money in front of a theater up town,--just after the police nabbed a friend of mine who had frisked some guy of his roll and had to drop it in a hurry." "and you want me to keep it for you till you are free again,--is that it?" "just as soon as the trial is over and i get my sentence, i'll send a pal of mine around to you with a note and you can turn it over to him. all i'm after, is to keep some lawyer from gettin'--" "what would you say, cassius, if i were to tell you that i am a lawyer?" "i'd say you're a darned fool to confess when you don't have to," replied mr. smilk succinctly. mr. yollop chuckled. "well, i'm not a lawyer. nevertheless, i must decline to act as a depository for your obviously ill-gotten gains." "gee, that's tough," lamented mr. smilk. "wouldn't you just let me drop it behind something or other,--that book case over there say,--and i'll promise to send for it some night when you're out,--" "no use, cassius," broke in mr. yollop, firmly. "i'm deaf to your entreaties. permit me to paraphrase a very well-known line. 'none so deaf as him who will not hear.'" "if i speak very slowly and distinctly don't you think you could hear me if i was to offer to split the wad even with you,--fifty-fifty,--no questions asked?" inquired cassius, rather wistfully. "see here," exclaimed mr. yollop, irritably; "you got me in this position and i want you to get me out of it. while i've been squatting here listening to you, they've both gone to sleep and i'm hanged if i can move 'em. i never would have dreamed of sitting on them if you hadn't put the idea into my head, confound you." "let 'em hang down for a while," suggested mr. smilk. "that'll wake 'em up." "easier said than done," snapped the other. he managed, however, to get his benumbed feet to the floor and presently stood up on them. mr. smilk watched him with interest as he hobbled back and forth in front of the desk. "they'll be all right in a minute or two. by jove, i wish my sister could have heard all you've been saying about prisons and paroles and police. i ought to have had sense enough to call her. she's asleep at the other end of the hall." "i hate women," growled mr. smilk. "ever since that pie-faced dame got me chucked out of sing sing,--say, let me tell you something else she done to me. she gave me an address somewhere up on the east side and told me to come and see her as soon as i got out. well, i hadn't been out a week when i went up to see her one night,--or, more strictly speakin', one morning about two o'clock. what do you think? it was an empty house, with a 'for rent' sign on it. i found out the next day she'd moved a couple of weeks before and had gone to some hotel for the winter because it was impossible to keep any servants while this crime wave is goin' on. the janitor told me she'd had three full sets of servants stole right out from under her nose by female bandits over on park avenue. i don't suppose i'll ever have another chance to get even with her. everything all set to bind and gag her, and maybe rap her over the bean a couple of times and--say, can you beat it for rotten luck? she--she double-crossed me, that's what she--" a light, hesitating rap on the library door interrupted mr. smilk's bitter reflection. chapter three "some one at the door," the burglar announced, after a moment. mr. yollop had failed to hear the tapping. "you can't fool me, cassius. it's an old trick but it won't work. i've seen it done on the stage too many times to be caught napping by,--" "there it goes again. louder, please!" he called with considerable vehemence and was rewarded by a scarcely audible tapping indicative not only of timidity but of alarm as well--"say," he bawled, "you'll have to cut out that spirit rapping if you want to come in. use your night-stick!" "ah, the police at last," cried mr. yollop. "you'd better take this revolver now, mr. smilk," he added hastily. "i won't want 'em to catch me with a weapon in my possession. it means a heavy fine or imprisonment." he shoved the pistol across the desk. "they wouldn't believe me if i said it was yours." a sharp, penetrating rat-a-tat on the door. mr. smilk picked up the revolver. "you bet they wouldn't," said he. "if i swore on a stack of bibles i let a boob like you take it away from me, they'd send me to matteawan, and god knows,--" "come in!" called out mr. yollop. the door opened and a plump, dumpy lady in a pink peignoir, her front hair done up in curl-papers stood revealed on the threshold blinking in the strong light. "goodness gracious, crittenden," she cried irritably, "don't you know what time of night it--" she broke off abruptly as mr. smilk, with a great clatter, yanked his remaining foot from the drawer and arose, overturning the swivel-chair in his haste. "well, for the love of--" oozed from his gaping mouth. suddenly he turned his face away and hunched one shoulder up as a sort of shield. "it's long past three o'clock," went on the newcomer severely. "i'm sorry to interrupt a conference but i do think you might arrange for an appointment during the day, sir. my brother has not been well and if ever a man needed sleep and rest and regular hours, he does. crittenden, i wish you--" "cassius," interrupted mr. yollop urbanely, "this is my sister, mrs. champney. i want you to repeat--turn around here, can't you? what's the matter with you?" "don't order me around like that," muttered mr. smilk, still with his face averted. "i've got the gun now and i'll do as i damn' please. you can't talk to me like--" "goodness! who is this man?" cried the lady, stopping short to regard the blasphemer with shocked, disapproving eyes. "and what is he doing with a revolver in his hand?" "give me that pistol,--at once," commanded mr. yollop. "hand it over!" "not on your life," cried mr. smilk triumphantly. he faced mrs. champney. "take off them rings, you. put 'em here on the desk. lively, now! and don't yelp! do you get me? don't yelp!" mrs. champney stared unblinkingly, speechless. "put up your hands, yollop!" ordered mr. smilk. "why,--why, it's ernest,--ernest wilson," she gasped, incredulously. then, with a little squeak of relief: "don't pay any attention to him, crittenden. he is a friend of mine. don't you remember me, ernest? i am--" "you bet your life i remember you," said the burglar softly, almost purringly. "ernest your grandmother," cried mr. yollop jerking the disk first one way and then the other in order to catch the flitting duologue. "his name is smilk,--cassius smilk." "nothing of the sort," said mrs. champney sharply. "it's ernest wilson,--isn't it, ernest?" "take off them rings," was the answer she got. "what is this man doing here, crittenden?" demanded mrs. champney, paying no heed to smilk's command. "he's a burglar," replied mr. yollop. "i guess you'd better take off your rings, alice." "do you mean to tell me, ernest wilson, that you've gone back to your evil ways after all i,--" "i say, cassius," cried mr. yollop, "is this the woman you wanted to bind and gag and--and--" "yes, and rap over the bean," finished mr. smilk, as the speaker considerately refrained. "rap over the--what?" inquired mrs. champney, squinting. "the bean," said mr. smilk, with emphasis. "i can't imagine what has come over you, ernest. you were such a nice, quiet, model prisoner,--one of the most promising i ever had anything to do with. the authorities assured me that you--do you mean to tell me that you entered this apartment for the purpose of robbing it? don't answer! i don't want to hear your voice again. you have given me the greatest disappointment of my life. i trusted you, ernest,--i had faith in you,--and--and now i find you here in my own brother's apartment, of all places in the world, still pursuing your-" "well, you went and moved away on me," broke in smilk wrathfully. "that's right, alice," added mr. yollop. "you went and moved on him. he told me that just before you came in." "you may as well understand right now, ernest wilson, that i shall never intercede for you again," said mrs. champney sternly. "i shall let you rot in prison. i am through with you. you don't deserve--" "are you goin' to take off them rings, or have i got to--" "would you rob your benefactress?" demanded the lady. "every time i think of all that you robbed me of, i--i--" began mr. smilk, shakily. "don't blubber, cassius," said mr. yollop consolingly. "you see, my dear alice, mr. smilk thinks,--and maintains,--that you did him a dirty trick when you had him turned out into a wicked, dishonest world. he was living on the fat of the land up there in sing sing, seeing motion pictures and plays and so forth, without a worry in the world, with union hours and union pay, no one depending--" "what nonsense are you talking? how could he have union pay in a penitentiary, crittenden?" "don't interrupt me, please. however, i will explain that he was just as well-off at the end of the week as any union laborer is, and no street car fare to pay besides. free food, fuel, lodging, divorce, music--" "i forgot to mention baseball," interrupted mr. smilk. "and once in awhile an electrocution to break the monotony, to say nothin' of a jail-break every now and then. say, you'll have to get a move on, mrs. champney,--god, will i ever forget that name!--'cause we're expectin' the police here before long. i've changed my mind about havin' you hold your hands up, mr. yollop. you made me telephone for the police to come around and arrest me. now i'm goin' to make you bind and gag this lady. i can't very well do it myself and keep you covered at the same time, and while i ought to give you a wollop on the jaw, same as you done to me, i ain't goin' to do it. you can scream if you want to, ma'am,--yell 'bloody murder', and 'police', and everything. it's all the same to me. go ahead and--" "it is not my intention to do anything of the kind," announced the lady haughtily. "but i want to tell you one thing, crittenden yollop. if you attempt to gag and bind me, i'll bite and scratch, even if you are my own brother." mr. yollop pondered. "i think, cassius, if you don't mind, i'd rather you'd hit me a good sound wollop on the jaw." "i'll tell you what i'll do," modified mr. smilk. "i'll lock you in that closet over there, mr. yollop, so's you won't have to watch me rap her over the bean. after i've gone through the apartment, i'll--" "would you strike a woman, ernest wilson?" cried mrs. champney. "see here, smilk," said mr. yollop, "i cannot allow you to strike my sister. if you so much as lay a finger on her, i'll thrash you within an inch of your life." "oh, you will, will you?" sneered mr. smilk. "if you want to go ahead and rob this apartment in a decent, orderly way, all well and good. my sister and i will personally conduct you through,--" "we will do nothing of the kind," blazed mrs. champney. "i'd like to see you try to thrash me within an inch--" "and, what's more," went on the lady, "i will see that you go up for twenty years, ernest wilson, you degraded, ungrateful wretch." smilk's face brightened. he even allowed himself a foxy grin. "now you're beginnin' to talk sense," said he. "sit down, ernest, and let me talk quietly to you," said mrs. champney. "i'm sure you don't quite realize what you are doing. you need moral support. you are not naturally a bad man. you--" "are you goin' to take them rings off peaceably?" muttered smilk, a hunted look leaping into his eyes. "i am not," said she. "speak a little louder, both of you," complained mr. yollop. "this contraption of mine doesn't seem to catch what you are saying." "jiggle it," said smilk brightly. "how long ago did you telephone for the police, crittenden?" "how long ago was it, cassius?" "only about an hour. we got plenty of time to finish up before they get here." "do you think it will go harder with you, cassius, if they find mrs. champney bound and gagged and everything scattered about the floor, and the jewelry in your possession?" "it might help," said cassius. "the trouble is, you never can tell what a damn' fool jury will do, 'specially to a guy with a record like mine." "you had a splendid record up at sing sing," announced the lady. "that's why i had so little trouble--" "you don't get me," said cassius lugubriously. "my record is a bad one. i've been paroled twice. that's bound to influence most any jury against me. wouldn't surprise me a bit if they recommended clemency, as the sayin' is, and after all that's been done to keep me out of the pen, the judge is likely to up and give me the minimum sentence. no," he went on, "i guess i'll have to rap somebody over the bean. i'd sooner it as you, ma'am, on account of the way you forced me into a life of crime when i was leadin' an honest, happy, carefree--" "why, the man's insane, crittenden,--positively insane. he doesn't know what he's--" "for god's sake, don't start anything like that," barked cassius. "that would be the limit!" "you don't understand, alice," said mr. yollop kindly. "the poor fellow merely wants to have the law enforced. he says it's a crime the way the law is being violated these days. or words to that effect, eh, cassius?" "yes, sir. there are more honest, law-abidin' men up in sing sing right at this minute than there are in the whole city of new york. or words to that effect, as you say, mr. yollop. the surest and quickest way to make an honest man of a crook is to send him to the pen. i don't know as i've ever heard of a robbery, or a holdup, or anything like that up there." "the way he rambles, crittenden, is proof--" "it would be just like her to go on the stand and swear i'm batty," snarled cassius. "i got to do something about it, mr. yollop. she's goin' to interfere with the law again, sure as god made little apples. i can see it comin'. i'm goin' to count three, ma'am. if you don't let mr. yollop start to tyin' you up with that muffler of his hangin' over there in the closet by the time i've said three, i'm goin' to shoot him. i hate to do it, 'cause he's a fine feller and don't deserve to be shot on account of any darn' fool woman." "i suppose you know the law provides a very unpleasant penalty for murder," said mrs. champney, but her voice quavered disloyally. "one!" began cassius ominously. "do you really mean it?" she cried, and glanced frantically over her shoulder at the open closet door. "two," replied cassius. "count slowly," implored mr. yollop. "you--you may tie my hands, critt--crittenden,--" chattered the lady. "you mustn't bite or scratch him," warned cassius. sixty seconds later, mrs. champney stood before the burglar, her wrists securely bound behind her back. "will you gag her, or must i?" demanded cassius. "i will give you my word of honor not to scream," faltered the crumpling lady. "it ain't the screamin' i object to," said smilk. "it's the talkin'. you've done too much talkin' already, ma'am. if you hadn't talked so much i wouldn't be here tonight." "have you a hanky, cassius?" inquired mr. yollop. "i refuse to have that disgusting wretch's filthy handkerchief stuffed into my mouth," cried mrs. champney, with spirit. mr. yollop chuckled. "good gracious, crittenden, what is there to laugh at?" "i was thinking of your roll of bills, cassius," said mr. yollop. "not on your life," said cassius, who evidently had had the same thought. "she'd swaller it." "i suppose we'd better repair to your room, alice, where we can obtain the necessary articles. mr. smilk will naturally want to ransack your room anyhow, so we 'll be saving quite a bit of time. and the police are likely to be here any minute now." "you forgot to take your rings off, ma'am," reminded mr. smilk. "that's got to be attended to, first of all. take 'em off, mr. yollop, and put 'em here on the desk." a moment later he dropped the three costly rings into his coat pocket. "now," said he, "lead the way. i'll be right behind you with the gun. no monkey business, now,--remember that." it was not long before mrs. champney, properly gagged, found herself lashed to a rocking-chair in the charming little bed chamber, occupying, so to speak, a select position from which to observe the hasty but skillful operations of her recalcitrant beneficiary. she watched him empty her innovation trunk, the drawers in her bureau, and the closet in which her choicest gowns were hanging. he did it very thoroughly. the floor was strewn with lingerie, hats, shoes, slippers, gloves, stockings, furs, frocks,--over which he trod with professional disdain; he broke open her smart little jewel case and took therefrom a glittering assortment of rings, bracelets, and earrings; a horseshoe pin, a gorgeous crescent, and a string of pearls; a platinum and diamond wrist watch, an acorn watch, a diamond collar, several bars of diamonds, rubies and emeralds, and odds and ends of feminine vanity all without so much as pausing to classify them beyond the mere word "junk". all of this dazzling fortune he stuffed carelessly into his pocket. during the proceedings, mr. yollop stood obediently over against the wall, his hands aloft, his back towards the rummaging cassius. "what's in that room over there?" demanded the burglar, pointing to a closed door. for obvious reasons there was no response. he scowled for a second or two and then, striding over to mr. yollop, seized him by the shoulder and turned him about-face. then he repeated the question. "that's the room where my niece sleeps. a little ten year old child, cassius. you will oblige me by not disturbing--" "is her hair bobbed?" broke in mr. smilk. "certainly not. she wears it long. beautiful golden tresses, smilk. particularly beautiful when she's asleep, spreading out all over the pillow like a silken--" an audible, muffled, groan came from the occupant of the rocking-chair heard only by mr. smilk. his gaze went first to the purpling face of mrs. champney, then to the door, then back to the lady again. "for your sake, mr. yollop, i won't clip it," he announced. "i know i'd ought to, but--well, i guess it's about time we went back to the library again. the cops will be along in a couple of minutes now, according to my calculations. i can tell almost to a minute how long it takes them to get around to where a burglary has been committed. if you'll tell me where you think your slippers are we'll stop and get 'em on the way." leaving mrs. champney seated alone and helpless in the midst of the confusion, smilk marched mr. yollop to his bedroom and then up the hall to the scene of the first encounter. "it seems sort of a pity not to get away with all this stuff," said the burglar, rattling the objects in his pocket. "it ain't professional. i'm beginnin' to change my mind about bein' arrested, mr. yollop: i know a girl that would be tickled to death to have these things to splash around in. she's a peach of a--say, i believe i'll use your telephone again. i'll call her up and see how she feels about it. if she says she'd like to have 'em, i'll make my getaway before the cops--" "you will find the telephone directory hanging on the end of the desk, cassius," said mr. yollop graciously. he was seated in the big arm chair again, wriggling his toes delightedly in the cozy, fleece lined bed-room slippers. "but are you not afraid she will be annoyed if you get her out of bed this time o' night? it's after three." "i know the number. yes, she'll be sore at first, but--hello central?" he lowered his voice almost to a whisper, so that mr. yollop could not hear. "give me plaza . right." turning to mr. yollop, he announced as he sank back into the chair comfortably: "it's an apartment. we'll probably have quite a long wait. i've found it takes some little time to wake the head of the house and get him to the 'phone. and say, he's the darndest grouch i've ever tackled. get's sore as a crab. but we've got him where we want him. he knows darned well if he kicks up a row, she'll quit and his wife couldn't get anybody in her place for love or money these days. i was sayin' only the other night--" again lowering his voice: "is this plaza ? ... i want to speak to yilga, please." ... raising his voice considerably: "here, now, cut that out! ... well, it is important. ... course, i know what time o' night it is. ... yes, it's a damned outrage an' all that, but--what? ... all right, i'll hold the wire. tell her to hustle, will you?" "i wish i had shot you, smilk, when i had the chance," said mr. yollop sadly. "this is abominable, atrocious. getting a man out of bed at half-past three! it's unspeakable, smilk!" "she's a light sleeper," mused mr. smilk aloud, dreamily. "what say?" "don't bother me. i'm thinkin'!" mr. yollop waited a moment. "what are you thinking about, cassius?" cassius started. "... eh? i was thinkin' about the last time i had breakfast at mr. johnson's apartment. it was that terrible cold morning the first of last week. by gosh, how that girl can cook! six fried eggs and--yes? hello!" plaza : "yilga's not in yet." smilk, sharply: "what's that?" plaza : "she's out." smilk, sharply: "out? come off! you can't put that sort of stuff over me--" plaza : "i tell you she's not in. that's all. and say, don't call up this apartment again at--" smilk: "say, it's nearly four o'clock. she must be in." plaza : "she's not in, i tell you. she went out last evening with her young man. one of the other maids stuck her head out of her door and told me." smilk, with fallen jaw: "what--what time do you expect her in?" plaza : "i don't know, and i don't give a damn so long as she's here in time to get break--" smilk, furiously: "hey, you go back there and bust into her room. hear what i say? better take a club or a gun or something--" plaza ; "go to thunder!" smilk, flinching as he jerked the receiver away from his ear: "lord! i bet he put that telephone out of whack!" he sagged a little as he slowly hung up the receiver. for a moment he stared desolately at mr. yollop and then recovering himself gradually rushed with ever increasing velocity into the most violent hurricane of profanity that ever was centered upon the frailty of woman. running out of expletives he at last subsided into an ominous calm. "for two cents," groaned he, "i'd blow my head off." he gazed hungrily at the revolver. "i never dreamed there were so many cuss-words in the world," gasped mr. yollop, blinking. "there ain't half enough," announced mr. smilk, in a far away voice. "put that pistol down!" roared mr. yollop. "what are you going to do? shoot yourself?" "it would save an awful lot of trouble," said mr. smilk. "the deuce it would! my servants would be a week cleaning up after you, and you'd probably ruin this meshed rug. besides, confound you, the police would think that i shot you. give me that pistol! give it to me, i say. you can come in here and rob to your heart's content, but i'm damned if i'll allow you to commit suicide here. that's a little too thick, smilk. why the dickens should you worry about that infernal jade? aren't you going to the penitentiary for fifteen or twenty years? aren't you-" "you're right,--you're right," broke in cassius, drawing a deep breath. "i guess i had a kind of a brainstorm. it was the jewels that done it. funny how a feller gets the feelin' that he just has to give diamonds and pearls to his girl. it came over me all of a sudden. the only things i ever gave that girl was a moleskin coat, a sable collar and muff, and a gold mesh bag with seventy-eight dollars and a lace handkerchief in it. for a minute or two i was tempted to give her diamonds and rubies--oh, well, i guess i've had my lesson. never again! never again, mr. yollop. i'm off women from now on. here's the gun. if the police try to hang it on you, i'll swear it's mine. listen! there's the elevator stoppin' at this floor. it's them. before we let 'em in, i'd like to tell you i've never had a more interestin' evenin' in my whole life. what's more i never saw a man like you. you got me guessin'. you're either the goshdarndest fool livin' or else you're the slickest confidence man outside of captivity. which are you? that's what's eatin' me." "i'm both," said mr. yollop, picking up the revolver. "that ain't possible," said mr. smilk. "oh, yes, it is. i'm a milliner, cassius." "i know you're a millionaire, but that don't,--" "i said milliner." "run a mill of some kind?" "no, i make hats for women." as the incredulous burglar opened his mouth to say something the buzzer on the door sounded. "they got here just in time," he substituted. chapter four the case of the state vs. cassius smilk, charged with burglary, was finally set for trial the second week in february, just one year, one month and eleven days after his arrest in the apartment of crittenden yollop. there had been, it appears, a slight delay in getting 'round to his case. the dockets in all parts of general sessions were more or less clogged by the efforts of ex-convicts to get back into the penitentiary. also, there were a great many murder cases that kept bobbing up every now and then for continuance on one plea or another to the disgust of the harassed judges; to say nothing of the re-trials made necessary by the jurors who listened more attentively to the lawyers who "summed up" than they did to the witnesses who were under oath to tell nothing but the truth. cassius, on arraignment, had pleaded not guilty, according to the ancient ritual of his profession. notwithstanding his evident and expressed desire to return to a haven of peace and luxury, he was far too conscientious a criminal to violate the soundest--it may well be said, the elemental--law of his craft, by pleading guilty to anything. it was a matter of principle with him. circumstances had nothing to do with it. the instant he found himself in court, he reverted to type, somewhat gleefully setting about to make as much trouble as possible. he adhered to the principle that no criminal is adequately punished unless the people are made to pay for the privilege of suppressing him. the only way to make the people respect the law, he contended, is to let 'em understand that it costs money to enforce it. besides, crime has a certain, clearly established dignity that must be reckoned with. the world thinks a great deal less of you if after you have violated the law, you also refuse to fight it. take the judge, for instance. (i quote smilk.) what sort of an opinion does he have of you if you slide up to the little "gate," with your tail between your legs and plead guilty? why, he hardly notices you. he has to put on his spectacles in order to see you at all and he doesn't even have to look in the statute book to refresh his memory as to the minimum penalty for larceny or whatever it is. and the way the assistant district attorney looks at you! and the bailiffs too. but put up a fight and see what happens. the whole blamed works sits up and takes notice. the judge looks over his spectacles and says to himself, "by gosh, he's a tough lookin' bird, that guy is;" the district attorney goes around tellin' everybody in a whisper that you're a desperate character; the clerk of the court, the stenographer and all the bailiffs sort of wake up and act busy; the men waiting to be examined for jobs on the jury begin to fidget and wonder whether the judge is a "crab" or a nice, decent feller what'll let 'em off when they tell him they got sickness in the family, and all of 'em ha tin' you worse than poison because you didn't plead guilty. he was remanded for trial within two weeks after his arrest. the court, finding him penniless, announced he would appoint counsel to defend him. whereupon smilk sauntered back to the tombs with a light heart, confident that his sojourn there would be brief and that march at the very latest would see him snugly settled in his rent-free, food-free, landlordless home on the hudson, entertainment for man and beast provided without discrimination, crime no object. first of all, his lawyer unexpectedly got a job to represent a shady lady in a sensational breach of promise suit that drew weekly postponements over a period of five months and finally died a natural death out of court sometime in june. this resulted in his lawyer becoming so affluent that it wasn't necessary for him to bother with cassius, so he withdrew from the case. after some delay, another lawyer was appointed to defend him and things began to look up. but by this time the dockets had become so jammed with unrelated dilemmas, and the summer heat was so intense, that the new lawyer informed him he couldn't possibly sandwich him in unless he would consent to change his plea to "guilty", contending that the combination of humility and humidity would go a long ways towards softening the judge. but cassius sturdily refused to cheapen himself. in the meantime, new crimes had been committed by countless gentlemen of leisure; the tombs was full of men clamoring for attention, and there was an undetected waiting list outside that stretched all the way from the battery to the lower extremities of yonkers. the principal witness, mr. crittenden yollop, did his best to behave nobly. he thrice postponed a business trip to paris in order to be within reach when cassius needed him. then, in the fall, when things looked most propitious for a speedy termination of smilk's suspense, the millinery business took a sudden and alarming turn for the worse and mr. yollop fell into the hands of the specialists. he had his teeth ex-rayed, his sinuses probed, his eyes examined, his stomach sounded, his intestines visited, his nerves tampered with, his blood tested, his kidneys explored, his heart observed, his ears inspected, his gall stones (if he had any) shifted, his last will and testament drawn up, his funeral practically arranged for,--all by different scientists,--and then was ordered to go off somewhere in the country and play golf for his health. he went to hot springs, virginia, and inside of two weeks contracted the golf disease in its most virulent form. he got it so bad that other players looked upon him as a scourge and avoided him even to the point of self-sacrifice. it was said of him that when he once got on a green it was next to impossible to get him off of it. but all this is neither here nor there. suffice to say that shortly after his return to new york, mr. yollop paid a more or less clandestine visit to the tombs, where he saw cassius. this was the week before the trial was to open. he found the crook in a disconsolate frame of mind. "don't call me yollop," he managed to convey to the prisoner. "i gave another name to the jailer or whatever he is. is it jail bird? it wouldn't look right for the prosecuting witness to come down here to see you. they think i'm your brother-in-law." smilk glowered. "has your hearin' improved any?" he inquired, after locating the disc. "no, of course not." "then," said the prisoner, "i can't tell you what i think of you without the whole damn' jail hearin' me, so i guess you'd better beat it." "splendid! that's just the way i might have expected you to talk to your brother-in-law." "well, what do you want anyhow?" "i don't think that's a very nice way to speak to a--" "come on, what do you want to see me about? get it over with and get out. it can't help my case any if it gets noised around that you come down here to pay a friendly visit to me. i'm havin' a hard enough time as it is. it's gettin' so it's almost impossible to get back into the pen even--" "see here, cassius, i've been giving your case a great deal--of serious thought. i want to help you out of this scrape if there is any way to do it." "that's just what i thought you'd be up to," groaned cassius. "what's got into you? have you soured on life, or what is it?" "not a bit of it. you do not get my meaning. your wife came to see me yesterday afternoon." "my wife? which one?" "a tallish one with a flat nose." "yes, i know her. what'd she want?" "she asked me to be as easy on you as i could, on account of the children." "how many children has she got now?" "four, she informs me. the youngest is two and a half." cassius seemed to be doing a bit of mental arithmetic. he pondered well before speaking. then he said: "did she say whose children?" "i assumed them to be yours, cassius." smilk grinned. "well, i guess she's adopted a couple since the last time i saw her, which was five years ago last spring. i been married twice since then. so she wants you to go easy on me, eh?" "she seems to think that if i intercede for you the judge will let you off with a suspended sentence, and then you can go to work and support your family." "it's time she woke up," snarled smilk. "i been at large quite a bit in the last ten years and if she can prove that i ever supported her,--why, darn her hide, what right has she got to accuse me of supportin' her when she knows i've never been guilty of doin' it? she knows as well as anything that she supported me on three different occasions when i was out for a month or two at a stretch. i will say this for her, she supported me better than the other two did,--a lot better. and it's her own fault her nose is flat. if she'd stood still that time--but i'm not goin' to discuss family affairs with you, mr. yol--" "sh! easy!" "it's all right. he ain't listenin'." "what is your brother-in-law's name?" in a whisper. "i never had but one name for him, and it's something i wouldn't call you for anything in the world," said smilk. "let's make it bill. you ain't goin' to do what she asks, are you? you ain't goin' to do a dirty trick like that are you,--bill?" "i thought i would come down and talk the matter over with you, cash. i'm in quite a dilemma. she says if i don't help you out of this scrape she and all your children will haunt me to my dying day. it sounds rather terrible, doesn't it?" "i can't think of anything worse," acknowledged cassius, solemnly. "she asked me what i thought your sentence would be, and i told her i doubted very much whether you'd get more than a year or so, in view of all the extenuating circumstances,--that is to say, your self-restraint and all that when you had not only the jewels but the revolver as well. that seemed to cheer her up a bit." "you made a ten strike that time, bill," said smilk, his face brightening. "i didn't give you credit for bein' so clever. if she thinks i'll be out in a year or two, maybe she'll be satisfied to keep her nose out of my affairs. if you had told her i was dead sure to go up for twenty years or so, she'd come and camp over there in the criminal courts building and just raise particular hell with everything." mr. yollop turned his face away. "i'm sorry to bring bad news to you, cash, but she's made up her mind to attend your trial next monday. she's going to bring the children and--" he was interrupted by the string of horrific oaths that issued, pianissimo, through the twisted lips of the prisoner. after a time, cassius interrupted himself to murmur weakly: "if she does that, i'm lost. we got to head her off somehow, mr.--er--bill." "i don't see how it can be managed. she has a perfect right to attend the pro--" "wait a minute, bill," broke in the other eagerly. "i got an idea. if you give her that roll of mine, maybe she'll stay away." "what roll are you talking about?" "my roll of bills,--you remember, don't you?" "my good man, i haven't got your roll of bills. and besides i couldn't put myself in the position of--of--er--what is it you call it?--tinkering with witnesses to defeat the ends of justice." "but she ain't a witness, bill. you couldn't possibly get in wrong. what's more, it's my money, and i got a right to give it to my wife, ain't i? ain't i got a right to give money to my own wife,--or to one of my wives, strictly speakin',--and to my own children? ain't i?" "that isn't the point. i refuse to be a party to any such game. we need not discuss it any farther. as i said before, i haven't your roll of bills, and if i had it i--" "oh, yes, you have. you got it right up there in your apartment. i stuck it away behind a--" "stop! not another word, cassius. i don't want to know where it is. if you persist in telling me, i'll--i'll ask the judge to let you off with the lightest sentence he can--" "oh, lord, you wouldn't do that, would you?" "yes, i would. what do you mean by secreting stolen property in my apartments?" "i didn't steal it. i found it, i tell you." "bosh!" "hope i may die if i didn't." "well, it may stay there till it rots, so far as i am concerned." "no danger of that," said smilk composedly. "a friend of mine is comin' around some night soon to get it. what else did she say?" "eh?" "what else did my wife say?" "oh! well, among other things, she wondered if it would be possible to get an injunction against the court to prevent him from depriving her of her only means of support. she says everybody is getting injunctions these days and--" "bosh!" said smilk, but not with conviction. an anxious, inquiring gleam lurked in his eyes. mr. yollop continued: "i told her it was ridiculous,--and it is. then she said she was going to see your lawyer and ask him to put her on the witness stand to testify that you are a good, loyal, hard-working husband and that your children ought to have a father's hand over them, and a lot more like that." "she tried that once before and the court wouldn't let her testify," said smilk. "but anyhow, i'll tell my lawyer to kick her out of the office if she comes around there offering to commit perjury." "i rather fancy she has considered that angle, cassius. she says if she isn't allowed to testify, she's going to attempt suicide right there in the court-room." "by gum, she's a mean woman," groaned smilk. "i'm obliged to agree with you," said mr. yollop, compressing his lips as a far-away look came into his eyes. "if i live to be a thousand years old, i'll never forget the way she talked to me when i finally succeeded in telling her i was busy and she would have to excuse me. it was something appalling." "course. i suppose i got myself to blame," lamented cassius ruefully. "i don't know how many times i come near to doin' it and didn't because i was so darned chicken-hearted." "i have decided, cash, that you ought to go up for life,--or for thirty years, at least. so when i go on the stand i intend to do everything in my power to secure the maximum for you. at first, i was reluctant to aid you in your efforts to lead a life of ease and enjoyment but recent events have convinced me that you are entitled to all that the law can give you." "it won't do much good if she's to set there in the courtroom, snivelling and lookin' heart-broke, with a pack of half-starved kids hangin' on to her. like as not, she won't give 'em anything to eat for two or three days so's they'll look the part. i remember two of them kids fairly well. the lord knows i used to take all kinds of risks to provide clothes and all sorts of luxuries for them,--and for her too. i used to give 'em bicycles and skates and gold watches,--yes, sir, we had christmas regularly once a month. and she never was without fur neck-pieces and muffs and silk stockings and everything. the trouble with that woman is, she can't stand poverty. she just keeps on hopin' for the day to come when she can wear all sorts of finery and jewels again, even if i do have to go to the penitentiary for it. all this comes of bein' too good a provider, bill. you spoil 'em." mr. yollop was thinking, so cassius, after waiting a moment, scratched his head and ventured: "that guy's beginnin' to fidget, bill. i guess your time's about up. what are you thinkin' about?" "i was thinking about your other wives. how many did you say you have?" "three, all told. the other two don't bother me much." "haven't you ever been divorced from any of them?" "not especially. why?" "where do the other two live, and what are their names?" "elsie morton and jennie finch. i mean, those are their married names. i use a different alias every time i get married, you see. course, my first wife,--the one you met,--her name is smilk. i married her when i was young and not very smart. elsie lives in brooklyn and jennie keeps a delicatessen up on the west side." "do they know where you are?" "i don't think so. i forgot to tell 'em i was out on parole last year." "and they have never been divorced from you?" "no. they couldn't prove anything on me as long as i was locked up in the penitentiary." "does either one of them know about the other two?" "i should say not! what do you think i am?" "don't lose your temper, cassius. i am trying to think of some way to help you,--and i believe i see a ray of hope. you were regularly married to elsie and jennie,--i mean, by a minister, and so on?" "sure. they both got their marriage certificates. i always believe in doin' things in the proper legal way. it's only fair and right. they--" "never mind. give me their addresses." chapter five there were quite a number of people in the court room when the case of the state vs. smilk was called. it was a bitterly cold day outside and considerable of an overflow from the corridors had seeped into the various court rooms. but little delay was experienced in obtaining a jury. the regular panel was stuck, with a few exceptions. only one member was able to declare that he had formed an opinion, and he did not form it until after he had had a good look at the prisoner,--although he did not say so. two were challenged by counsel and one got off because he admitted that he was acquainted with a man who used to be connected with the district attorney's office,--he couldn't think of his name. smilk's attorney succeeded in executing a very clever piece of strategy at the outset. no sooner had the jury been sworn than he ordered the bailiffs to crowd three or four more chairs alongside his table, and then blandly invited a considerable portion of the audience to take their seats inside the railing. the persons indicated included a tall, shabbily dressed woman and seven ragged, pinched children, ranging in years from twelve down to three. immediately the prosecution fell into the trap. two agitated assistant district attorneys jumped to their feet and barked out an objection to the presence of the accused's wife and family on the inside of the fence, and the court promptly sustained them. he also said some very sharp and caustic things to smilk's lawyer. mrs. smilk and her bewildered seven patiently resumed their seats in the front row of spectators, but not until after a four year old girl, surreptitiously pinched, had caused a mild sensation by piping: "i want my daddy! i want my daddy!" smilk cringed and it was quite apparent to close observers that he was having great difficulty in suppressing his emotions. the first witness for the prosecution was crittenden yollop, milliner, aged . a more thorough examination by the state would have disclosed the fact that he was six feet tall, spare, slightly bald, beardless, well-manicured, and faultlessly attired. "state your name and occupation, please," said the state's attorney, advancing a few paces toward the witness stand. "my name is crittenden yollop. i am in the millinery business." the state: "where do you reside?" yollop: " sagamore terrace." the state: "in an apartment?" yollop: "a little louder, if you please." the state, raising its voice: "repeat the question, mr. stenographer." stenographer, leaning forward a little: "'in an apartment?'" yollop: "yes." the state: "were you living in this apartment on the th of december, ?" yollop: "i was." the state: "was that apartment entered by a burglar on the date mentioned?" yollop: "it was." the state, casually: "will you be so good as to glance around the court room and state whether you see and recognize the man who entered and robbed your apartment?" yollop, pointing: "yes. that is the man." the state: "you are sure about that?" yollop: "i beg pardon?" the state, patiently: "repeat the question, mr. stenographer." stenographer, patiently: "'you are sure about that?'" yollop: "certainly." the state: "now, mr. yollop, i'm going to ask you to tell the jury, in your own words, exactly what occurred in your apartment on the morning of december th. speak slowly and distinctly, and face the jury." mr. yollop, assisted to some extent by the gentleman conducting the examination, related the story of the crime, dwelling with special earnestness upon the dastardly, brutal manner in which smilk forced him, at the point of a revolver to bind and gag and otherwise maltreat the woman who had befriended him and whose jewels he was preparing to make off with when the police arrived. he carefully avoided any allusion to certain portions of the lengthy and illuminating dialogue that had taken place between him and smilk; he said nothing of the unexampled behavior of the intruder in telephoning for the police, or the kindness revealed by him in suggesting a means for getting his captor's feet warm. smilk's lawyer, at the very outset of the cross-examination, clarified the air as to the nature of the defense he was going to put up for his client. after a few preliminary questions, he demanded sharply: "now, mr. yollop, didn't this defendant state to you that he had been unable to get work and that his wife and family were in such desperate straits that he was forced to commit a crime against the state in order to preserve them from actual starvation?" yollop: "he did not." counsel: "you are quite positive about that, are you?" yollop: "yes." counsel: "did he, at the time appear to be a robust, well-conditioned man,--that is to say, a man who looked strong enough to work and who had had sufficient nourishment to keep his body and soul together?" yollop: "he certainly did." counsel: "a big, rugged, healthy, desperate fellow, you would say?" yollop: "yes." counsel: "armed with a loaded revolver?" yollop: "yes." counsel: "you would say that he was big enough and strong enough to pull a trigger, wouldn't you?" yollop: "i can't answer that question. i don't know how much strength it requires to pull a trigger." counsel: "ahem! at any rate, he looked as though he was strong enough to pull a trigger?" yollop: "i dare say he could have pulled it." counsel: "and yet you would have the jury believe that this big, strong, well-nourished man, permitted you--by the by, how much do you weigh, mr. yollop!" yollop: "about pounds, in my clothes." counsel: "you are six feet tall, i should say?" yollop: "lacking a quarter of an inch." counsel: "ahem! as i was saying, this strong, desperate man, armed with a revolver, allowed you to walk across the room and strike him in the face, causing him to crumple up and fall to the floor as if struck by a--well, someone like jack dempsey. isn't that so?" yollop: "i never was so surprised in my life." counsel, thunderously: "answer my question!" yollop: "well, i hit him and he fell." counsel: "do you regard yourself as an experienced boxer?" yollop: "no, i don't." counsel: "are you what may be termed a powerful man, able to strike a powerful blow with the fist?" yollop: "i don't know. the defendant can answer that question better than i can." counsel, to the court: "your honor, i appeal to you to direct this witness to answer my questions--" the court: "confine your answers to the questions as they are put to you, mr. witness." counsel to yollop: "now see if you can answer this question, mr. yollop. you have described in direct examination that this defendant was a big, burly, rough looking man. you say you were surprised when he went down under your inexpert blow. why were you surprised?" yollop: "i was surprised to find how easy it is to knock a man down." counsel. "i see. you had never knocked a man down before. is that so?" yollop: "i had never even struck a man before." counsel: "and yet you found it singularly easy to deliver a blow on the jaw of an armed man with sufficient force to knock him down?" yollop: "i can only answer that question by saying that he went down when i struck him. i don't know how hard or how easy it is to knock a man down." counsel: "but you admit you were surprised?" yollop: "yes. i was surprised." counsel, shaking his finger and speaking with something like malevolence in his voice and manner: "don't you know, mr. yollop, that this man was so exhausted from lack of food that he was not only unable to defend himself from your assault but that the weakest blow--or even a gentle push with the open hand,--would have sent him sprawling?" yollop: "i don't know anything about that." counsel: "wasn't he so weak that he could hardly walk across the room after he arose?" yollop: "possibly. he was not too weak, however, to climb up two floors on a fire escape and pry open my window before i,--" counsel: "now,--now,--now! please answer my question?" yollop: "he complained of being dizzy. he held his hand to his jaw. that's all i can say." counsel: "you were pointing the revolver at him all the time, you have testified. is that true?" yollop: "yes." counsel: "if he had made an attempt to attack you, you would have shot him, wouldn't you?" yollop: "i would have shot at him, i suppose." counsel, slowly, distinctly, dramatically: "in other words, you would have been strong enough to do the thing that he was unable to do,--pull a trigger." yollop: "i haven't said he was unable to pull a trigger." counsel: "answer my question!" the state, bouncing up: "we object to this question. it calls for a conclusion on the part of the witness that--" the court: "objection sustained." counsel, glaring: "exception." then, after mopping his brow and consulting his notes: "now, mr. yollop, you say you conversed with this defendant at some length while waiting for the police to arrive. have you any recollection of this defendant telling you that he was driven to theft because he had been out of work for nearly three months?" yollop: "no." counsel: "didn't he say something of the kind to you?" yollop: "he didn't say he had been out of work for three months." counsel, patiently: "well, what did he say?" yollop: "he said he had been out of jail for three months." counsel, suddenly referring to his notes again: "er--ahem!--by the way, mr. yollop, you don't hear very well, do you?" yollop: "i am quite deaf." counsel: "he might have said a great many things that you failed to hear,--especially if his voice was weak?" yollop: "i dare say he did." counsel, lifting his eyebrows significantly and nodding his head: "ah-h-h! didn't he tell you that he had a wife and several children?" yollop: "i don't recall that he said anything about several children. he said he had several wives." counsel, startled: "what's that?" a bailiff, harshly addressing a woman in the front row of spectators: "order! order!" the woman in the front row: "the dirty liar!" the state, sticking its hands in its pockets and strutting to and fro, smiling loftily: "repeat the answer for the gentleman, mr. reporter." counsel: "never mind,--never mind. i move that the answer be stricken out, your honor, and that you instruct the jury to disregard the supposedly facetious reply of the witness." the court, to mr. yollop: "did this defendant say to you that he had several wives?" yollop, looking blandly at the jury until convinced by twelve expressions and the direction in which twenty four eyes were gazing that the court had spoken: "i beg pardon, your honor. were you speaking to me?" the court, raising his voice: "did he tell you that he had several wives?" yollop: "he did." the court: "motion overruled. proceed." counsel: "exception. now, mr.--" child in the front row, still gazing intently at a very baldheaded man on the opposite side of the aisle: "i want my daddy! i want--" the court: "you must remove that child from the court room, madam. officer, see that that child is removed. remove all of them. you may remain here, madam, if you choose to do so, but the court cannot allow this trial to be--" the woman in the front row: "please, your honor, if you will let me keep them here i'll promise to--" the court: "officer, remove those children at once." the woman: "and what's more, he tells a dirty lie when he says--" the court: "silence! you will have to leave the room also, madam. this is outrageous. officer!" the state, magnanimously: "may it please the court, the state has not the slightest objection to the lady and her children remaining in the court room, provided they do not interrupt these proceedings again." the court, melting a little: "do you think you can keep those children quiet, madam, and refrain from audible comments yourself?" the woman: "yes, sir. i'm sure i can." the court: "it is not my desire to be harsh with you, madam, but if this occurs again i shall have you ejected from the room. proceed." counsel: "now, mr. yollop, you have testified that you bound and gagged your sister at the direction and command of this defendant and that he rifled the apartment at will, keeping you covered with a revolver. you also have stated that you laid the pistol on the desk, within his reach, when you believed the police to be at the door. why, did you do that?" yollop: "because i did not think that i needed it any longer." counsel, sarcastically: "oho! so that was the reason, eh?" yollop: "well, i was glad to be rid of it. i was dreading all the time that it might go off accidentally. they frequently do." counsel: "i see. now, isn't it a fact, mr. yollop, that you laid the revolver down to go to the assistance of this defendant who was in a fainting condition?" yollop: "no, it isn't. he was all right." counsel: "don't you know that you laid it down because you were convinced in you own mind that he was physically unable to take advantage of it? that he was in no condition to use it?" yollop: "no." counsel, with a pitying look at the jury: "he was still the big, strong, able-bodied man that you had knocked down with your brawny fist, eh?" yollop, mildly: "he may have been a little sleepy. i was." a bailiff: "order! order!" counsel, severely: "now, mr. yollop, will you tell this jury why, after you had found it so simple to knock the defendant down and disarm him earlier in the evening, you failed to repeat the experiment when he had you covered the second time?" yollop: "the first time i acted on the spur of the moment, and under stress of great excitement. i had had time to collect my wits by the time he gained possession of the revolver. i wasn't as foolhardy as i was at the beginning. i was afraid he would shoot me if i tackled him again." counsel: "isn't it a fact that he appeared much stronger and not so weak and listless as when you first encountered him?" yollop: "i didn't notice any change in him." counsel: "didn't you testify awhile ago that while he was sitting at your desk, under cover of the gun, he ate a whole box of chocolate creams,--at your generous invitation?" yollop: "yes. he ate them, all right." counsel: "wouldn't you, as an intelligent man, assume that a pound of chocolates might have the effect of restoring to a half-starved man a portion of his waning strength,--at least a sufficient amount to encourage him to put up some kind of a fight against you?" the state: "we object. the question calls for a conclusion on the part of the witness, who does not even pretend to be an expert or an authority on pathological--" counsel: "but he does pretend to be an intelligent man, doesn't he? i submit, your honor, that the question is proper and i--" the court: "objection sustained. the witness may state that the defendant ate a box of chocolate creams. he cannot give an opinion as to the effect the chocolates may or may not have had on him." counsel: "exception." mr. yollop was on the stand for half an hour longer. counsel for the defense was driving home to the jury the impression that smilk was a poor, half-starved wretch who had gone back to thieving after a valiant but hopeless attempt to find work in order to support his wife and children. he announced, in arguing an objection made by the state, that it was his intention to prove by the man's wife that smilk was a good husband and was willing to work his fingers off for his family, but that he had been ill and unable to find steady employment. mrs. champney testified at the afternoon session. she made a most unfavorable impression on the jury. she got very angry at smilk's counsel and said such spiteful things to him and about his client that the jury began to feel sorry for both of them. two detectives and three policemen in uniform testified that smilk was the picture of health and a desperate-looking character. now anybody who has ever served on a jury in a criminal case knows the effect that the testimony of a police officer has on three fourths--and frequently four fourths,--of the jurors. for some unexplained,--though perhaps obvious reason,--the ordinary juror not only hates a policeman but refuses to believe him on oath unless he is supported by evidence of the most unassailable nature. the mere fact that the five officers swore that smilk was healthy and rugged no doubt went a long way toward convincing the jury that the poor fellow was a physical wreck and absolutely unable to defend himself on the night of the alleged burglary. moreover, a skilled mind-reader would have discovered that mr. yollop had not made a good impression on the jury. almost to a man, they discredited him because he was fastidious in appearance; because he was known to be a successful and prosperous business man; because he was trying to make them believe that he possessed the unheard-of courage to tackle an armed burglar; and because he was a milliner. as for mrs. champney, she was the embodiment of all that the average citizen resents: a combination of wealth, refinement, intelligence, arrogance and widowhood. especially does he resent opulent widowhood. the state rested. mrs. smilk was the first witness called by the defense. she told a harrowing tale of smilk's unparalleled efforts to obtain work; of his heart-breaking disappointments; of her own loyal and cheerful struggle to provide for the children,--and for her poor sick husband,--by slaving herself almost to death at all sorts of jobs. furthermore, she was positive that poor cassius had reformed, that he was determined to lead an honest, upright life; all he needed was encouragement and the opportunity to show his worth. true, he had been in state's prison twice, but in both instances it was the result of strong drink. now that prohibition had come and he could no longer be subjected to the evils and temptations of that accursed thing generically known as rum, he was sure to be a model citizen and husband. in fact, she declared, a friend of the family,--a man very high up in city politics,--had promised to secure for cassius an appointment as an enforcement officer in the great war that was being waged against prohibition. this seemed to make such a hit with the jury that smilk's lawyer shrewdly decided not to press her to alter the preposition. the cross-examination was brief. the state: "how many children have you, mrs. smilk?" mrs. smilk: "seven." the state: "the defendant is the father of all of them?" mrs. smilk, with dignity: "are you tryin' to insinuate that he ain't?" the state: "not at all. answer the question, please." mrs. smilk: "yes, he is." the state: "when did you say you were married to the defendant?" mrs. smilk: "october, . i got my certificate here with me, if you want to see it." the state: "i would like to see it." counsel for smilk, benignly: "the defense has no objection." the state, after examining the document: "it is quite regular. with the court's permission, i will submit the document to the jury." the court, to smilk's counsel: "do you desire to offer this document in evidence?" counsel: "it had not occurred to us that it was necessary, but now that a point is being made of it, i will ask that it be introduced as evidence." the state, passing the certificate to the court reporter for his identification mark: "you have never been divorced from the defendant, have you, mrs. smilk?" mrs. smilk: "of course not." then nervously: "excuse me, but do i get my marriage certificate back? it's the only hold i got on--" counsel, hastily: "certainly, certainly, mrs. smilk. you need have no worry. it will be returned to you in due time." the state, after reading the certificate aloud, hands it to the foreman, and says: "the state admits the validity of this certificate. there can be no question about it." leans against the table and patiently waits until the document has made the rounds. "now, mrs. similk, you are sure that you have not been divorced from smilk nor he from you?" mrs. smilk, stoutly; "course i'm sure." the state: "you heard mr. yollop testify that your husband said he had several wives. so far as you know that is not the case?" mrs. smilk. "i don't think he ever said it to mr. yollop. i think mr. yollop lied." the state: "i see. then you do not believe your husband could have deceived you--i withdraw that, mr. reporter. you do not believe that your husband is base enough to have married another woman,--or women,--without first having obtained a legal divorce from you?" mrs. smilk: "i wouldn't be up here testifying in his behalf if i thought that, you bet. he ain't that kind of a man. if i thought he was, i'd like to see him hung. i'd like to see--" the state. "never mind, mrs. smilk. we are not trying your husband for bigamy. i think that is all, your honor." counsel for smilk: "you may be excused, mrs. smilk. take the stand, cassius." instead of obeying cassius beckoned to him. then followed a long, whispered conference between lawyer and client, at the end of which the former, visibly annoyed, declared that the defendant had decided not to testify. the court indicated that it was optional with the prisoner and asked if the counsel desired to introduce any further testimony. counsel for the defense announced that his client's decision had altered his plans and that he was forced to rest his case. the assistant district attorney stated that he had two witnesses to examine in rebuttal. "send for mrs. elsie morton," he directed. "she is waiting in the district attorney's office, mr. bailiff." to the amazement of every one, cassius smilk started up from his chair, a wild look in his eye. he sat down instantly, however, but it was evident that he had sustained a tremendous and unexpected shock. mr. yollop who had purposely selected a seat in the front row of spectators from which he could occasionally exchange mutual glances of well-assumed repugnance with the rascal, caught smilk's eye as it followed the retiring bailiff. the faintest shadow of a wink flickered for a second across that smileless, apparently troubled optic. mr. yollop, who had been leaning forward in his chair for the better part of the afternoon with one hand cupped behind his ear and the other manipulating the disc in a vain but determined effort to hear what was going on, suddenly relaxed into a comfortable, satisfied attitude and smiled triumphantly. he knew what was coming. and so did smilk. mrs. morton was a plump, bobbed-hair blond of thirty. she had moist carmine lips, a very white nose, strawberry-hued cheek bones, an alabaster chin and forehead, and pale, gray eyes surrounded by blue-black rims tinged with crimson. she wore a fashionable hat,--(mr. yollop noticed that at a glance)--a handsome greenish cloth coat with a broad moleskin collar and cuffs of the same fur, pearl gray stockings that were visible to the knees, and high gray shoes that yawned rather shamelessly at the top despite the wearer's doughtiest struggle with the laces. her gloves, also were somewhat over-crowded. she gave her name as mrs. elsie broderick morton, married; occupation, ticket seller in a motion picture theater. the state: "what is your husband's name and occupation?" witness: "filbert morton. so far as i know, he never had a regular occupation." the state: "when were you and filbert morton married?" witness: "june the fourteenth, ." the state: "are you living with your husband at present?" witness: "i am not." the state: "have you ever been divorced from him?" witness: "i have not." the state: "how long is it since you and he lived together?" witness: "a little over three years." the state: "would you recognize him if you were to see him now?" witness: "i certainly would." the state: "when did you see him last?" witness: "day before yesterday." the state: "tell the jury where you saw him." witness: "over in the tombs." the state: "surreptitiously?" witness: "no, sir. with my own eyes." the state: "i mean, you saw him without his being aware of the fact that you were looking at him for the purpose of identification?" witness. "yes, sir." the state: "i will now ask you to look about this court room and tell the jury whether you see the man known to you as filbert morton?" witness, pointing to smilk: "that's him over there." the state: "you mean the prisoner at the bar, otherwise known as cassius smilk?" witness. "yes, sir. that's my husband." the state: "you are sure about that?" witness: "of course, i am. i wouldn't be likely to make any mistake about a man i'd lived with for nearly six months, would i? i've got my marriage certificate here with me, if you want to see it." mrs. smilk, in the first row, venomously addressing mr. smilk: "so that's what you was up to when you was out for six months and never come near me once, you dirty--" all bailiffs in unison: "silence! order in the court!" the state, presently: "was he a good, kind, devoted husband to you, mrs. morton?" witness: "well, if you mean did he provide me with clothes and jewels and gewgaws and all such, yes. he was always bringing me home rings and bracelets and necklaces and things. but if you mean did he ever give me any money to buy food with and keep the flat going, no. i slaved my head off to get grub for him all the time we were living together." the state: "did he ever mistreat you?" witness: "oh, once in a while he used to give me a rap in the eye, or a kick in the slats, or something like that, but on the whole he was pretty sensible." the state: "sensible? in what way?" witness: "i mean he was sensible enough not to punch his meal ticket too often." it is not necessary to go any farther into the direct examination of mrs. elsie morton, nor into the half-hearted efforts of smilk's disgusted lawyer to shake her in cross-examination. nor is it necessary to introduce here the testimony of mrs. jennie finchley, who succeeded her on the stand. it appears that jennie was married in when smilk was out for three months. she supported him for several months in ,--up to the time he packed up and left her on the morning of the fourteenth of june, that year. as herbert finchley he not only managed to live comfortably off the proceeds of her delicatessen, but in leaving her he took with him nine hundred dollars that she had saved out of the business despite his gormandizing. chapter six despite the fact that the jury was out just a few minutes short of seven hours, it finally came in with a verdict "guilty as charged." twice the devoted twelve returned to the court room for further instructions from the judge. once they wanted to know if it was possible to convict the prisoner for bigamy instead of burglary, and the other time it was to have certain portions of mr. yollop's testimony read to them. immediately upon retiring an amicable and friendly discussion took place in the crowded, stuffy little jury room. eight men lighted black cigars, two lighted their pipes, one joyously, almost ravenously resorted to a package of "lucky strikes," while the twelfth man announced that he did not smoke. he had been obliged to give it up because of blood pressure or something like that. the foreman, or juror no. , was an insurance agent. he was a man of fifty and he knew how to talk. his voice was loud, firm, overriding and unconquerable; his manner suave, tolerant, persuasive. the bailiff, after obtaining each man's telephone number and the message he wished to have sent to his home (if any), informed the jurors that he would be waiting just outside if they wanted him and then departed, locking the door behind him; whereupon the foreman looked at his watch and announced that it was twenty minutes to four. this statement resulted in the first disagreement. no two watches were alike. some little time was consumed in proving that all twelve of them were right and at the same time wrong, paradoxical as it may sound. after the question of the hour had been disposed of, the foreman suggested that an informal ballot be taken for the purpose of ascertaining the views of the gentlemen as to the guilt or the innocence of the defendant. the result of this so-called informal ballot was nine for conviction, three for acquittal. "now we know where we stand," explained the foreman. "in view of the fact that nine of us are for conviction and only three for acquittal it seems to me that it is up to the minority to give their reasons for not agreeing with the majority. i see by your ballot, mr.--er--mr. sandusky, that you are in favor of acquitting--" "my name is i. m. pushkin," interrupted juror no. . "i wrote it plain enough, didn't i?" "the initials confused me," explained the foreman. "well, let's hear why you think he ought to be acquitted." "i know what it is to be hungry, that's why. i see the time when i first come to this country when i didn't have nothing to eat for two-three days at a time, and ever'body tellin' me to go to hell out of here when i ask for a job or when i tell 'em i ain't had nothing to eat since yesterday morning and won't they please to help a poor feller what ain't had nothing to eat since yesterday morning, and--" six or seven voices interrupted him. it was juror no. , salesman, who finally succeeded in getting a detached question to him. "as i was saying, where do you get any evidence that he was hungry?" "i guess you wasn't paying much attention to the evidence," retorted mr. pushkin. "didn't you hear that lawyer say, over and over yet, how he was almost starved to death? didn't--wait a minute!--didn't you hear him say to that deaf witness that the prisoner fell down like a log when he push him in the face? just push him,--nothing else. didn't you hear that?" "sure i heard it. we all heard it. but what evidence is there?" "evidence? my gracious, ain't that enough? ain't one man's word as good as another's? and say, let me ask you this: is there any evidence that he wasn't almost starved to death! well! humph! i guess not. there ain't a single witness that says he wasn't hungry--not one, i tell you. you can't--" "didn't all them policemen swear that he was as husky as--" "say, you can't believe a policeman about anything. it's their business. that's what their job is. i know all about those fellers. why, long time ago when i first come to this country, i told a hundred policeman i was almost starved to death and say, do you think they believed me? you bet they didn't. they told me to get a move on, get the hell out of this, beat it,--you bet i know all about them fellers. i--" the foreman interrupted mr. pushkin. "so you want to acquit the defendant because his lawyer said he was hungry,--is that it?" "i don't blame nobody for stealing when he is almost starved to death and got a wife and children almost starved to death too because he cannot get a job yet. you bet i don't. i don't--" "well, of all the damned--" "can you beat this for--" "i've heard a lot of--" the foreman rapped vigorously with an inkwell, splashing the fluid over his fingers and quite a considerable area of table-top. "gentlemen! gentlemen! let us talk this thing over quietly and calmly. mr. pushkin seems to have a wrong conception as to what constitutes evidence. now, let me have the floor for a few minutes, and i'll try to explain to him what constitutes evidence." one hour and twenty minutes later mr. pushkin admitted that he did have a wrong conception as to what constitutes evidence, but still maintained that he hated like sin to convict a man who had tried so hard to get work and couldn't. the non-smoking gentleman was one of the three who comprised the minority. he was a mild little chap with weak eyes and the sniffles. by profession he was a clock maker. he said he believed that the defendant was unquestionably guilty of bigamy and that the state had erred in charging him with burglary. he was perfectly willing to send the man up for bigamy because, according to the evidence, it took precedence over the crime alleged to have been committed in december, . in other words, he explained, smilk had committed bigamy some years prior to the burglary of mr. yollop's apartment and he believed in taking things in their regular order. of course, he went on to say, he would be governed by the opinion of the judge if it were possible under the circumstances to obtain it. he did not think it would be legal to put the burglary charge ahead of the bigamy charge, but if the judge so ordered he would submit, notwithstanding his conviction that it would be unconstitutional. several gentlemen wanted to know what the constitution had to do with it, and he, becoming somewhat exasperated, declared that the present jury system is a joke, an absolute joke. "well, it's just such men as you that make it a joke," growled juror no. . "gentlemen! gentlemen!" admonished the foreman. "let us have no recriminations, please. it occurs to me that we ought to send a note to the court, asking for instructions on this point." the note was written and despatched in care of the glowering bailiff, who, it seems, had an engagement to go to the movies that evening and couldn't believe his ears when he ascertained that the boobs had not yet agreed upon a verdict in what he regarded as the clearest case that had ever come under his notice. in the meantime, the third juror explained his vote for acquittal. he was a large, heavy-jowled man with sandy mustache and a vacancy among his upper teeth into which a pipe-stem fitted neatly. he was the superintendent of an apartment building in lenox avenue. "i think it's a frame-up," he said, pausing to use the bicuspid vacancy for the purpose of expectoration. "that's what i think it is. now i'm in a position as superintendent of a flat building to know a lot about what goes on among the bachelor tenants. i ain't sayin' that the prisoner didn't go to mr. what's-his-name's flat without an invitation. you bet your life he wasn't expected, if my guess is correct. i tell you what i think,--and my opinion ought to be worth a lot, lemme tell you,--i think there's something back of all this that wasn't brought out in the trial. now here's something i bet not one of you fellers has thought about. what evidence is there that this chancy woman is that deaf man's sister? not a blamed word of evidence, except their own statement. she ain't his sister any more than i am. did you ever see two people that looked less like they was related to each other? you bet you didn't. now i got a hunch that the prisoner follered her to that guy's apartment. what for, i don't know. maybe for blackmail. he got onto what was goin' on, and makes up his mind to rake in a nice bunch of hush-money. that's been done a couple of times in the apartment buildin' i'm superintendent of. a feller i had workin' for me as a porter cleaned up five or six hundred dollars that way, he told me. this robbery business sounds mighty fishy to me. now i'm only tellin' you the way the thing looks to me. i don't think that woman is wollop's sister any more than she is mine. it's a frame-up, the whole thing is. look at the way this wollop says he tied her up and all that. humph!--can't you fellers see through this whole business? he tied her up so's the police would find her tied up, that's what he done. the chances are she's some woman customer of his that's got stuck on him, tryin' hats and all that,--and maybe gettin' all the hats she wants for nothin',--and this feller smilk he gets onto the game and goes out for a little money. see what i mean?" so loud and so furious was the discussion that followed the extraordinary deductions of juror no. , that the bailiff had to rap half a dozen times before he could make himself heard. finally the foreman, purple in the face, called out through the haze of smoke: "come in!" "the judge says for you to come into the court room for instructions," announced the officer. "never mind your hats and coats. no cigars, gents. leave 'em here. they'll be safe. come on, now. it's nearly time to go to supper." the judge informed the jury that they could not find the man guilty of bigamy and curtly ordered them back to their room for further deliberation. they took another ballot before going out to supper at a nearby restaurant, guarded by six bailiffs, who warned them not to discuss the case while outside the jury room. the second ballot, by the way, was eight for conviction, four for acquittal. juror no. had come over to the minority. he said there was something in the theory of juror no. . there was a very positive disagreement concerning the meal they were about to partake of. the foreman spoke of it as dinner and was openly sneered at by eleven gentlemen who had never called it anything but supper. the little clockmaker, having been overruled by the judge, was in a nasty temper. he accused the foreman of being a republican. he said no democrat ever called it dinner. it wasn't democratic. upon their return to the jury room after a meal on which there was complete agreement and which brought out considerable talk about the penuriousness of the county of new york, they settled down to a prolonged and profound discussion of their differences. it soon developed that all but two of the jurors had been favorably inclined toward the defendant up to the time the state introduced the unexpected wives. they had regarded him as a poor unfortunate, driven to crime by adversity, and after a fashion the victim of an arrogant and soulless police system, aided and abetted by the district attorney's minions, a contemptible robber in the person of a dealer in women's hats, and a bejeweled snob who insulted their intelligence by trying to convince them that her confidence had been misplaced. but the two wives settled it. smilk was a rascal. he ought to be hung. "but," argued no. , "how the devil do we know that them women are his wives. their evidence ain't supported, is it?" "didn't they have certificates?" demanded another hotly. "sure. but that don't prove that he was the man, does it?" "and didn't the prisoner jump up and yell: 'my god, it's all off! you've got me cold! you've got me dead to rights,'" cried another. "oh, there's no use arguin' with you guys," roared no. , disgustedly. later on they returned to the court room to have certain parts of mr. yollop's testimony read to them. after this a ballot was taken, and the only man for acquittal was the clock-maker. at twenty minutes to eleven he succumbed, not to argument or persuasion or reason but to a chill february draft that blew in through the open window above his head. he couldn't get away from it. the others wouldn't let him. they got him up in a corner and he couldn't break through. he told them he was getting pneumonia, that the draft would be the death of him, that he'd take back what he said about the smoke almost suffocating him,--still they surrounded him, and argued with him, and called him things he didn't feel physically able to call them, and at last he voted guilty. smilk, haggard with worry,--for he had come to think, as the hours went by without a verdict, that there would be a disagreement or, worse than that, an acquittal, in which case he would have to face the charge of bigamy that the district attorney had more than intimated,--smilk slouched dejectedly into the court room a few minutes before eleven o'clock and went through the familiar process of facing the jury while the jury faced him. he straightened up eagerly when the verdict was read. he took a long, deep breath. his eyes brightened,--they almost twinkled,--as they searched the room in quest of mr. yollop. he was disappointed to find that the gentle milliner was not there to hear the good news. the judge sentenced him to twenty years imprisonment at hard labor, and he went back to his cell in the tombs, a triumphant, vindicated champion of the laws of his state, a doughty warrior carrying the banner of justice up to the very guns of sentiment. mr. yollop received a friendly letter from him some two months after his return to sing sing. he found it early one morning on his library table, sealed but minus the stamp that the government exacts for safe and conscientious delivery. mr. yollop's stenographer, being more or less finicky about english as it should be written, even by thieves, is responsible for the transcript in which it is here presented: dear friend-- i hope this finds you in the best of health. i am back on the job and very glad to be so. it is very gay up here and i am getting fat also. regular hours is doing it, and no worry i suppose. i wish to inform you that the movies have improved considerable since i was here before and our baseball team is much better. also the concerts and so on. grub also up to standard. i never eat better grub at the ritz-carlton. which is no lie either. well, mr. yollop, before closing i want to say you done me a mighty good turn when you thought of them two wives of mine. if it had not been for them two women i guess it would have been all off with me. i wish you would drop in here to see me if you are ever up this way so as i can thank you in person. which reminds me. there is some talk among the boys that a movement is on foot to have a regular fancy dress ball up here once a month. some kind of a benevolent society is working on it they say. big orchestra, eats from delmonico's and a crowd of girls from the smart set to dance with us. so as we won't get out of practice, i suppose. soon as i hear when the first dance is to be i will let you know and maybe you will come up to be present. i will introduce you to a lot of swell dames and maybe you can drum up a nice trade among them on account of their all being fashionable and needing a good many hats. it must be great to be in a business like yours, where nobody cares how many times you rob them just so you leave them enough money to buy shoes with, because if you ask me they ain't wearing much of anything but hats and shoes these days. well, i guess i will close, mr. yollop. with kind regards from yours truly, i remain yours truly, c. smilk. p. s.--i forgot to mention that this letter was left in your library by a pal of mine who dropped in last night while you was asleep, unless he got nabbed like a darned fool before he got a chance to do this friendly little errand for me. he dropped in to get that wad of bills i left there some time ago. if you get this letter he got the roll. team [illustration: frank r. stockton] the stories of the three burglars by frank r. stockton the stories of the three burglars. i am a householder in a pleasant country neighbourhood, about twenty miles from new york. my family consists of myself and wife, our boy, george william, aged two, two maid-servants, and a man; but in the summer we have frequent visitors, and at the time of which i am about to write my aunt martha was staying with us. my house is large and pleasant, and we have neighbours near enough for social purposes and yet not too near or too many to detract from the rural aspect of our surroundings. but we do not live in a paradise; we are occasionally troubled by mosquitoes and burglars. against the first of these annoyances we have always been able to guard ourselves, at least in a measure, and our man and the cook declare that they have become so used to them that they do not mind them; but to guard against burglars is much more difficult, and to become used to them would, i think, require a great deal of practice. for several months before the period of this narrative our neighbourhood had been subject to visits from burglars. from time to time houses had been entered and robbed, and the offenders had never been detected. we had no police force, not even a village organization. there was a small railway station near our house, and six miles away was the county town. for fire and police protection each household was obliged to depend upon itself. before the beginning of the burglarious enterprises in our midst, we had not felt the need of much protection in this direction; sometimes poultry was stolen, but this was a rare occurrence, and, although windows and doors were generally fastened for the night, this labour was often considered much more troublesome than necessary. but now a great change had taken place in the feelings of our community. when the first robbery occurred the neighbours were inclined to laugh about it, and to say that captain hubbard's habit of sitting up after the rest of his family had gone to bed and then retiring and forgetting to close the front door had invited the entrance of a passing tramp. but when a second and a third house, where windows and doors had not been left open, had been entered, and, in a measure, despoiled, people ceased to laugh; and if there had been any merriment at all on the subject, it would have been caused by the extraordinary and remarkable precautions taken against the entrance of thieves by night. the loaded pistol became the favourite companion of the head of the house; those who had no watch-dogs bought them; there were new locks, new bolts, new fastenings. at one time there was a mounted patrol of young men, which, however, was soon broken up by their mothers. but this trouble was unavailing, for at intervals the burglaries continued. as a matter of course a great many theories were broached as to the reasons for this disturbance in our hitherto peaceful neighbourhood. we were at such a distance from the ordinary centres of crime that it was generally considered that professional burglars would hardly take the trouble to get to us or to get away from us, and that, therefore, the offences were probably committed by unsuspected persons living in this part of the country who had easy means of determining which houses were worth breaking into and what method of entrance would be most feasible. in this way some families, hitherto regarded as respectable families, had fallen under suspicion. so far, mine was the only house of any importance within the distance of a mile from the station which had not in some way suffered from burglars. in one or two of these cases the offenders had been frightened away before they had done any other injury than the breaking of a window-shutter; but we had been spared any visitation whatever. after a time we began to consider that this was an invidious distinction. of course we did not desire that robbers should break into our house and steal, but it was a sort of implied insult that robbers should think that our house was not worth breaking into. we contrived, however, to bear up under this implied contempt and even under the facetious imputations of some of our lively neighbours, who declared that it looked very suspicious that we should lose nothing, and even continue to add to our worldly goods, while everybody else was suffering from abstractions. i did not, however, allow any relaxation in my vigilance in the protection of my house and family. my time to suffer had not yet arrived, and it might not arrive at all; but if it did come it should not be my fault. i therefore carefully examined all the new precautions my neighbours had taken against the entrance of thieves, and where i approved of them i adopted them. of some of these my wife and i did not approve. for instance, a tin pan containing iron spoons, the dinner bell, and a miscellaneous collection of hardware balanced on the top stair of the staircase, and so connected with fine cords that a thief coming up the stairs would send it rattling and bounding to the bottom, was looked upon by us with great disfavour. the descent of the pan, whether by innocent accident or the approach of a burglar, might throw our little boy into a fit, to say nothing of the terrible fright it would give my aunt martha, who was a maiden lady of middle age, and not accustomed to a clatter in the night. a bull-dog in the house my wife would not have, nor, indeed, a dog of any kind. george william was not yet old enough to play with dogs, especially a sharp one; and if the dog was not sharp it was of no use to have him in the house. to the ordinary burglar-alarm she strongly objected. she had been in houses where these things went off of their own accord, occasioning great consternation; and, besides, she said that if thieves got into the house she did not want to know it and she did not want me to know it; the quicker they found what they came for and went away with it the better. of course, she wished them kept out, if such a thing were possible; but if they did get in, our duty as parents of the dearest little boy was non-interference. she insisted, however, that the room in which the loveliest of children slept, and which was also occupied by ourselves, should be made absolutely burglar proof; and this object, by means of extraordinary bolts and chains, i flattered myself i accomplished. my aunt martha had a patent contrivance for fastening a door that she always used, whether at home or travelling, and in whose merit she placed implicit confidence. therefore we did not feel it necessary to be anxious about her; and the servants slept at the top of the house, where thieves would not be likely to go. "they may continue to slight us by their absence," said my wife, "but i do not believe that they will be able to frighten us by their presence." i was not, however, so easily contented as my wife. of course i wished to do everything possible to protect george william and the rest of the family, but i was also very anxious to protect our property in all parts of the house. therefore, in addition to everything else i had done, i devised a scheme for interfering with the plans of men who should feloniously break into our home. after a consultation with a friend, who was a physician greatly interested in the study of narcotic drugs, i procured a mixture which was almost tasteless and without peculiar odour, and of which a small quantity would in less than a minute throw an ordinary man into a state of unconsciousness. the potion was, however, no more dangerous in its effects than that quantity of ardent spirits which would cause entire insensibility. after the lapse of several hours, the person under the influence of the drug would recover consciousness without assistance. but in order to provide against all contingencies my friend prepared a powerful antidote, which would almost immediately revive one who had been made unconscious by our potion. the scheme that i had devised may possibly have been put into use by others. but of this i know not. i thought it a good scheme and determined to experiment with it, and, if possible, to make a trap which should catch a burglar. i would reveal this plan to no one but my friend the physician and my wife. secrecy would be an important element in its success. our library was a large and pleasant room on the ground floor of the house, and here i set my trap. it was my habit to remain in this room an hour or so after the rest of the family had gone to bed, and, as i was an early riser, i was always in it again before it was necessary for a servant to enter it in the morning. before leaving the library for the night i placed in a conspicuous position in the room a small table, on which was a tray holding two decanters partially filled with wine, in the one red and in the other white. there was also upon the tray an open box of biscuit and three wine-glasses, two of them with a little wine at the bottom. i took pains to make it appear that these refreshments had been recently partaken of. there were biscuit crumbs upon the tray, and a drop or two of wine was freshly spilled upon it every time the trap was set. the table, thus arranged, was left in the room during the night, and early in the morning i put the tray and its contents into a closet and locked it up. a portion of my narcotic preparation was thoroughly mixed with the contents of each of the decanters in such proportions that a glass of the wine would be sufficient to produce the desired effect. it was my opinion that there were few men who, after a night walk and perhaps some labour in forcibly opening a door or a window-shutter, would not cease for a moment in pursuance of their self-imposed task to partake of the refreshments so conveniently left behind them by the occupants of the house when they retired to rest. should my surmises be correct, i might reasonably expect, should my house be broken into, to find an unconscious burglar in the library when i went down in the morning. and i was sure, and my wife agreed with me, that if i should find a burglar in that room or any other part of the house, it was highly desirable that he should be an unconscious one. night after night i set my burglar trap, and morning after morning i locked it up in the closet. i cannot say that i was exactly disappointed that no opportunity offered to test the value of my plan, but it did seem a pity that i should take so much trouble for nothing. it had been some weeks since any burglaries had been committed in the neighbourhood, and it was the general opinion that the miscreants had considered this field worked out and had transferred their labours to a better-paying place. the insult of having been considered unworthy the attention of the knights of the midnight jimmy remained with us, but as all our goods and chattels also remained with us we could afford to brook the indignity. as the trap cost nothing my wife did not object to my setting it every night for the present. something might happen, she remarked, and it was just as well to be prepared in more ways than one; but there was a point upon which she was very positive. "when george william is old enough to go about the house by himself," she said, "those decanters must not be left exposed upon the table. of course i do not expect him to go about the house drinking wine and everything that he finds, but there is no knowing what a child in the first moments of his investigative existence may do." for myself, i became somewhat tired of acting my part in this little farce every night and morning, but when i have undertaken anything of this sort i am slow to drop it. it was about three weeks since i had begun to set my trap when i was awakened in the night by a sudden noise. i sat up in bed, and as i did so my wife said to me sleepily,-- "what is that? was it thunder? there it is again!" she exclaimed, starting up. "what a crash! it must have struck somewhere." i did not answer. it was not thunder. it was something in the house, and it flashed into my mind that perhaps my trap had been sprung. i got out of bed and began rapidly to dress. "what are you going to do?" anxiously asked my wife. "i'm going to see what has happened," said i. at that moment there was another noise. this was like two or three heavy footsteps, followed by a sudden thump; but it was not so loud as the others. "john," cried my wife, "don't stir an inch, it's burglars!" and she sprang out of bed and seized me by the arm. "i must go down," i said; "but there is really no reason for your being frightened. i shall call david, and shall carry my pistol, so there is really no danger. if there are thieves in the house they have probably decamped by this time--that is, if they are able to do so, for of course they must know that noise would awaken the soundest sleepers." my wife looked at me and then slowly withdrew her hands from my arm. "you promise me," she said, "if you find a burglar downstairs in the possession of his senses you will immediately come back to me and george william?" i promised her, and, slipping on some clothes, i went out into the second-story hall. i carried no light. before i had reached the bottom of the back stairs i heard david, my man, coming down. to be sure it was he and not a burglar i spoke to him in a low voice, my pistol raised in case of an unsatisfactory reply. "i heard that noise, sir," he whispered, "and was going down to see about it." "are you ready if it's thieves?" i whispered. "i have got the biscuit-beater," he replied. "come on, then," said i, and we went downstairs. i had left no light in the library, but there was one there now, and it shone through the open door into the hallway. we stopped and listened. there was no sound, and then slowly and cautiously we approached the door of the library. the scene i beheld astounded me, and involuntarily i sprang back a step or two. so did david; but in an instant we saw that there was no need of retreat or defence. stretched upon the floor, not far from the doorway, lay a tall man, his face upturned to the light of a bull's-eye lantern which stood by the mantel-piece. his eyes were shut, and it was evident that he was perfectly insensible. near by, in the wreck of the small table, glasses, and decanters, lay another man, apparently of heavier build. he also was as still as a corpse. a little further back, half sitting on the floor, with the upper part of his body resting against the lounge, was another man with a black mask over his face. "are they dead?" exclaimed david, in an undertone of horror. "no," said i, "they are not dead; they have been caught in my trap." and i must admit that the consciousness of this created a proud exultation of spirit within me. i had overmatched these rascals; they were prostrated before me. if one of them moved, david and i could kill him. but i did not believe there would be any killing, nor any moving for the present. in a high whisper, which could have been heard distinctly all over the house, my wife now called to me from the top of the stairs. "what is it?" she said. "what has happened?" i stepped quickly to the stairway. "everything is all right," i said in a loud, distinct voice, intended to assure my wife that there was no necessity for caution or alarm. "i will be with you presently." "i am glad to hear that nothing is the matter," said aunt martha, now for the first time opening her door. "i was afraid something had happened." but i had business to attend to before i could go upstairs. in thinking over and arranging this plan for the capture of burglars, i had carefully considered its various processes, and had provided against all the contingencies i could think of; therefore i was not now obliged to deliberate what i should do. "keep your eye on them," said i to david, "and if one of them moves be ready for him. the first thing to do is to tie them hand and foot." i quickly lighted a lamp, and then took from another shelf of the closet a large coil of strong cotton rope, which i had provided for such an occasion as the present. "now," said i to david, "i will tie them while you stand by to knock over any one of them who attempts to get up." the instrument with which david was prepared to carry out my orders was a formidable one. in the days of my youth my family was very fond of "maryland biscuit," which owes much of its delicacy to the fact that before baking it is pounded and beaten by a piece of heavy iron. some people used one kind of a beater and some another, but we had had made for the purpose a heavy iron club a little over a foot long, large and heavy at one end and a handle at the other. in my present household maryland biscuits were never made, but i had preserved this iron beater as a memento of my boyhood, and when the burglaries began in our vicinity i gave it to david to keep in his room, to be used as a weapon if necessary. i did not allow him to have a pistol, having a regard for my own safety in a sudden night alarm, and nothing could be more formidable in a hand-to-hand encounter than this skull-crushing club. i began with the tall man, and rapidly tied his feet together with many twists of the rope and as many knots. i then turned him over and tied his elbows behind him in the same secure way. i had given so much thought to the best method of securing a man by cords, that i do not think this fellow could possibly have released himself when i had finished with him. david was obeying my orders and keeping a strict watch on the prostrate men; but his emotions of amazement were so great that he could not keep them down. "what is the matter with them, sir?" he said. "how did they come so?" "there is no time for talking now," i answered. "i will tell you all about it when the men have been secured." i now turned my attention to the man who was partly resting against the lounge. i first tied his feet, and before letting him down to the floor, so as to get to his arms, i removed his hat and his mask, which was made of black muslin. i was surprised to see the beardless face of a young and very good-looking man. he was well dressed, and had the general appearance of a person belonging to theatrical circles. when his arms had been tied, i told david he might lay down his biscuit-beater, and help me with the third man, who was badly mixed up with the _débris_ of the refreshments. we hauled him out and tied him up. he was rather a short man, but very heavy, and i could see no signs of his having been hurt by the smash-up he made in falling. we now proceeded to search the insensible burglars for arms. upon the tall man we found a large revolver, a heavy billy, which seemed as if it had seen service, and a long-bladed knife. the stout man carried two double-barrelled pistols, and upon one of the fingers of his right hand wore a brass ring with a murderous-looking iron protuberance upon it, which, when driven forward by his powerful arm, was probably more dangerous than a billy. upon the younger man we found no arms at all, and his hip pocket contained nothing but a small handbook on civil engineering. i now briefly explained to david the nature of the trap which had caught the burglars. he gazed upon me with a face glowing with amazed admiration. "what a head you have got, sir!" he exclaimed. "i don't believe there is another man in this state who would have thought of that. and what are you going to do with them now, sir; hang 'em? that's what ought to be done with them, the hounds!" "all i shall do," i answered, "will be to keep them till daylight, and then i shall send word to the sheriff at kennertown, and have him send officers for them." "upon my word," exclaimed david, "they are in the worst kind of a box." now my wife called me again. "what in the world are you doing down there?" she called; "why don't you come upstairs?" this annoyed me, for i was not yet ready to go upstairs. i wished to resuscitate these fellows, for their stupor was so profound that i began to fear that perhaps they had taken too much of the drug and ought to be brought to their senses as speedily as possible. this feeling was due more to my desire that serious injuries should not occur to the rascals while in my house than to any concern for them. "my dear," said i, stepping to the bottom of the stairs, "i have some things to attend to down here which will occupy me a few minutes longer; then i will come up to you." "i can't imagine what the things are," she said, "but i suppose i can wait," and she went into her room and closed her door after her. i now began to consider what was to be done with the burglars after they had been resuscitated. my first impulse was to rid the house of them by carrying them out of doors and bringing them to their senses there. but there was an objection to this plan. they would be pretty heavy fellows to carry, and as it would be absolutely necessary to watch them until they could be given into the charge of the officers of the law, i did not want to stay out of doors to do this, for the night air was raw and chilly, and i therefore determined to keep them in the house. and as they could be resuscitated better in a sitting position, they must be set up in some way or other. i consulted david on the subject. "you might put 'em up with their backs agin the wall, sir," said he, "but the dirty beasts would spoil the paper. i wouldn't keep them in a decent room like this. i'd haul 'em out into the kitchen, anyway." but as they were already in the library i decided to let them stay there, and to get them as speedily as possible into some position in which they might remain. i bethought me of a heavy wooden settle or bench with back and arms which stood on the side piazza. with david's help i brought this into the room and placed it with its back to the window. "now, then," said i to david, "we will put them on this bench, and i will tie them fast to it. we cannot be too careful in securing them, for if one of them were to get loose, even without arms, there is no knowing what trouble he might make." "well, sir," said david, "if i'm to handle them at all, i'd rather have them dead, as i hope they are, than have them alive; but you needn't be afraid, sir, that any one of them will get loose. if i see any signs of that i'll crack the rascal's skull in a jiffy." it required a great deal of tugging and lifting to get those three men on the bench, but we got them there side by side, their heads hanging listlessly, some one way, some another. i then tied each one of them firmly to the bench. i had scarcely finished this when i again heard my wife's voice from the top of the stairs. "if any pipes have burst," she called down, "tell david not to catch the water in the new milk-pans." "very well," i replied, "i'll see to it," and was rejoiced to hear again the shutting of the bedroom door. i now saturated a sponge with the powerful preparation which dr. marks had prepared as an antidote, and held it under the nose of the tall burglar. in less than twenty seconds he made a slight quivering in his face as if he were about to sneeze, and very soon he did sneeze slightly. then he sneezed violently, raised his head, and opened his eyes. for a moment he gazed blankly before him, and then looked stupidly at david and at me. but in an instant there flashed into his face the look of a wild beast. his quick, glittering eye took in the whole situation at a glance. with a furious oath he threw himself forward with such a powerful movement that he nearly lifted the bench. "stop that," said david, who stood near him with his iron club uplifted. "if you do that again i'll let you feel this." the man looked at him with a fiery flash in his eyes, and then he looked at me, as i stood holding the muzzle of my pistol within two feet of his face. the black and red faded out of his countenance. he became pale. he glanced at his companions bound and helpless. his expression now changed entirely. the fury of the wild beast was succeeded by a look of frightened subjection. gazing very anxiously at my pistol, he said, in a voice which, though agitated, was low and respectful:-- "what does this mean? what are you going to do? will you please turn away the muzzle of that pistol?" i took no notice of this indication of my steadiness of hand, and answered:-- "i am going to bring these other scoundrels to their senses, and early in the morning the three of you will be on your way to jail, where i hope you may remain for the rest of your lives." "if you don't get killed on your way there," said david, in whose nervous hand the heavy biscuit-beater was almost as dangerous as my pistol. the stout man who sat in the middle of the bench was twice as long in reviving as had been his companion, who watched the operation with intense interest. when the burly scoundrel finally became conscious, he sat for a few minutes gazing at the floor with a silly grin; then he raised his head and looked first at one of his companions and then at the other, gazed for an instant at me and david, tried to move his feet, gave a pull at one arm and then at the other, and when he found he was bound hard and fast, his face turned as red as fire and he opened his mouth, whether to swear or yell i know not. i had already closed the door, and before the man had uttered more than a premonitory sound, david had clapped the end of his bludgeon against his mouth. "taste that," he said, "and you know what you will get if you disturb this family with any of your vile cursin' and swearin'." "look here," said the tall man, suddenly turning to the other with an air of authority, "keep your mouth shut and don't speak till you're spoken to. mind that, now, or these gentlemen will make it the worse for you." david grinned as he took away his club. "i'd gentlemen you," he said, "if i could get half a chance to do it." the face of the heavy burglar maintained its redness, but he kept his mouth shut. when the younger man was restored to his senses, his full consciousness and power of perception seemed to come to him in an instant. his eyes flashed from right to left, he turned deadly white, and then merely moving his arms and legs enough to make himself aware that he was bound, he sat perfectly still and said not a word. i now felt that i must go and acquaint my wife with what had happened, or otherwise she would be coming downstairs to see what was keeping me so long. david declared that he was perfectly able to keep guard over them, and i ran upstairs. david afterward told me that as soon as i left the room the tall burglar endeavoured to bribe him to cut their ropes, and told him if he was afraid to stay behind after doing this he would get him a much better situation than this could possibly be. but as david threatened personal injury to the speaker if he uttered another word of the kind, the tall man said no more; but the stout man became very violent and angry, threatening all sorts of vengeance on my unfortunate man. david said he was beginning to get angry, when the tall man, who seemed to have much influence over the other fellow, ordered him to keep quiet, as the gentleman with the iron club no doubt thought he was doing right. the young fellow never said a word. when i told my wife that i had caught three burglars, and they were fast bound in the library, she nearly fainted; and when i had revived her she begged me to promise that i would not go downstairs again until the police had carried away the horrible wretches. but i assured her that it was absolutely necessary for me to return to the library. she then declared that she would go with me, and if anything happened she would share my fate. "besides," she said, "if they are tied fast so they can't move, i should like to see what they look like. i never saw a burglar." i did not wish my wife to go downstairs, but as i knew there would be no use in objecting, i consented. she hastily dressed herself, making me wait for her; and when she left the room she locked the door on the sleeping george william, in order that no one should get at him during her absence. as we passed the head of the stairs, the door of my aunt martha's room opened, and there she stood, completely dressed, with her bonnet on, and a little leather bag in her hand. "i heard so much talking and so much going up and down stairs that i thought i had better be ready to do whatever had to be done. is it fire?" "no," said my wife; "it's three burglars tied in a bunch in the library. i am going down to see them." my aunt martha gasped, and looked as if she were going to sit down on the floor. "goodness gracious!" she said, "if you're going i'll go too. i can't let you go alone, and i never did see a burglar." i hurried down and left the two ladies on the stairs until i was sure everything was still safe; and when i saw that there had been no change in the state of affairs, i told them to come down. when my wife and aunt martha timidly looked in at the library door, the effect upon them and the burglars was equally interesting. the ladies each gave a start and a little scream, and huddled themselves close to me, and the three burglars gazed at them with faces that expressed more astonishment than any i had ever seen before. the stout fellow gave vent to a smothered exclamation, and the face of the young man flushed, but not one of them spoke. "are you sure they are tied fast?" whispered my aunt martha to me. "perfectly," i answered; "if i had not been sure i should not have allowed you to come down." thereupon the ladies picked up courage and stepped further into the room. "did you and david catch them?" asked my aunt; "and how in the world did you do it?" "i'll tell you all about that another time," i said, "and you had better go upstairs as soon as you two have seen what sort of people are these cowardly burglars who sneak or break into the houses of respectable people at night, and rob and steal and ruin other people's property with no more conscience or human feeling than is possessed by the rats which steal your corn, or the polecats which kill your chickens." "i can scarcely believe," said aunt martha, "that that young man is a real burglar." at these words the eyes of the fellow spoken of glowed as he fixed them on aunt martha, but he did not say a word, and the paleness which had returned to his face did not change. "have they told you who they are?" asked my wife. "i haven't asked them," i said. "and now don't you think you had better go upstairs?" "it seems to me," said aunt martha, "that those ropes must hurt them." the tall man now spoke. "indeed they do, madam," he said in a low voice and very respectful manner, "they are very tight." i told david to look at all the cords and see if any of them were too tightly drawn. "it's all nonsense, sir," said he, when he had finished the examination; "not one of the ropes is a bit too tight. all they want is a chance to pull out their ugly hands." "of course," said aunt martha, "if it would be unsafe to loosen the knots i wouldn't do it. are they to be sent to prison?" "yes," said i; "as soon as the day breaks i shall send down for the police." i now heard a slight sound at the door, and turning, saw alice, our maid of the house, who was peeping in at the door. alice was a modest girl, and quite pretty. "i heard the noise and the talking, sir," she said, "and when i found the ladies had gone down to see what it was, i thought i would come too." "and where is the cook," asked my wife; "don't she want to see burglars?" "not a bit of it," answered alice, very emphatically. "as soon as i told her what it was she covered up her head with the bedclothes and declared, ma'am, that she would never get up until they were entirely gone out of the house." at this the stout man grinned. "i wish you'd all cover up your heads," he said. the tall man looked at him severely, and he said no more. david did not move from his post near the three burglars, but he turned toward alice and looked at her. we knew that he had tender feelings toward the girl, and i think that he did not approve of her being there. "have they stolen anything?" asked aunt martha. "they have not had any chance to take anything away," i said; and my wife remarked that whether they had stolen anything or not, they had made a dreadful mess on the floor, and had broken the table. they should certainly be punished. at this she made a motion as if she would leave the room, and an anxious expression immediately came on the face of the tall man, who had evidently been revolving something in his mind. "madam," he said, "we are very sorry that we have broken your table, and that we have damaged some of your glass and your carpet. i assure you, however, that nothing of the kind would have happened but for that drugged wine, which was doubtless intended for a medicine, and not a beverage; but weary and chilled as we were when we arrived, madam, we were glad to partake of it, supposing it ordinary wine." i could not help showing a little pride at the success of my scheme. "the refreshment was intended for fellows of your class, and i am very glad you accepted it." the tall man did not answer me, but he again addressed my wife. "madam," he said, "if you ladies would remain and listen to me a few moments, i am sure i would make you aware that there is much to extenuate the apparent offence which i have committed to-night." my wife did not answer him, but turning to me said, smiling, "if he alludes to their drinking your wine he need not apologize." the man looked at her with an expression as if her words had pained him. "madam," he said, "if you consent to listen to my explanations and the story of this affair, i am sure your feelings toward me would not be so harsh." "now, then," said my aunt martha, "if he has a story to tell he ought to be allowed to tell it, even in a case like this. nobody should be judged until he has said what he thinks he ought to say. let us hear his story." i laughed. "any statement he may make," i said, "will probably deserve a much stronger name than stories." "i think that what you say is true," remarked my wife; "but still if he has a story to tell i should like to hear it." i think i heard david give a little grunt; but he was too well bred to say anything. "very well," said i, "if you choose to sit up and hear him talk, it is your affair. i shall be obliged to remain here anyway, and will not object to anything that will help to pass away the time. but these men must not be the only ones who are seated. david, you and alice can clear away that broken table and the rest of the stuff, and then we might as well sit down and make ourselves comfortable." alice, with cloth and brush, approached very timidly the scene of the disaster; but the younger burglar, who was nearest to her, gazed upon her with such a gentle and quiet air that she did not seem to be frightened. when she and david had put the room in fair order, i placed two easy-chairs for my wife and aunt martha at a moderate distance from the burglars, and took another myself a little nearer to them, and then told david to seat himself near the other end of the bench, and alice took a chair at a little distance from the ladies. "now, then," said aunt martha to the burglars, "i would like very much to hear what any one of you can say in extenuation of having broken into a gentleman's house by night." without hesitation the tall man began his speech. he had a long and rather lean, close-shaven face, which at present bore the expression of an undertaker conducting a funeral. although it was my aunt who had shown the greatest desire to hear his story, he addressed himself to my wife. i think he imagined that she was the more influential person of the two. "madam," said he, "i am glad of the opportunity of giving you and your family an idea of the difficulties and miseries which beset a large class of your fellow-beings of whom you seldom have any chance of knowing anything at all, but of whom you hear all sorts of the most misleading accounts. now, i am a poor man. i have suffered the greatest miseries that poverty can inflict. i am here, suspected of having committed a crime. it is possible that i may be put to considerable difficulty and expense in proving my innocence." "i shouldn't wonder," i interrupted. to this remark he paid no attention. "considering all this," he continued, "you may not suppose, madam, that as a boy i was brought up most respectably and properly. my mother was a religious woman, and my father was a boat-builder. i was sent to school, and my mother has often told me that i was a good scholar. but she died when i was about sixteen, and i am sure had this not happened i should never have been even suspected of breaking the laws of my country. not long after her death my father appeared to lose interest in his business, and took to rowing about the river instead of building boats for other people to row. very often he went out at night, and i used to wonder why he should care to be on the water in the darkness, and sometimes in the rain. one evening at supper he said to me: 'thomas, you ought to know how to row in the dark as well as in the daytime. i am going up the river to-night, and you can come with me.' "it was about my ordinary bedtime when we took a boat with two pair of oars, and we pulled up the river about three miles above the city." "what city?" i asked. "the city where i was born, sir," he said, "and the name of which i must be excused from mentioning for reasons connected with my only surviving parent. there were houses on the river bank, but they were not very near each other. some of them had lights in them, but most of them were dark, as it must have been after eleven o'clock. before one of them my father stopped rowing for a moment and looked at it pretty hard. it seemed to be all dark, but as we pulled on a little i saw a light in the back of the house. "my father said nothing, but we kept on, though pulling very easy for a mile or two, and then we turned and floated down with the tide. 'you might as well rest, thomas,' said he, 'for you have worked pretty hard.' "we floated slowly, for the tide was just beginning to turn, and when we got near the house which i mentioned, i noticed that there was no light in it. when we were about opposite to it father suddenly looked up and said, not speaking very loud, 'by george! if that isn't williamson green's house. i wasn't thinking of it when we rowed up, and passed it without taking notice of it. i am sorry for that, for i wanted to see williamson, and now i expect he has gone to bed.' "'who is mr. green?' i asked. "'he is an old friend of mine,' said my father, 'and i haven't seen him for some little while now. about four months ago he borrowed of me a sextant, quadrant, and chronometer. they were instruments i took from old captain barney in payment of some work i did for him. i wasn't usin' them, and williamson had bought a catboat and was studying navigation; but he has given up that fad now and has promised me over and over to send me back my instruments, but he has never done it. if i'd thought of it i would have stopped and got 'em of him; but i didn't think, and now i expect he has gone to bed. however, i'll row in shore and see; perhaps he's up yet.' "you see, ma'am," said the speaker to my wife, "i'm tellin' you all these particulars because i am very anxious you should understand exactly how everything happened on this night, which was the turning-point of my life." "very good," said aunt martha; "we want to hear all the particulars." "well, then," continued the burglar, "we pulled up to a stone wall which was at the bottom of green's place and made fast, and father he got out and went up to the house. after a good while he came back and said that he was pretty sure williamson green had gone to bed, and as it wouldn't do to waken people up from their sleep to ask them for nautical instruments they had borrowed, he sat down for a minute on the top of the wall, and then he slapped his knee, not making much noise, though. "'by george!' he said, 'an idea has just struck me. i can play the prettiest trick on williamson that ever was played on mortal man. those instruments are all in a box locked up, and i know just where he keeps it. i saw it not long ago, when i went to his house to talk about a yacht he wants built. they are on a table in the comer of his bedroom. he was taking me through the house to show me the improvements he had made, and he said to me:-- "'"martin, there's your instruments. i won't trouble you to take them with you, because they're heavy and you're not going straight home, but i'll bring them to you day after to-morrow, when i shall be goin' your way." "'now, then,' said my father, 'the trick i'm thinkin' of playing on williamson is this: i'd like to take that box of instruments out of his room without his knowing it and carry them home, having the boat here convenient; and then in a day or two to write to him and tell him i must have 'em, because i have a special use for 'em. of course he'll be awfully cut up, not having them to send back; and when he comes down to my place to talk about it, and after hearing all he has to say, i'll show him the box. he'll be the most dumbfoundedest man in this state; and if i don't choose to tell him he'll never know to his dying day how i got that box. and if he lies awake at night, trying to think how i got it, it will serve him right for keeping my property from me so long.' "'but, father,' said i, 'if the people have gone to bed you can't get into the house to play him your trick.' "'that can be managed,' says he; 'i'm rather old for climbing myself, but i know a way by which you, thomas, can get in easy enough. at the back of the house is a trellis with a grape-vine running over it, and the top of it is just under one of the second-story windows. you can climb up that trellis, thomas, and lift up that window-sash very carefully, so's not to make no noise, and get in. then you'll be in a back room, with a door right in front of you which opens into mr. and mrs. green's bedroom. there's always a little night lamp burning in it, by which you can see to get about. in the corner, on your right as you go into the room, is a table with my instrument-box standing on it. the box is pretty heavy, and there is a handle on top to carry it by. you needn't be afraid to go in, for by this time they are both sound asleep, and you can pick up the box and walk out as gingerly as a cat, having of course taken your shoes off before you went in. then you can hand the box out the back window to me,--i can climb up high enough to reach it,--and you can scuttle down, and we'll be off, having the best rig on williamson green that i ever heard of in my born days.' "i was a very active boy, used to climbing and all that sort of thing, and i had no doubt that i could easily get into the house; but i did not fancy my father's scheme. "'suppose,' i said, 'that mr. williamson green should wake up and see me; what could i say? how could i explain my situation?' "'you needn't say anything,' said my father. 'if he wakes up blow out the light and scoot. if you happen to have the box in your hand drop it out the back window and then slip down after it. he won't see us; but if he does he cannot catch us before we get to the boat; but if he should, however, i'll have to explain the matter to him, and the joke will be against me; but i shall get my instruments, which is the main point, after all.' "i did not argue with my father, for he was a man who hated to be differed with, and i agreed to help him carry out his little joke. we took off our shoes and walked quietly to the back of the house. my father stood below, and i climbed up the trellis under the back window, which he pointed out. the window-sash was down all but a little crack to let in air, and i raised it so slowly and gently that i made no noise. then without any trouble at all i got into the room. "i found myself in a moderate-sized chamber, into which a faint light came from a door opposite the window. having been several hours out in the night my eyes had become so accustomed to darkness that this light was comparatively strong and i could see everything. "looking about me my eyes fell on a little bedstead, on which lay one of the most beautiful infants i ever beheld in my life. its golden hair lay in ringlets upon the pillow. its eyes were closed, but its soft cheeks had in them a rosy tinge which almost equalled the colour of its dainty little lips, slightly opened as it softly breathed and dreamed." at this point i saw my wife look quickly at the bedroom key she had in her hand. i knew she was thinking of george william. "i stood entranced," continued the burglar, "gazing upon this babe, for i was very fond of children; but i remembered that i must not waste time, and stepped softly into the next room. there i beheld mr. and mrs. williamson green in bed, both fast asleep, the gentleman breathing a little hard. in a corner, just where my father told me i should find it, stood the box upon the table. "but i could not immediately pick it up and depart. the beautiful room in which i found myself was a revelation to me. until that moment i had not known that i had tastes and sympathies of a higher order than might have been expected of the youthful son of a boat-builder. those artistic furnishings aroused within a love of the beautiful which i did not know i possessed. the carpets, the walls, the pictures, the hangings in the windows, the furniture, the ornaments,--everything, in fact, impressed me with such a delight that i did not wish to move or go away. "into my young soul there came a longing. 'oh!' i said to myself, 'that my parents had belonged to the same social grade as that worthy couple reposing in that bed; and oh! that i, in my infancy, had been as beautiful and as likely to be so carefully nurtured and cultured as that sweet babe in the next room.' i almost heaved a sigh as i thought of the difference between these surroundings and my own, but i checked myself; it would not do to made a noise and spoil my father's joke. "there were a great many things in that luxurious apartment which it would have delighted me to look upon and examine, but i forbore." "i wish i'd been there," said the stout man; "there wouldn't have been any forbearin'." the speaker turned sharply upon him. "don't you interrupt me again," he said angrily. then, instantly resuming his deferential tone, he continued the story. "but i had come there by the command of my parent, and this command must be obeyed without trifling or loss of time. my father did not approve of trifling or loss of time. i moved quietly toward the table in the corner, on which stood my father's box. i was just about to put my hand upon it when i heard a slight movement behind me. i gave a start and glanced backward. it was mr. williamson green turning over in his bed; what if he should awake? his back was now toward me, and my impulse was to fly and leave everything behind me; but my father had ordered me to bring the box, and he expected his orders to be obeyed. i had often been convinced of that. "i stood perfectly motionless for a minute or so, and when the gentleman recommenced his regular and very audible breathing i felt it safe to proceed with my task. taking hold of the box i found it was much heavier than i expected it to be; but i moved gently away with it and passed into the back room. "there i could not refrain from stopping a moment by the side of the sleeping babe, upon whose cherub-like face the light of the night lamp dimly shone. the little child was still sleeping sweetly, and my impulse was to stop and kiss it; but i knew that this would be wrong. the infant might awake and utter a cry and my father's joke be spoiled. i moved to the open window, and with some trouble, and, i think, without any noise, i succeeded in getting out upon the trellis with the box under my arm. the descent was awkward, but my father was a tall man, and, reaching upward, relieved me of my burden before i got to the ground. "'i didn't remember it was so heavy,' he whispered, 'or i should have given you a rope to lower it down by. if you had dropped it and spoiled my instruments, and made a lot of noise besides, i should have been angry enough.' "i was very glad my father was not angry, and following him over the greensward we quickly reached the boat, where the box was stowed away under the bow to keep it from injury. "we pushed off as quietly as possible and rowed swiftly down the river. when we had gone about a mile i suddenly dropped my oar with an exclamation of dismay. "'what's the matter?' cried my father. "'oh, i have done a dreadful thing!' i said. 'oh, father, i must go back!' "i am sorry to say that at this my father swore. "'what do you want to go back for?' he said. "'just to think of it! i have left open the window in which that beautiful child was sleeping. if it should take cold and die from the damp air of the river blowing upon it i should never forgive myself. oh, if i had only thought of climbing up the trellis again and pulling down that sash! i am sure i could go back and do it without making the least noise.' my father gave a grunt; but what the grunt meant i do not know, and for a few moments he was silent, and then he said:-- "'thomas, you cannot go back; the distance is too great, the tide is against us, and it is time that you and i were both in our beds. nothing may happen to that baby; but, attend to my words now, if any harm should come to that child it will go hard with you. if it should die it would be of no use for you to talk about practical jokes. you would be held responsible for its death. i was going to say to you that it might be as well for you not to say anything about this little venture until i had seen how williamson green took the joke. some people get angry with very little reason, although i hardly believe he's that sort of a man; but now things are different. he thinks all the world of that child, which is the only one they've got; and if you want to stay outside of jail or the house of refuge i warn you never to say a word of where you have been this night.' "with this he began to row again, and i followed his example, but with a very heavy heart. all that night i dreamt of the little child with the damp night winds blowing in upon it." "did you ever hear if it caught cold?" asked aunt martha. "no," replied the burglar, "i never did. i mentioned the matter to my father, and he said that he had great fears upon the subject, for although he had written to williamson green, asking him to return the instruments, he had not seen him or heard from him, and he was afraid that the child had died or was dangerously sick. shortly after that my father sent me on a little trip to the long island coast to collect some bills from people for whom he had done work. he gave me money to stay a week or two at the seashore, saying that the change would do me good; and it was while i was away on this delightful holiday that an event occurred which had a most disastrous effect upon my future life. my father was arrested for burglary! "it appeared--and i cannot tell you how shocked i was when i discovered the truth--that the box which i had carried away did not contain nautical instruments, but was filled with valuable plate and jewels. my unfortunate father heard from a man who had been discharged from the service of the family whose house he had visited--whose name, by the way, was not green--where the box containing the valuables mentioned was always placed at night, and he had also received accurate information in regard to the situation of the rooms and the best method of gaining access to them. "i believe that some arrangement had been made between my father and this discharged servant in regard to a division of the contents of the box, and it was on account of a disagreement on this subject that the man became very angry, and after pocketing what my father thought was his fair share he departed to unknown regions, leaving behind a note to the police which led to my father's arrest." "that was a mean trick," said aunt martha. the burglar looked at her gratefully. "in the lower spheres of life, madam, such things often happen. some of the plate and jewels were found in my father's possession, and he was speedily tried and sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. and now, can you imagine, ladies," said the tall burglar, apparently having become satisfied to address himself to aunt martha, as well as my wife, "the wretched position in which i found myself? i was upbraided as the son of a thief. i soon found myself without home, without occupation, and, alas! without good reputation. i was careful not to mention my voluntary connection with my father's crime for fear that should i do so i might be compelled to make a statement which might increase the severity of his punishment. for this reason i did not dare to make inquiries concerning the child in whom i had taken such an interest, and whose little life i had, perhaps, imperilled. i never knew, ladies, whether that infant grew up or not. "but i, alas! grew up to a life of hardship and degradation. it would be impossible for persons in your sphere of life to understand what i now was obliged to suffer. suitable employment i could not obtain, because i was the son of a burglar. with a father in the state prison, it was of no use for me to apply for employment at any respectable place of business. i laboured at one thing and another, sometimes engaging in the most menial employments. i also had been educated and brought up by my dear mother for a very different career. sometimes i managed to live fairly well, sometimes i suffered. always i suffered from the stigma of my father's crime, always in the eyes of the community in which i lived--a community, i am sorry to say, incapable, as a rule, of making correct judgments in delicate cases like these--i was looked upon as belonging to the ranks of the dishonest. it was a hard lot, and sometimes almost impossible to bear up under. "i have spoken at length, ladies, in order that you may understand my true position; and i wish to say that i have never felt the crushing weight of my father's disgrace more deeply than i felt it last evening. this man," nodding toward the stout burglar, "came to me shortly after i had eaten my supper, which happened to be a frugal one, and said to me:-- "'thomas, i have some business to attend to to-night, in which you can help me if you choose. i know you are a good mechanic.' "'if it is work that will pay me,' i answered, 'i should be very glad to do it, for i am greatly in need of money.' "'it will pay,' said he; and i agreed to assist him. "as we were walking to the station, as the business to be attended to was out of town, this man, whose name is james barlow, talked to me in such a way that i began to suspect that he intended to commit a burglary, and openly charged him with this evil purpose. 'you may call it burglary or anything else you please,' said he; 'property is very unequally divided in this world, and it is my business in life to make wrong things right as far as i can. i am going to the house of a man who has a great deal more than he needs, and i haven't anything like as much as i need; and so i intend to take some of his overplus,--not very much, for when i leave his house he will still be a rich man, and i'll be a poor one. but for a time my family will not starve.' "'argue as you please, james barlow,' i said, 'what you are going to do is nothing less than burglary.' "'of course it is,' said he; 'but it's all right, all the same. there are a lot of people, thomas, who are not as particular about these things as they used to be, and there is no use for you to seem better than your friends and acquaintances. now, to show there are not so many bigots as there used to be, there's a young man going to meet us at the station who is greatly interested in the study of social problems. he is going along with us just to look into this sort of thing and study it. it is impossible for him to understand people of our class, or do anything to make their condition better, if he does not thoroughly investigate their methods of life and action. he's going along just as a student, nothing more; and he may be down on the whole thing for all i know. he pays me five dollars for the privilege of accompanying me, and whether he likes it or not is his business. i want you to go along as a mechanic, and if your conscience won't let you take any share in the profit, i'll just pay you for your time.' "'james barlow,' said i, 'i am going with you, but for a purpose far different from that you desire. i shall keep by your side, and if i can dissuade you from committing the crime you intend i shall do so; but if i fail in this, and you deliberately break into a house for purposes of robbery, i shall arouse the inmates and frustrate your crime.' now, james barlow," said he, turning to the stout man with a severe expression on his strongly marked face, "is not what i have said perfectly true? did you not say to me every word which i have just repeated?" the stout man looked at the other in a very odd way. his face seemed to broaden and redden, and he merely closed his eyes as he promptly answered:-- "that's just what i said, every blasted word of it. you've told it fair and square, leavin' off nothin' and puttin' in nothin'. you've told the true facts out and out, up and down, without a break." "now, ladies," continued the tall man, "you see my story is corroborated, and i will conclude it by saying that when this house, in spite of my protest, had been opened, i entered with the others with the firm intention of stepping into a hallway or some other suitable place and announcing in a loud voice that the house was about to be robbed. as soon as i found the family aroused and my purpose accomplished, i intended to depart as quickly as possible, for, on account of the shadow cast upon me by my father's crime, i must never be found even in the vicinity of criminal action. but as i was passing through this room i could not resist the invitation of barlow to partake of the refreshments which we saw upon the table. i was faint from fatigue and insufficient nourishment. it seemed a very little thing to taste a drop of wine in a house where i was about to confer a great benefit. i yielded to the temptation, and now i am punished. partaking even that little which did not belong to me, i find myself placed in my present embarrassing position." "you are right there," said i, "it must be embarrassing; but before we have any more reflections, there are some practical points about which i wish you would inform me. how did that wicked man, mr. barlow i think you called him, get into this house?" the tall man looked at me for a moment, as if in doubt what he should say; and then his expression of mingled hopelessness and contrition changed into one of earnest frankness. "i will tell you, sir, exactly," he said; "i have no wish to conceal anything. i have long wanted to have an opportunity to inform occupants of houses, especially those in the suburbs, of the insufficiency of their window fastenings. familiar with mechanic devices as i am, and accustomed to think of such things, the precautions of householders sometimes move me to laughter. your outer doors, front and back, are of heavy wood, chained, locked, and bolted, often double locked and bolted; but your lower windows are closed in the first place by the lightest kind of shutters, which are very seldom fastened at all, and in the second place by a little contrivance connecting the two sashes, which is held in place by a couple of baby screws. if these contrivances are of the best kind and cannot be opened from the outside with a knife-blade or piece of tin, the burglar puts a chisel or jimmy under the lower sash and gently presses it upward, when the baby screws come out as easily as if they were babies' milk-teeth. not for a moment does the burglar trouble himself about the front door, with its locks and chains and bolts. he goes to the window, with its baby screws, which might as well be left open as shut, for all the hindrance it is to his entrance; and if he meddled with the door at all, it is simply to open it from the inside, so that when he is ready to depart he may do so easily." "but all that does not apply to my windows," i said. "they are not fastened that way." "no, sir," said the man, "your lower shutters are solid and strong as your doors. this is right, for if shutters are intended to obstruct entrance to a house they should be as strong as the doors. when james barlow first reached this house he tried his jimmy on one of the shutters in this main building, but he could not open it. the heavy bolt inside was too strong for him. then he tried another near by with the same result. you will find the shutters splintered at the bottom. then he walked to the small addition at the back of the house, where the kitchen is located. here the shutters were smaller, and of course the inside bolts were smaller. everything in harmony. builders are so careful now-a-days to have everything in harmony. when barlow tried his jimmy on one of these shutters the bolt resisted for a time, but its harmonious proportions caused it to bend, and it was soon drawn from its staples and the shutter opened, and of course the sash was opened as i told you sashes are opened." "well," said i, "shutters and sashes of mine shall never be opened in that way again." "it was with that object that i spoke to you," said the tall man. "i wish you to understand the faults of your fastenings, and any information i can give you which will better enable you to protect your house, i shall be glad to give, as a slight repayment for the injury i may have helped to do to you in the way of broken glass and spoiled carpet. i have made window fastenings an especial study, and, if you employ me for the purpose, i'll guarantee that i will put your house into a condition which will be absolutely burglar proof. if i do not do this to your satisfaction, i will not ask to be paid a cent." "we will not consider that proposition now," i said, "for you may have other engagements which would interfere with the proposed job." i was about to say that i thought we had enough of this sort of story, when aunt martha interrupted me. "it seems to me," she said, speaking to the tall burglar, "that you have instincts, and perhaps convictions, of what is right and proper; but it is plain that you allow yourself to be led and influenced by unprincipled companions. you should avoid even the outskirts of evil. you may not know that the proposed enterprise is a bad one, but you should not take part in it unless you know that it is a good one. in such cases you should be rigid." the man turned toward my aunt, and looked steadfastly at her, and as he gazed his face grew sadder and sadder. "rigid," he repeated; "that is hard." "yes," i remarked, "that is one of the meanings of the word." paying no attention to me, he continued:-- "madam," said he, with a deep pathos in his voice, "no one can be better aware than i am that i have made many mistakes in the course of my life; but that quality on which i think i have reason to be satisfied with myself is my rigidity when i know a thing is wrong. there occurs to me now an instance in my career which will prove to you what i say. "i knew a man by the name of spotkirk, who had invented a liniment for the cure of boils. he made a great success with his liniment, which he called boilene, and at the time i speak of he was a very rich man. "one day spotkirk came to me and told me he wanted me to do a piece of business for him, for which he would pay me twenty-five dollars. i was glad to hear this, for i was greatly in need of money, and i asked him what it was he wanted me to do. "'you know timothy barker,' said he. 'well, timothy and i have had a misunderstanding, and i want you to be a referee or umpire between us, to set things straight.' "'very good,' said i, 'and what is the point of difference?' "'i'll put the whole thing before you.' said he, 'for of course you must understand it or you can't talk properly to timothy. now, you see, in the manufacture of my boilene i need a great quantity of good yellow gravel, and timothy barker has got a gravel pit of that kind. two years ago i agreed with timothy that he should furnish me with all the gravel i should want for one-eighth of one per cent. of the profits on the boilene. we didn't sign no papers, for which i am sorry, but that was the agreement; and now timothy says that one-eighth of one per cent. isn't enough. he has gone wild about it, and actually wants ten per cent., and threatens to sue me if i don't give it to him.' "'are you obliged to have gravel? wouldn't something else do for your purpose?' "'there's nothing as cheap,' said spotkirk. 'you see i have to have lots and lots of it. every day i fill a great tank with the gravel and let water onto it. this soaks through the gravel, and comes out a little pipe in the bottom of the tank of a beautiful yellow color; sometimes it is too dark, and then i have to thin it with more water.' "'then you bottle it,' i said. "'yes,' said spotkirk; 'then there is all the expense and labour of bottling it.' "'then you put nothing more into it,' said i. "'what more goes into it before it's corked,' said spotkirk, 'is my business. that's my secret, and nobody's been able to find it out. people have had boilene analyzed by chemists, but they can't find out the hidden secret of its virtue. there's one thing that everybody who has used it does know, and that is that it is a sure cure for boils. if applied for two or three days according to directions, and at the proper stage, the boil is sure to disappear. as a proof of its merit i have sold seven hundred and forty-eight thousand bottles this year.' "'at a dollar a bottle?' said i. "'that is the retail price,' said he. "'now, then, mr. spotkirk,' said i, 'it will not be easy to convince timothy barker that one-eighth of one per cent. is enough for him. i suppose he hauls his gravel to your factory?' "'hauling's got nothing to do with it,' said he; 'gravel is only ten cents a load anywhere, and if i choose i could put my factory right in the middle of a gravel pit. timothy barker has nothing to complain of. "'but he knows you are making a lot of money,' said i, 'and it will be a hard job to talk him over. mr. spotkirk, it's worth every cent of fifty dollars.' "'now look here,' said he; 'if you get barker to sign a paper that will suit me, i'll give you fifty dollars. i'd rather do that than have him bring a suit. if the matter comes up in the courts those rascally lawyers will be trying to find out what i put into my boilene, and that sort of thing would be sure to hurt my business. it won't be so hard to get a hold on barker if you go to work the right way. you can just let him understand that you know all about that robbery at bonsall's clothing-store, where he kept the stolen goods in his barn, covered up with hay, for nearly a week. it would be a good thing for timothy barker to understand that somebody else beside me knows about that business, and if you bring it in right, it will fetch him around, sure.' "i kept quiet for a minute or two, and then i said:-- "'mr. spotkirk, this is an important business. i can't touch it under a hundred dollars.' he looked hard at me, and then he said:-- "'do it right, and a hundred dollars is yours.' "after that i went to see timothy barker, and had a talk with him. timothy was boiling over, and considered himself the worst-cheated man in the world. he had only lately found out how spotkirk made his boilene, and what a big sale he had for it, and he was determined to have more of the profits. "'just look at it!' he shouted; 'when spotkirk has washed out my gravel it's worth more than it was before, and he sells it for twenty-five cents a load to put on gentlemen's places. even out of that he makes a hundred and fifty per cent. profit.' "i talked a good deal more with timothy barker, and found out a good many things about spotkirk's dealings with him, and then in an off-hand manner i mentioned the matter of the stolen goods in his barn, just as if i had known all about it from the very first. at this timothy stopped shouting, and became as meek as a mouse. he said nobody was as sorry as he was when he found the goods concealed in his barn had been stolen, and that if he had known it before the thieves took them away he should have informed the authorities; and then he went on to tell me how he got so poor and so hard up by giving his whole time to digging and hauling gravel for spotkirk, and neglecting his little farm, that he did not know what was going to become of him and his family if he couldn't make better terms with spotkirk for the future, and he asked me very earnestly to help him in this business if i could. "now, then, i set myself to work to consider this business. here was a rich man oppressing a poor one, and here was this rich man offering me one hundred dollars--which in my eyes was a regular fortune--to help him get things so fixed that he could keep on oppressing the poor one. now, then, here was a chance for me to show my principles. here was a chance for me to show myself what you, madam, call rigid; and rigid i was. i just set that dazzling one hundred dollars aside, much as i wanted it. much as i actually needed it, i wouldn't look at it, or think of it. i just said to myself, 'if you can do any good in this matter, do it for the poor man;' and i did do it for timothy barker with his poor wife and seven children, only two of them old enough to help him in the gravel pit. i went to spotkirk and i talked to him, and i let him see that if timothy barker showed up the boilene business, as he threatened to do, it would be a bad day for the spotkirk family. he tried hard to talk me over to his side, but i was rigid, madam, i was rigid, and the business ended in my getting seven per cent. of the profits of boilene for that poor man, timothy barker, and his large family; and their domestic prosperity is entirely due--i say it without hesitation--to my efforts on their behalf, and to my rigidity in standing up for the poor against the rich." "of course," i here remarked, "you don't care to mention anything about the money you squeezed out of timothy barker by means of your knowledge that he had been a receiver of stolen goods, and i suppose the boilene man gave you something to get the percentage brought down from ten per cent. to seven." the tall burglar turned and looked at me with an air of saddened resignation. "of course," said he, "it is of no use for a man in my position to endeavour to set himself right in the eyes of one who is prejudiced against him. my hope is that those present who are not prejudiced will give my statements the consideration they deserve." "which they certainly will do," i continued. turning to my wife and aunt martha, "as you have heard this fine story, i think it is time for you to retire." "i do not wish to retire," promptly returned aunt martha. "i was never more awake in my life, and couldn't go asleep if i tried. what we have heard may or may not be true, but it furnishes subjects for reflection--serious reflection. i wish very much to hear what that man in the middle of the bench has to say for himself; i am sure he has a story." "yes, ma'am," said the stout man, with animation, "i've got one, and i'd like nothin' better than to tell it to you if you'll give me a little somethin' to wet my lips with--a little beer, or whiskey and water, or anything you have convenient." "whiskey and water!" said aunt martha with severity. "i should think not. it seems to me you have had all the intoxicating liquors in this house that you would want." "but i don't think you're the kind of person who'd doctor the liquor. this is the first gentleman's house where i ever found anything of that kind." "the worse for the gentleman," i remarked. the man grunted. "well, ma'am," he said, "call it anything you please--milk, cider, or, if you have nothin' else, i'll take water. i can't talk without somethin' soaky." my wife rose. "if we are to listen to another story," she said, "i want something to keep up my strength. i shall go into the dining-room and make some tea, and aunt martha can give these men some of that if she likes." the ladies now left the room, followed by alice. presently they called me, and, leaving the burglars in charge of the vigilant david, i went to them. i found them making tea. "i have been upstairs to see if george william is all right, and now i want you to tell me what you think of that man's story," said my wife. "i don't think it a story at all," said i. "i call it a lie. a story is a relation which purports to be fiction, no matter how much like truth it may be, and is intended to be received as fiction. a lie is a false statement made with the intention to deceive, and that is what i believe we have heard to-night." "i agree with you exactly," said my wife. "it may be," said aunt martha, "that the man's story is true. there are some things about it which make me think so; but if he is really a criminal he must have had trials and temptations which led him into his present mode of life. we should consider that." "i have been studying him," i said, "and i think he is a born rascal, who ought to have been hung long ago." my aunt looked at me. "john," she said, "if you believe people are born criminals, they ought to be executed in their infancy. it could be done painlessly by electricity, and society would be the gainer, although you lawyers would be the losers. but i do not believe in your doctrine. if the children of the poor were properly brought up and educated, fewer of them would grow to be criminals." "i don't think this man suffered for want of education," said my wife; "he used very good language; that was one of the first things that led me to suspect him. it is not likely that sons of boat-builders speak so correctly and express themselves so well." "of course, i cannot alter your opinions," said aunt martha, "but the story interested me, and i very much wish to hear what that other man has to say for himself." "very well," said i, "you shall hear it; but i must drink my tea and go back to the prisoners." "and i," said aunt martha, "will take some tea to them. they may be bad men, but they must not suffer." i had been in the library but a few moments when aunt martha entered, followed by alice, who bore a tray containing three very large cups of tea and some biscuit. "now, then," said aunt martha to me, "if you will untie their hands, i will give them some tea." at these words each burglar turned his eyes on me with a quick glance. i laughed. "hardly," said i. "i would not be willing to undertake the task of tying them up again, unless, indeed, they will consent to drink some more of my wine." "which we won't do," said the middle burglar, "and that's flat." "then they must drink this tea with their hands tied," said aunt martha, in a tone of reproachful resignation, and, taking a cup from the tray, she approached the stout man and held it up to his lips. at this act of extreme kindness we were all amused, even the burglar's companions smiled, and david so far forgot himself as to burst into a laugh, which, however, he quickly checked. the stout burglar, however, saw nothing to laugh at. he drank the tea, and never drew breath until the cup was emptied. "i forgot," said my aunt, as she removed the cup from his lips, "to ask you whether you took much or little sugar." "don't make no difference to me," answered the man; "tea isn't malt liquor; it's poor stuff any way, and it doesn't matter to me whether it's got sugar in it or not, but it's moistenin', and that's what i want. now, madam, i'll just say to you, if ever i break into a room where you're sleepin', i'll see that you don't come to no harm, even if you sit up in bed and holler." "thank you," said aunt martha; "but i hope you will never again be concerned in that sort of business." he grinned. "that depends on circumstances," said he. aunt martha now offered the tall man some tea, but he thanked her very respectfully, and declined. the young man also said that he did not care for tea, but that if the maid--looking at alice--would give him a glass of water he would be obliged. this was the first time he had spoken. his voice was low and of a pleasing tone. david's face grew dark, and we could see that he objected to this service from alice. "i will give him the water myself," said aunt martha. this she did, and i noticed that the man's thirst was very soon satisfied. when david had been refreshed, and biscuits refused by the burglars, who could not very well eat them with their hands tied, we all sat down, and the stout man began his story. i give it as he told it, omitting some coarse and rough expressions, and a good deal of slang which would be unintelligible to the general reader. "there's no use," said the burglar, "for me to try and make any of you believe that i'm a pious gentleman under a cloud, for i know i don't look like it, and wouldn't be likely to make out a case." at this the tall man looked at him very severely. "i don't mean to say," he continued, "that my friend here tried anything like that. every word he said was perfectly true, as i could personally testify if i was called upon the stand, and what i'm goin' to tell you is likewise solid fact. "my father was a cracksman, and a first-rate one, too; he brought me up to the business, beginning when i was very small. i don't remember havin' any mother, so i'll leave her out. my old man was very particular; he liked to see things done right. one day i was with him, and we saw a tinner nailing a new leader or tin water-spout to the side of a house. "'look here, young man,' says dad, 'you're makin' a pretty poor job of that. you don't put in enough nails, and they ain't half drove in. supposin' there was a fire in that house some night, and the family had to come down by the spout, and your nails would give way, and they'd break their necks. what would you think then? and i can tell you what it is, young man, i can appear ag'in you for doing poor work.' "the tinner grumbled, but he used more nails and drove 'em tight, dad and me standin' by, an' looking at him. one rainy night not long after this dad took me out with him and we stopped in front of this house. 'now, bobbie,' said he, 'i want you to climb into that open second-story window, and then slip down stairs and open the front door for me; the family's at dinner.' "'how am i to get up, dad?' said i. "'oh, you can go up the spout,' says he; 'i'll warrant that it will hold you. i've seen to it that it was put on good and strong.' "i tried it, and as far as i can remember i never went up a safer spout." "and you opened the front door?" asked aunt martha. "indeed i did, ma'am," said the burglar, "you wouldn't catch me makin' no mistakes in that line. "after a while i got too heavy to climb spouts, and i took to the regular business, and did well at it, too." "do you mean to say," asked aunt martha, "that you willingly and premeditatedly became a thief and midnight robber?" "that's what i am, ma'am," said he; "i don't make no bones about it. i'm a number one, double-extra, back-springed, copper-fastened burglar, with all the attachments and noiseless treadle. that's what i am, and no mistake. there's all kinds of businesses in this world, and there's got to be people to work at every one of 'em; and when a fellow takes any particular line, his business is to do it well; that's my motto. when i break into a house i make it a point to clean it out first-class, and not to carry away no trash, nuther. of course, i've had my ups and my downs, like other people,--preachers and doctors and storekeepers,--they all have them, and i guess the downs are more amusin' than the ups, at least to outsiders. i've just happened to think of one of them, and i'll let you have it. "there was a man i knew named jerry hammond, that was a contractor, and sometimes he had pretty big jobs on hand, buildin' or road-makin' or somethin' or other. he'd contract to do anything, would jerry, no matter whether he'd ever done it before or not. i got to know his times and seasons for collecting money, and i laid for him." "abominable meanness!" exclaimed my wife. "it's all business," said the stout man, quite unabashed. "you don't catch a doctor refusin' to practise on a friend, or a lawyer, nuther, and in our line of business it's the same thing. it was about the end of october, nigh four years ago, that i found out that jerry had a lot of money on hand. he'd been collectin' it from different parties, and had got home too late in the day to put it in the bank, so says i to myself, this is your time, old fellow, and you'd better make hay while the sun shines. i was a little afraid to crack jerry's house by myself, for he's a strong old fellow, so i got a man named putty henderson to go along with me. putty was a big fellow and very handy with a jimmy; but he was awful contrary-minded, and he wouldn't agree to clean out jerry until i promised to go halves with him. this wasn't fair, for it wasn't his job, and a quarter would have been lots for him. "but there wasn't no use arguin', and along we went, and about one o'clock we was standin' alongside jerry's bed, where he was fast asleep. he was a bachelor, and lived pretty much by himself. i give him a punch to waken him up, for we'd made up our minds that that was the way to work this job. it wouldn't pay us to go around huntin' for jerry's money. he was such a sharp old fellow, it was six to four we'd never find it. he sat up in bed with a jump like a hop-toad, and looked first at one and then at the other of us. we both had masks on, and it wasn't puzzlin' to guess what we was there fur. "'jerry hammond,' says i, speakin' rather rough and husky, 'we knows that you've got a lot o' money in this house, and we've come fur it. we mean business, and there's no use foolin'. you can give it to us quiet and easy, and keep a whole head on your shoulders, or we'll lay you out ready fur a wake and help ourselves to the funds; and now you pays your money and you can take your choice how you do it. there's nothin' shabby about us, but we mean business. don't we, pard?'--'that's so,' says putty. "'look here,' says jerry, jest as cool as if he had been sittin' outside on his own curbstone, 'i know you two men and no mistake. you're tommy randall, and you're putty henderson, so you might as well take off them masks.'--'which i am glad to do,' says i, 'for i hate 'em,' and i put mine in my pocket, and putty he took off his." "excuse me," said aunt martha, interrupting at this point, "but when mr. hammond mentioned the name of tommy randall, to whom did he refer?" "i can explain that, madam," said the tall burglar, quickly. "this man by his criminal course of life has got himself into a good many scrapes, and is frequently obliged to change his name. since i accidentally became acquainted with him he has had several aliases, and i think that he very often forgets that his real name is james barlow." "that's so," said the stout man, "there never was a more correct person than this industrious and unfortunate man sittin' by me. i am dreadful forgetful, and sometimes i disremember what belongs to me and what don't. names the same as other things. "'well, now, jerry,' says i, 'you needn't think you're goin' to make anythin' by knowin' us. you've got to fork over your cash all the same, and if you think to make anything by peachin' on us after we've cleared out and left you peaceful in your bed, you're mistook so far as i'm concerned; for i've made the track clear to get out of this town before daybreak, and i don't know when i'll come back. this place is gettin' a little too hot for me, and you're my concludin' exercise.' jerry he sat still for a minute, considerin.' he wasn't no fool, and he knowed that there wasn't no use gettin' scared, nor cussin', nor hollerin'. what's more, he knowed that we was there to get his money, and if he didn't fork it over he'd get himself laid out, and that was worse than losin' money any day. 'now, boys, says he, 'i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll make you an offer; a fair and square offer. what money i've got i'll divide even with you, each of us takin' a third, and i'll try to make up what i lose out of my next contract. now nothin' could be no squarer than that.'--'how much money have you got, jerry?' says i, 'that's the first thing to know.'--'i've got thirty-one hundred dollars even,' says he, 'and that will be one thousand and thirty-three dollars and thirty-three cents apiece. i've got bills to pay to-morrow for lumber and bricks, and my third will pay 'em. if i don't i'll go to pieces. you don't want to see me break up business, do you?'--'now, jerry,' says i, 'that won't do. you haven't got enough to divide into three parts. putty and me agree to go halves with what we get out of you, and when i lay out a piece of business i don't make no changes. half of that money is for me, and half is for putty. so just hand it out, and don't let's have no more jabberin'.' "jerry he looked at me pretty hard, and then says he: 'you're about the close-fisted and meanest man i ever met with. here i offer you a third part of my money, and all you've got to do is to take it and go away peaceable. i'd be willin' to bet two to one that it's more than you expected to get, and yet you are not satisfied; now, i'll be hanged if i'm going to do business with you.'--'you can be hanged if you like,' says i, 'but you'll do the business all the same.'--'no, i won't,' says he, and he turns to putty henderson. 'now, putty,' says he, 'you've got a pile more sense that this pal of yourn, and i'm goin' to see if i can't do business with you. now, you and me together can lick this tommy randall just as easy as not, and if you'll help me do it i'll not only divide the money with you, but i'll give you fifty dollars extra, so that instead of fifteen hundred and fifty dollars--that's all he'd given you, if he didn't cheat you--you'll have sixteen hundred, and i'll have fifteen hundred instead of the thousand and thirty-three dollars which i would have had left if my first offer had been took. so, putty, what do you say to that?' now, putty, he must have been a little sore with me on account of the arguments we'd had about dividin', and he was mighty glad besides to get the chance of makin' fifty dollars extry, and so he said it was all right, and he'd agree. then i thought it was about time for me to take in some of my sail, and says i: 'jerry, that's a pretty good joke, and you can take my hat as soon as i get a new one, but of course i don't mean to be hard on you, and if you really have bills to pay to-morrow i'll take a third, and putty'll take another, and we'll go away peaceful.'--'no, you won't,' sings out jerry, and with that he jumps out of bed right at me, and putty henderson he comes at me from the other side, and, between the two, they gave me the worst lickin' i ever got in my born days, and then they dragged me down stairs and kicked me out the front door, and i had hardly time to pick myself up before i saw a policeman about a block off, and if he hadn't been a fat one he'd had me sure. it wouldn't have been pleasant, for i was a good deal wanted about that time. "so you see, ladies and gents, that it's true what i said,--things don't always go right in our line of business no more than any other one." "i think you were served exactly right," said aunt martha; "and i wonder such an experience did not induce you to reform." "it did, ma'am, it did," said the burglar. "i made a vow that night that if ever again i had to call in any one to help me in business of that kind i wouldn't go pards with him. i'd pay him so much for the job, and i'd take the risks, and i've stuck to it. "but even that don't always work. luck sometimes goes ag'in' a man, even when he's working by himself. i remember a thing of that kind that was beastly hard on me. a gentleman employed me to steal his daughter." "what!" exclaimed my wife and aunt martha. "steal his own daughter! what do you mean by that?" "that's what it was," said the stout burglar; "no more nor less. i was recommended to the gent as a reliable party for that sort of thing, and i met him to talk it over, and then he told me just how the case stood. he and his wife were separated, and the daughter, about eleven years old, had been given to her by the court, and she put it into a boardin' school, and the gent he was goin' to europe, and he wanted to get the little gal and take her with him. he tried to get her once, but it slipped up, and so there wasn't no good in his showin' hisself at the school any more, which was in the country, and he knowed that if he expected to get the gal he'd have to hire a professional to attend to it. "now, when i heard what he had to say, i put on the strictly pious, and, says i, 'that's a pretty bad thing you're askin' me to do, sir, to carry away a little gal from its lovin' mother, and more 'an that, to take it from a school where it's gettin' all the benefits of eddication.'--'eddication,' says he; 'that's all stuff. what eddication the gal gets at a school like that isn't worth a row of pins, and when they go away they don't know nothin' useful, nor even anything tip-top ornamental. all they've learned is the pianer and higher mathematics. as for anythin' useful, they're nowhere. there isn't one of them could bound new jersey or tell you when washington crossed the delaware.'--'that may be, sir,' says i, 'but them higher branches comes useful. if washington really did cross the delaware, your little gal could ask somebody when it was, but she couldn't ask 'em how the pianer was played, nor what the whole multiplication table came to added up. them things she'd have to learn how to do for herself. i give you my word, sir, i couldn't take a little gal from a school, where she was gettin' a number one eddication, silver forks and towels extry.' the gent looked pretty glum, for he was to sail the next day, and if i didn't do the job for him he didn't know who would, and he said that he was sorry to see that i was goin' back on him after the recommend i'd had, and i said that i wouldn't go back on him if it wasn't for my conscience. i was ready to do any common piece of business, but this stealin' away little gals from lovin' mothers was a leetle too much for me. 'well,' says he, 'there ain't no time to be lost, and how much more will satisfy your conscience?' when i said a hundred dollars, we struck the bargain. "well, we cut and dried that business pretty straight. i took a cab and went out to the school, and the gent he got the key of a house that was to let about three miles from the school, and he was to stay there and look at that empty house until i brought him the gal, when he was to pay me and take her away. i'd like to have had more time, so that i could go out and see how the land laid, but there wasn't no more time, and i had to do the best i could. the gent told me they all went a walkin' every afternoon, and that if i laid low that would be the best time to get her, and i must just fetch her along, no matter who hollered. "i didn't know exactly how i was going to manage it, but i took along with me a big bag that was made for the conveyance of an extinct millionaire, but which had never been used, owin' to beforehand arrangements which had been made with the party's family. "i left the cab behind a bit of woods, not far from the school, and then i laid low, and pretty soon i seed 'em all coming out, in a double line, with the teacher behind 'em, for a walk. i had a description of the little gal as was wanted, and as they come nearer i made her out easy. she was the only real light-haired one in the lot. i hid behind some bushes in the side of the road, and when they come up, and the light-haired little gal was just opposite to me, i jumped out of the bushes and made a dash at her. whoop! what a row there was in one second! such a screamin' and screechin' of gals, such a pilin' on top each other, and the teacher on top the whole of 'em, bangin' with her umbrella; they pulled at the gal and they pulled at me, an' they yelled and they howled, and i never was in such a row and hope i never shall be again, and i grabbed that girl by her frock, and i tumbled some over one way and some another, and i got the umbrella over my head, but i didn't mind it, and i clapped that bag over the little gal, and i jerked, up her feet and let her slip into it, and then i took her up like a bag of meal, and put across the field, with the whole kit and boodle after me. but i guess most of 'em must have tumbled down in hysterics, judgin' from the screechin', and i got up to the cab and away we went. well, when we got to the house where i was to meet the gent, he began straight off to blow at me. 'what do you mean,' he yelled, 'bringin' my daughter in a bag?'--'it's the only way to do it, sir,' says i; 'they can't holler and they can't kick, and people passin' by don't know what you've got,' and so sayin' i untied the strings, put the little gal on her feet, and pulled off the bag, and then i'd be hanged if i ever saw a man so ragin' mad as he was. 'what do i want with that gal?' he cried; 'that's not my daughter. that girl's hair is as black as a coal, and she's a jew besides.' as soon as i sot my eyes on the little varmint it come over me that i got the thing crooked, and in the scrimmage i let go of the right gal and grabbed another. "i don't see how a man could help makin' mistakes with that school-teacher's umbrella whanging away at his knowledge box, but i wasn't goin' to let on. 'she ain't no jew, nuther,' says i, 'and she's your daughter, too; you needn't try to play no tricks on me. pay me my money and take her away as quick as you can, that's my advice, or before you know it you'll be nabbed.'--'pay ye!' he yelled; 'do you think i'd pay you anything for that little jew?'--'she's just as much a christian as you are,' says i. 'ain't you a christian, little gal? and is'nt this gentleman your father? and ain't you surprised that he wants to give you back to be put in the bag?' i said this hopin' she'd have sense enough to say he was her father so's to get rid of me. "the wretched gal had been clean dumbfounded when she was took out of the bag, and hadn't done nothin' so far but blubber and cry, and try to get away, which she couldn't, because i held her frock; but now she ups and screams he wasn't her father, and she'd never seen him before, and then he storms and swears, and tells me to take her back where i got her, and i tell him i'll see him hanged first, and what i want is my money; she screams, and he swears he'll not pay me a cent, and i squares off and says that i'll thrash him out of his skin, and then he calls in his coachman, and they both make at me, and i backs out the door to get my cabby to stand by me, and i found that he'd cut out, havin' most likely got frightened, afraid of bein' mixed up in trouble. then i seed on the high road, some half a mile away, some men comin' gallopin', and the gent he looked out and seed 'em, too, and then says he to me, 'you'll jist take that little jew gal back where you got her from; she's no use to me; i'm goin';' and at that i hollered for my money, and made a grab at him, but the coachman he tripped me over backward, and before i could git up again they was both off with the horses on a run. "i was so mad i couldn't speak, but there wasn't no time for foolin', and i hadn't made up my mind which door i should cut out of, when the fellows on horseback went ridin' past as hard as they could go. they must have seed the carriage drivin' away, and thought for sure it had the gal in it, and they was after it, lickety-split. "when they was clean gone i looked round for the little gal, but couldn't see her, but all a-sudden she came out of the fireplace, where she'd been hidin'. she'd got over her cryin', and over her scare, too, judgin' from her looks. 'i'm glad he's gone,' says she, 'and i'm mighty glad, too, that mr. haskins and them other men didn't see me.'--'who's they?' says i.--'they's neighbors,' says she;' if they knew i was here they'd took me back.'--'well, you little minx,' say i, 'isn't that what you want?'--'no,' says she. 'i didn't want to go with that man, for i don't know him, and i hate him, but i don't want to go back to that school. i hate it worse than anything in the whole world. you haven't no idea what a horrid place it is. they just work you to death, and don't give you half enough to eat. my constitution won't stand it. i've told pop that, and he thinks so too, but marm, she don't believe in it, and my stayin' there is all her doin'. i've been wantin' to get away for ever so long, but i didn't want to be took off in a bag; but now that i'm out of that horrid hole i don't want to go back, and if you'll take me home to pop, i know he won't let me go back, and he'll pay you real handsome besides.'--'who's your pop?' says i.--'he's mr. groppeltacker, of groppeltacker & mintz, corset findings, seven hundred and something or other, i forget the number now, broadway. oh, pop does a lot of business, i tell you, and he's got lots of money. he sends corset findings to south america, and paris, and chicago, and madagascar, and the uttermost parts of the earth. i've heard him say that often, and you needn't be afraid of his not bein' able to pay you. a lot more than that man would have paid you for his little gal, if you'd catched the right one. so if you take me to pop, and get me there safe and sound, it will be an awful good speck for you.' "now, i begins to think to myself that perhaps there was somethin' in what that little jew gal was sayin', and that i might make something out of the gal after all. i didn't count on gettin' a big pile out of old groppeltacker,--it wasn't likely he was that kind of a man,--but whatever i did get would be clean profit, and i might as well try it on. he couldn't make no charge ag'in me fur bringin' him his daughter, if she asked me to do it; so says i to her, 'now, if i take you home to your pop, will you promise on your word an' honour, that you won't say nothin' about my carryin' you off in a bag, and say that you seed me walkin' along the road and liked my looks, and told me you were sufferin', and asked me to take you home to your kind parents, where you might be took proper care of; and that i said i wasn't goin' that way, but i'd do it out of pure christian charity, and nothin' more nor less, and here you was? and then, of course, you can tell him he ought to do the handsome thing by me.'--'i'll do that,' says she, 'and i tell how you talked to me awful kind for more than an hour, tryin' to keep me to stay at the school, and it wasn't till i got down on my knees and weeped that you agreed to take me to my kind father.'--'all right,' says i, 'i might as well take you along, but we'll have to go back by the railroad and foot it, at least two miles, to the station, and i don't know about walkin' across the country with a little girl dressed as fine as you are. i might get myself suspicioned.'--'that's so,' says she; 'we might meet somebody that'd know me,' and then she wriggled up her little forehead and began to think. i never did see such a little gal as sharp as that one was; needles was nothin' to her. in about a minute she says, 'where's that bag of yourn?'--'here it is,' says i; and then she took it and looked at it up and down, with her head cocked on one side. 'if i'd somethin' to cut that bag with,' says she, 'i could fix myself up so that nobody'd know me, don't care who it was.'--'i don't want that bag cut,' says i; 'it's an extry good bag; it was made for a particular purpose, and cost money.'--'pop will pay expenses,' says she; 'how much did it cost?'--'it was four dollars cash,' said i.--'they cheated you like everything,' says she; 'you could get a bag like that any day for a dollar and seventy-five cents. will you let it go at that?'--'all right,' says i, for i was tickled to see how sharp that little jew gal was, and ten to one i'd throwed away the bag before we got to town; so she pulled a little book out of her pocket with a pencil stuck in it, and turnin' over to a blank page she put down, 'bag, one dollar and seventy-five;' then she borrows my big knife, and holdin' the top of the bag up ag'in her belt, she made me stick a pin in it about a hand's-breadth from the floor; then she took the knife and cut the bag clean across, me a-holdin' one side of it; then she took the top end of that bag and slipped it on her, over her head and shoulders, and tied the drawin' strings in it round her waist, and it hung around her just like a skirt, nearly touchin' the ground; then she split open the rest of the bag, and made a kind of shawl out of it, puttin' it into shape with a lot o' pins, and pinnin' it on herself real clever. she had lots of pins in her belt, and she told me that she never passed a pin in that school without pickin' it up, and that she had four hundred and fifty-nine of them now in her room, which she was mighty sorry to leave behind, and that these she had now was this day's pickin' up. "when she got done workin' at herself you couldn't see not a ribbon nor a hem of her fine clothes; it was all black skirt and shawl, and she'd put up her sleeve, so that when her arm stuck out it was bare. then she took all the ribbons and flowers off her hat, and crumpled it up, and when she tied it on what a guy she was. 'now,' says she, 'i can go barefoot.'--'which you won't,' says i, 'for you'll get your feet all cut, but you can muddy your shoes,' which she did, i pumpin' on 'em, so that the dust in the back yard would stick. then we starts off across the country, and, upon my word, i was pretty nigh ashamed to be seen walkin' with such a little scarecrow. when i bought the tickets at the station she asked me how much they was, and put it down in her book. when we got into the cars the people all looked hard at her, and i reckon they thought some kind of a home had been burnt down, and this was one of the orphans that had been saved. but they didn't say nothin', and she fixed herself as comfortable as you please; and before long a boy came through the car with fruit in a basket, and then says she to me, 'i want two apples.' the boy had gone past us, but i got up and followed him and bought her two apples. 'how much did you give for them?' says she, when i come back.--'they was two for five cents,' says i.--'well,' says she, 'they do stick you dreadful. two for three cents is all papa or i pays for apples like them,' and she took out her little book and put down, 'apples, three cents.'--'very well, miss,' says i, 'but if you want any more refreshments you buy 'em yourself.'--'i think i'd better,' says she, and she went to work eatin' them two apples. she hadn't more than got through with 'em when the boy came around ag'in. 'i want a banana,' says she; 'lend me five cents,' which i did, and she put down, 'cash, five cents.' then the boy come up, and says she, 'how much are your bananas?'--'five cents,' said he.--'for two?' says she.--'no,' says he, 'for one.'--'what do you take me for?' says she. 'i've bought bananas before. i'll give you three cents for that one,' pointin' to the biggest in the lot.--'i can't do that,' said the boy; 'the price is five cents.'--'i'd like a banana,' says she, 'but i don't pay more'n three cents; take it or leave it,' and with that the boy went on. 'now,' says i, 'you've gouged yourself out of a banana.'--'not a bit of it,' says she; 'he'll be back;' and in two minutes he was back, and said she might have it for three cents. 'have you got two coppers?' said she. 'let me see 'em.' he said he had, and showed 'em to her, and she took 'em and the banana, and then give him five cents, and then she didn't give the change to me, but put it in her pocket. 'now,' says she, 'if you'd buy things that way, you'd be rich in time.' "when we got to the city we took the elevated and went up town to forty-eighth street, and then walked over to her father's house. it was a big one, on one of the cross streets. when we got there, she told me to wait a minute, and, lookin' around to see that nobody was comin', she slipped off the skirt and the cape she had made and rolled 'em up in a bundle. 'it don't matter about my hat and shoes,' says she, 'but they wouldn't know me in such duds.' then, handin' me the bundle, she said, 'for twenty-five cents you can get that bag mended just as good as new, so you can take it, and it will save us a dollar and a half.'--'no, you don't,' says i, for i'd had enough of her stinginess. 'i don't touch that bag ag'in, and i made up my mind that minute to charge the old man five dollars' worth. when the front door was opened, the servant gal looked as if she couldn't believe her eyes, but my young woman was as cool as you please, and she had me showed into a room off the hall, and then she went up-stairs. "i sat a-waitin' a long time, which gave me a good chance to look around at things. the room was real handsome, and i took a peep at the window fastenin's and the lay of the doors, thinkin' the knowledge might come in handy some time. right in front of me on a table was a little yellow mouse, and it struck me as i looked at it that that must be gold. i listened if anybody was comin', and then i picked it up to see if it really was. i thought i heard the door-bell ring just then, and shut it up in my hand quick, but nobody went to the door; and then i looked at the little mouse, and if it wasn't pure gold it was the best imitation ever i see, so i slipped it quietly in my pocket to look at it ag'in when i had time. "pretty soon old groppeltacker come in, shut the door, and sot down. 'so you brought my daughter back,' says he.--'yes,' says i.--'and you expect to be paid for it,' says he.--'yes,' says i, 'i do.'--'how much do you ask for your services?' says he. now, this was a sort of a staggerer, for i hadn't made up my mind how much i was goin' to ask; but there wasn't time for no more thinkin' about it, and so says i, plum, 'a hundred dollars, and there was some expenses besides.'--'well, well,' says he, 'that seems like a good deal, just for bringin' a little gal from school. it couldn't have took you more'n a couple of hours.'--'i don't charge for time,' says i, 'it's for the risks and the science of the thing. there's mighty few men in this town could have brought your daughter home as neat as i did.'--'well, well,' says he, rubbin' his hands, 'i expect i'll have to pay for the whole term of the school, whether she's there or not, and the business will come heavy on me. don't you think sixty dollars would pay you?' now, i know when you deal with this sort of a man there's always a good deal of difference splittin'; and so, says i, 'no, it won't. i might take ninety dollars, but that's the very lowest peg.'--'the very lowest?' says he, gettin' up and walkin' about a little; and then i thought i heard the door-bell ring again, and i was dreadful afraid somebody would come and call off the old man before he finished the bargain. 'well,' says i, 'we'll call it eighty-five and expenses, and there i'll stop.' "groppeltacker, now he set down ag'in and looked hard at me. 'i didn't ask you to bring my daughter back,' says he, speakin' gruff, and very different from the way he spoke before, 'and what's more, i didn't want her back, and what's more yet, i'm not goin' to pay you a red cent.'--'now, look a-here,' says i, mighty sharp, 'none o' that, old man; fork over the money or i'll lay you out stiff as a poker, and help myself. i'm not a fellow to be fooled with, and there's nobody in this house can stop me.' old groppeltacker, he didn't turn a hair, but just sot there, and says he, 'before you blow any more, suppose you take my little gold mouse out of your pocket and hand it to me.' i must say i was took back at this, but i spoke back, as bold as brass, and said i never seed his gold mouse. 'o, ho!' says he, 'what you didn't see was the electric button under the table cover which rung a bell when the mouse was picked up. that's what i call my mouse-trap.' "at this i jist b'iled over. 'now,' says i, 'just you hand out every cent you've got, and your watch, too; not another word.' and i jumped up and clapped my hand on my pistol in my hip-pocket, and just at that minute there was a click and the nippers were on me, and there was a big policeman with his hand on my shoulder. i couldn't speak, i was so b'ilin' and so dumbfounded both at once. old groppeltacker he just leaned back and he laughed. 'you came in,' he said to the cop,'jest the second i rang, and as soft as a cat, and the first thing that i want you to do is to take that gold mouse out of his pocket, and i'll be on hand whenever you let me know i'm wanted.' the cop he took the gold mouse out of my pocket, and says he, 'i know this fellow, and if i'm not mistook, they'll be more charges than yourn made ag'in him.' there wasn't no chance to show fight, so i didn't do it, but i says to old groppeltacker, 'there's my expenses, you've got to pay them, anyway.'--'all right,' says he, 'jist you send in your bill marked correct, by my daughter, and i'll settle it,' and he laughed again, and the cop he took me off. well, ladies and gents, that little piece of business, together with some other old scores, took me to sing sing for three years, and it tain't six months since i got out, so you can see for yourselves what hard times a fellow in my line of business sometimes has." "well," said aunt martha, "i don't approve of the groppeltacker sort of people, but if there were more of that kind i believe there would be fewer of your kind. that story shows you in such a bad light that i believe it's true." "every word of it," said the man. "i wish it wasn't." and now i spoke. "since you claim to be a truth-telling being," i said to the stout burglar, "suppose you tell me why you never attempted before to break into my house. every considerable dwelling in this neighbourhood has been entered, and i have no doubt you are the men who committed all the burglaries." "no, sir," said he; "not men, i am the man who did 'em all; but these two friends of mine was never with me before in a bit of business like this. 'tain't in their line. i have had pals with me, but they was professionals. these ain't cracksmen, they don't know nothin' about it; but this one is handy at tools, and that's the reason i brung him along, but you see he kicked, and was goin' to give me away, and this young gentleman"-- "never mind about that young gentleman," i said; "i have a certain curiosity to know why my house was not entered when the others were." "well," said he, "i don't mind tellin' yer how that was. it was on account of your baby. we don't like to crack a house where there's a pretty small baby that's liable to wake up and howl any minute, and rouse up the rest of the family. there's no workin' in a house with comfort when there's such a young one about. i'll tell you what it is, all your burglar-alarms and your dogs ain't worth nuthin' alongside of a baby for guardin' a house. if a cracksman ain't careful the alarms will go off, and if he don't know how to manage dogs, the dogs will bark. but by george, sir, there ain't no providin' ag'in a baby. he'll howl any time, and nobody can tell when, so i waited till your baby was a little more settled in its ways and slept soundly, and then we come along, and here we are." this statement very much surprised me, and did not elate me. without saying so to any one, i had flattered myself that the burglars had heard of my precautions, and of my excellent stock of firearms, and perhaps had got a notion that i would be an intrepid man to deal with, and it was somewhat humiliating to find that it was our baby the burglars were afraid of, and not myself. my wife was amazed. "can it be possible," she said, "that these people know so much about our baby, and that george william has been protecting this house?" "it makes my flesh creep," said aunt martha. "do you know everything about all of us?" "wish i did, ma'am," said the stout burglar; "wish i'd known about that beastly liquor." "well, we've had enough of this," said i, rising; "and, my dear, you and aunt martha must be ready to go to bed, and david and i will keep guard over these fellows until morning." at this instant the youngest burglar spoke. his face wore a very anxious expression. "may i ask, sir," he said, "what you intend to do with me in the morning?" "i have already said," i answered, "that i shall then hand over all of you to the officers of justice of this country." "but, sir," said the young man, "you will surely except me. i am not at all concerned in this matter, and it would be of the greatest possible injury to me to be mixed up in it, or to be mentioned in public reports as an associate of a criminal. i'm not acquainted with the gentleman at the other end of the bench, but i have every reason to believe from what he said to me that he intended to notify you if this james barlow proceeded to any open act. for myself, i beg you will allow me to state who and what i am, and to tell you by what a strange concatenation of circumstances i happen to find myself in my present position--one which, i assure you, causes me the greatest embarrassment and anxiety." "we've had enough story-telling for one night," said i, "and you had better reserve your statement for the magistrate." here aunt martha put in her voice. "that is not fair," she said, "two of them have been allowed to speak, and this one has just as much right to be heard as the others. what do you say, cornelia?" i hoped that my wife would put herself on my side, and would say that we had enough of this sort of thing; but female curiosity is an unknown quantity, and she unhesitatingly replied that she would like to hear the young man's story. i sat down in despair. it was useless to endeavour to withstand this yearning for personal information,--one of the curses, i may say, of our present civilization. the young man gave no time for change of opinion, but immediately began. his voice was rich and rather low, and his manner exceedingly pleasing and gentle. "i wish to state in the first place," said he, "that i am a reporter for the press. in the exercise of my vocation i have frequently found myself in peculiar and unpleasant positions, but never before have i been in a situation so embarrassing, so humiliating, as this. in the course of my studies and experiences i have found that in literature and journalism, as well as in art, one can make a true picture only of what one has seen. imagination is all very well, often grand and beautiful; but imaginative authors show us their inner selves and not our outer world; there is to-day a demand for the real, and it is a demand which will be satisfied with nothing but the truth. i have determined, as far as in me lies, to endeavour to supply this demand, and i have devoted myself to the study of realism. "with this end in view, i have made it a rule never to describe anything i have not personally seen and examined. if we would thoroughly understand and appreciate our fellow-beings we must know what they do and how they do it; otherwise we cannot give them credit for their virtues, or judge them properly for their faults. if i could prevent crime i would annihilate it, and when it ceased to exist the necessity for describing it would also cease. but it does exist. it is a powerful element in the life of the human race. being known and acknowledged everywhere, it should be understood; therefore it should be described. the grand reality of which we are a part can never be truly comprehended until we comprehend all its parts. but i will not philosophize. i have devoted myself to realism, and in order to be a conscientious student i study it in all its branches. i am frequently called upon to write accounts of burglars and burglaries, and in order thoroughly to understand these people and their method of action i determined, as soon as the opportunity should offer itself, to accompany a burglarious expedition. my sole object was the acquisition of knowledge of the subject,--knowledge which to me would be valuable, and, i may say, essential. i engaged this man, james barlow, to take me with him the first time he should have on hand an affair of this kind, and thus it is that you find me here to-night in this company. as i came here for the purpose of earnest and thorough investigation, i will frankly admit that i would not have interfered with his processes, but at the same time i would have seen that no material injuries should result to any members of this family." "that was very kind of you," i said, at which my wife looked at me somewhat reproachingly. "if he really intended it," she remarked, "and i do not see why that was not the case, it was kind in him." "as for me," said aunt martha, very sympathetically, "i think that the study of realism may be carried a great deal too far. i do not think that there is the slightest necessity for people to know anything about burglars. if people keep talking and reading about diseases they will get them, and if they keep talking and reading about crimes they will find that iniquity is catching, the same as some other things. besides, this realistic description gets to be very tiresome. if you really want to be a writer, young man, why don't you try your hand on some original composition? then you might write something which would be interesting." "ah, madam," said the young man, casting his eyes on the floor, "it would be far beyond my power to write anything more wonderful than what i have known and seen! if i may tell you some of the things which have happened to me, you will understand why i have become convinced that in this world of realities imagination must always take a second place." "of course we want to hear your story," said aunt martha; "that is what we are here for." "if i was unbound," said the young man, looking at me, "i could speak more freely." "no doubt of it," said i; "but perhaps you might run away before you finished your story. i wouldn't have that happen for the world." "don't make fun of him," said aunt martha. "i was going to ask you to cut him loose, but after what you say i think it would perhaps be just as well to keep them all tied until the narratives are completed." with a sigh of resignation the young man began his story. "i am american born, but my father, who was a civil engineer and of high rank in his profession, was obliged, when i was quite a small boy, to go to austria, where he had made extensive contracts for the building of railroads. in that country i spent the greater part of my boyhood and youth. there i was educated in the best schools, my father sparing no money to have me taught everything that a gentleman should know. my mother died when i was a mere infant, and as my father's vocation made it necessary for him to travel a great deal, my life was often a lonely one. for society i depended entirely upon my fellow-scholars, my tutors, and masters. it was my father's intention, however, that when i had finished my studies i should go to one of the great capitals, there to mix with the world. "but when this period arrived i was in no haste to avail myself of the advantages he offered me. my tastes were studious, my disposition contemplative, and i was a lover of rural life. "my father had leased an old castle in carinthia, not far from the mountains, and here he kept his books and charts, and here he came for recreation and study whenever his arduous duties gave him a little breathing-spell. for several months i had lived at this castle, happy when my father was with me and happy when i was alone. i expected soon to go to vienna, where my father would introduce me to some of his influential friends. but day by day i postponed the journey. "walking one morning a few miles from the castle, i saw at the edge of a piece of woodland a female figure seated beneath a tree. approaching nearer, i perceived that she was young, and that she was sketching. i was surprised, for i knew that in this part of the world young women, at least those of the upper classes, to which the costume and tastes of this one showed her to belong, were not allowed to wander about the country by themselves; but although i stood still and watched the young lady for some time, no companion appeared upon the scene. "the path i had intended to take led past the piece of woodland, and i saw no reason why i should diverge from my proposed course. i accordingly proceeded, and when i reached the young lady i bowed and raised my hat. i think that for some time she had perceived my approach, and she looked up at me with a face that was half merry, half inquisitive, and perfectly charming. i cannot describe the effect which her expression had upon me. i had never seen her before, but her look was not such a one as she would bestow upon a stranger. i had the most powerful desire to stop and speak to her, but having no right to do so, i should have passed on, had she not said to me, in the best of english, 'good-morning, sir.' then i stopped, you may be sure. i was so accustomed to speak to those i meet in either french or german that i involuntarily said to her,'_bon jour, mademoiselle_.'--'you need not speak french,' she said; 'i am neither english nor american, but i speak english. are you the gentleman who lives in wulrick castle? if so, we are neighbours, and i wish you would tell me why you live there all the time alone.' "at this i sat down by her. 'i am that person,' i said, and handed her my card. 'but before i say any more, please tell me who you are.'--'i am marie dorfler. my father's house is on the other side of this piece of woodland; you cannot see it from here; this is part of his estate. and now tell me why you live all by yourself in that old ruin.'--'it is not altogether a ruin,' i answered; 'part of it is in very good condition.' and then i proceeded to give her an account of my method of life and my reasons for it. 'it is interesting,' she said, 'but it is very odd.'--'i do not think it half so odd,' i answered, 'as that you should be here by yourself.'--'that is truly an out-of-the-way sort of thing,' she said; 'but just now i am doing out-of-the-way things. if i do not do them now, i shall never have the opportunity again. in two weeks i shall be married, and then i shall go to prague, and everything will be by line and rule. no more delightful rambles by myself. no more sitting quietly in the woods watching the little birds and hares. no more making a sketch just where i please, no matter whether the ground be damp or not.'--'i wonder that you are allowed to do these things now,' i said.--'i am not allowed,' she answered. 'i do them in hours when i am supposed to be painting flower pieces in an upper room.'--'but when you're married,' i said, 'your husband will be your companion in such rambles.'--'hardly,' she said, shrugging her shoulders; 'he will be forty-seven on the thirteenth of next month, which i believe is july, and he is a great deal more grizzled than my father, who is past fifty. he is very particular about all sorts of things, as i suppose he has to be, as he is a colonel of infantry. nobody could possibly disapprove of my present performances more than he would.' i could not help ejaculating, 'why, then, do you marry him?' she smiled at my earnestness. 'oh, that is all arranged,' she said, 'and i have nothing to do with it. i have known for more than a year that i'm to marry colonel kaldhein, but i cannot say that i have given myself much concern about it until recently. it now occurs to me that if i expect to amuse myself in the way i best like i must lose no time doing so.' i looked at the girl with earnest interest. 'it appears to me,' said i, 'that your ways of amusing yourself are very much like mine.'--'that is true,' she said, looking up with animation, 'they are. is it not delightful to be free, to go where you like, and do what you please, without any one to advise or interfere with you?'--'it is delightful,' said i; and for half an hour we sat and talked about these delights and kindred subjects. she was much interested in our castle, and urged me to make a sketch of it, so that she may know what it now looked like. she had seen it when a little girl, but never since, and had been afraid to wander very far in this direction by herself. i told her that it would be far better for her to see the castle with her own eyes, and that i could conduct her to an eminence, not half a mile away, where she could have an excellent view of it. this plan greatly pleased her; but looking at her watch she said that it would be too late for her to go that morning, but if i happened to come that way the next day, and she should be there to finish her sketch, she would be delighted to have me show her the eminence." "i think," interrupted aunt martha, "that she was a very imprudent young woman." "that may be," he replied, "but you must remember, madam, that up to this time the young lady had been subjected to the most conventional trammels, and that her young nature had just burst out into temporary freedom and true life. it was the caged bird's flight into the bright summer air." "just the kind of birds," said aunt martha, "that shouldn't be allowed to fly, at least until they are used to it. but you can go on with your story." "well," said the young man, "the next day we met i took her to the piece of high ground i had mentioned, and she sketched the castle. after that we met again and again, nearly every day. this sort of story tells itself. i became madly in love with her, and i am sure she liked me very well; at all events i was a companion of her own age and tastes, and such a one, she assured me, she had never known before, and probably would never know again." "there was some excuse for her," said aunt martha; "but still she had no right to act in that way, especially as she was so soon to be married." "i do not think that she reasoned much upon the subject," said the young man, "and i am sure i did not. we made no plans. every day we thought only of what we were doing or saying, and not at all what we had done or would do. we were very happy. "one morning i was sitting by marie in the very place where i had first met her, when we heard some one rapidly approaching. looking up i saw a tall man in military uniform. 'heavens!' cried marie, 'it is colonel kaldhein.' "the situation was one of which an expectant bridegroom would not be likely to ask many questions. marie was seated on a low stone with her drawing-block in her lap. she was finishing the sketch on which she was engaged when i first saw her, and i was kneeling close to her, looking over her work and making various suggestions, and i think my countenance must have indicated that i found it very pleasant to make suggestions in that way to such a pretty girl. our heads were very close together. sometimes we looked at the paper, sometimes we looked at each other. but in the instant i caught sight of the colonel the situation had changed. i rose to my feet, and marie began to pick up the drawing materials, which were lying about her. "colonel kaldhein came forward almost at a run. his eyes blazed through his gold spectacles, and his close-cut reddish beard seemed to be singeing with the fires of rage. i had but an instant for observation, for he came directly up to me, and with a tremendous objurgation he struck me full in the face with such force that the blow stretched me upon the ground. "i was almost stunned; but i heard a scream from marie, a storm of angry words from kaldhein, and i felt sure he was about to inflict further injury. he was a much stronger man than i was, and probably was armed. with a sudden instinct of self-preservation i rolled down a little declivity on the edge of which i had fallen, and staggering to my feet, plunged into a thicket and fled. even had i been in the full possession of my senses, i knew that under the circumstances i would have been of no benefit to marie had i remained upon the scene. the last thing i heard was a shout from kaldhein, in which he declared that he would kill me yet. for some days i did not go out of my castle. my face was bruised, my soul was dejected. i knew there was no possible chance that i should meet marie, and that there was a chance that i might meet the angry colonel. an altercation at this time would be very annoying and painful to the lady, no matter what the result, and i considered it my duty to do everything that was possible to avoid a meeting with kaldhein. therefore, as i have said, i shut myself up within the walls of old wulrick, and gave strict orders to my servants to admit no one. "it was at this time that the strangest events of my life occurred. sitting in an upper room, gazing out of the window, over the fields, through which i had walked so happily but two days before to meet the lady whom i had begun to think of as my marie, i felt the head of a dog laid gently in my lap. without turning my head i caressed the animal, and stroked the long hair on his neck. "my hound ajax was a dear companion to me in this old castle, although i never took him in my walks, as he was apt to get into mischief, and when i turned my head to look at him he was gone; but strange to say, the hand which had been stroking the dog felt as if it were still resting on his neck. "quickly drawing my hand toward me it struck the head of the dog, and, moving it backward and forward, i felt the ears and nose of the animal, and then became conscious that its head was still resting upon my knee. "i started back. had i been stricken with blindness? but no; turning my head, i could plainly see everything in the room. the scene from the window was as distinct as it ever had been. i sprang to my feet, and, as i stood wondering what this strange thing could mean, the dog brushed up against me and licked my hand. then the idea suddenly flashed into my mind that by some occult influence ajax had been rendered invisible. "i dashed down-stairs, and although i could neither see nor hear it, i felt that the dog was following me. rushing into the open air, i saw one of my men. 'where is ajax?' i cried. 'a very strange thing has happened, sir,' he said, 'and i should have come to tell you of it, had i not been unwilling to disturb your studies. about two hours ago ajax was lying here in the courtyard; suddenly he sprang to his feet with a savage growl. his hair stood straight upon his back, his tail was stiff, and his lips were drawn back, showing his great teeth. i turned to see what had enraged him, but there was absolutely nothing, sir,--nothing in the world. and never did i see ajax so angry. but this lasted only for an instant. ajax suddenly backed, his tail dropped between his legs, his head hung down, and with a dreadful howl he turned, and, leaping the wall of the courtyard, he disappeared. i have since been watching for his return. the gate is open, and as soon as he enters i shall chain him, for i fear the dog is mad.' "i did not dare to utter the thoughts that were in my mind, but, bidding the man inform me the moment ajax returned, i reëntered the castle and sat down in the great hall. "the dog was beside me; his head again lay upon my knees. with a feeling of awe, yet strangely enough without fear, i carefully passed my hand over the animal's head. i felt his ears, his nose, his jaws, and his neck. they were not the head, the ears, the nose, the jaws, or the neck of ajax! "i had heard of animals, and even human beings, who were totally invisible, but who still retained their form, their palpability, and all the powers and functions of life. i had heard of houses haunted by invisible animals; i had read de kay's story of the maiden manmat'ha, whose coming her lover perceived by the parting of the tall grain in the field of ripe wheat through which she passed, but whose form, although it might be folded in his arms, was yet as invisible to his sight as the summer air. i did not doubt for a moment that the animal that had come to me was one of those strange beings. i lifted his head; it was heavy. i took hold of a paw which he readily gave me; he had every attribute of a real dog, except that he could not be seen." "i call that perfectly horrible," said aunt martha with a sort of a gasp. "perhaps," said the young man, "you would prefer that i should not continue." at this both my wife and aunt martha declared that he must go on, and even i did not object to hearing the rest of the story. "well," said the young man, "ajax never came back. it is generally believed that dogs can see things which are invisible to us, and i am afraid that my faithful hound was frightened, perhaps to death, when he found that the animal whose entrance into the courtyard he had perceived was a supernatural thing. "but if i needed a canine companion i had one, for by day or night this invisible dog never left me. when i slept he lay on the floor by the side of my bed; if i put down my hand i could always feel his head, and often he would stand up and press his nose against me, as if to assure me that he was there. this strange companionship continued for several days, and i became really attached to the invisible animal. his constant companionship seemed to indicate that he had come to guard me, and that he was determined to do it thoroughly. i felt so much confidence in his protection, although i knew not how it could be exerted, that one morning i decided to take a walk, and with my hand on the head of the dog, to make sure that he was with me, i strolled into the open country. "i had walked about a mile, and was approaching a group of large trees, when suddenly from behind one of them the tall figure of a man appeared. in an instant i knew it to be colonel kaldhein; his was a face which could not easily be forgotten. without a word he raised a pistol which he held in his hand and fired at me. the ball whistled over my head. "i stopped short, startled, and frightened almost out of my senses. i was unarmed, and had no place of refuge. it was plain that the man was determined to kill me. "quickly recocking his pistol, kaldhein raised it again. i involuntarily shrank back, expecting death; but before he could fire his arm suddenly dropped, and the pistol was discharged into the ground. then began a strange scene. the man shouted, kicked, and beat up and down with his arms; his pistol fell from his hand, he sprang from side to side, he turned around, he struggled and yelled. "i stood astounded. for an instant i supposed the man had been overtaken by some sort of fit; but in a flash the truth came to me,--kaldhein was being attacked by my protector, the invisible dog. "horrified by this conviction, my first impulse was to save the man; and, without knowing what i was going to do, i stepped quickly toward him, but stumbling over something i did not see i fell sprawling. before i could regain my feet i saw kaldhein fall backward to the ground, where a scene took place, so terrible that i shall not attempt to describe it. when, with trembling steps, i approached, the man was dead. the invisible dog had almost torn him to pieces. "i could do nothing. i did not remain upon the spot another minute, but hurried home to the castle. as i rapidly walked on i felt the dog beside me, and, putting my hand upon him, i felt that he was panting terribly. for three days i did not leave the house. "about the end of this time i was sitting in an upper room of the castle, reflecting upon the recent dreadful event, when the thought struck me that the invisible dog, who was by my side, apparently asleep, must be of an unusually powerful build to overcome so easily such a strong man as kaldhein. i felt a desire to know how large the creature really was, and, as i had never touched any portion of his body back of his shoulders, i now passed my hand along his back. i was amazed at his length, and when i had moved my hand at least seven feet from his head it still rested upon his body. and then the form of that body began to change in a manner which terrified me; but impelled by a horrible but irresistible curiosity, my hand moved on. "but i no longer touched the body of a dog; the form beneath my hand was cylindrical, apparently about a foot in diameter. as my hand moved on the diameter diminished, and the skin of the creature became cold and clammy. i was feeling the body of a snake! "i now had reached the open door of the room. the body of the snake extended through it. it went on to the top of the stairs; these i began to descend, my heart beating fast with terror, my face blanched, i am sure, but my hand still moving along the body of the awful creature. i had studied zoology, giving a good deal of attention to reptiles, and i knew that, judged by the ordinary ratio of diminution of the bodies of serpents, this one must extend a long distance down the stairs. "but i had not descended more than a dozen steps before i felt a shiver beneath my hand, and then a jerk, and the next moment the snake's body was violently drawn upward. i withdrew my hand and started to one side, and then, how, i know not, i became aware that the dog part of the creature was coming downstairs. "i now became possessed by a wild terror. the creature must be furious that i had discovered his real form. he had always been careful to keep his head toward me. i should be torn to pieces as kaldhein had been! down the stairs i dashed, across the courtyard, and toward a lofty old tower, which stood in one corner of the castle. i ran up the winding stairs of this with a speed which belongs only to a frantically terrified creature, until i reached the fourth story, where i dashed through an open doorway, slammed behind me an iron door, which shut with a spring, and fell gasping upon the floor. "in less than a minute i was aware, by a slight rattling of the grate-hinges, that something was pushing against the door; but i did not move. i knew that i was safe. the room in which i lay was a prison dungeon, and in it, in the olden times, it is said, men had been left to perish. escape or communication with the outer world was impossible. a little light and air came through a narrow slit in the wall, and the door could not be forced. "i knew that the invisible dog, or whatever it was, could not get in unless the door was open. i had frequently noticed that when he entered a room it was through an open door, and i sometimes knew of his approach by seeing an unlatched door open without visible cause; so, feeling secure for the present, i lay and gasped and panted. "after the lapse of a few hours, however, i was seized by a new terror. how was i ever to get out of this horrible dungeon? even if i made up my mind to face the dog, trusting that he had recovered from his momentary anger, i had no means of opening the door, and as to making any one hear me i knew that was impossible. "i had no hope that my servants would seek me here. i had not seen any one when i ran into the tower, and if they should discover that i was in this dungeon, how could they open the door? the key was in my father's possession. he had taken it to vienna to exhibit it as a curiosity to some of his mechanical friends. he believed that there was not such another key in the world. i was in the habit of making long absences from the castle, and if i should be looked for i believed that the tower would be the last place visited. "night came on; the little light in the room vanished, and, hungry, thirsty, and almost hopeless, i fell asleep. "during the night there was a most dreadful storm. the thunder roared, the lightning flashed through the slit in the wall, and the wind blew with such terrific violence that the tower shook and trembled. after a time i heard a tremendous crash as of falling walls, and then another, and now i felt the wind blowing into my prison. "there was no further sleep for me. trembling with a fearful apprehension of what might happen next, i cowered against the wall until the day broke, and then i perceived that in front of me was a great hole in the wall of the dungeon, which extended for more than a yard above the floor. i sat and gazed at this until the light became stronger, and then i cautiously approached the aperture and looked out. nearly the whole of the castle lay in ruins before me! "it was easy to see what had happened. the storm had demolished the crumbling walls of the old building, and the tower, itself frail and tottering, stood alone, high above the prostrate ruins. if the winds should again arise it must fall, and at any moment its shaken foundations might give way beneath it. "through the hole in the wall, which had been caused by the tearing away of some of the connection between the tower and main building, i could look down on the ground below, covered with masses of jagged stone; but there was no way in which i could get down. i could not descend that perpendicular wall. if i leaped out, death would be certain. "as i crouched at the opening i felt the head of a dog pushed against me. a spasm of terror ran through me, but the moment the creature began to lick my hands i knew that i had nothing to fear from him. instantly my courage returned. i felt that he was my protector. i patted his head and he renewed his caresses. "passing my hand over him, i found he was holding himself in his present position by means of his forelegs, which were stretched out upon the floor. what a dog this must be, who could climb a wall! but i gave no time to conjectures of this sort. how could i avail myself of his assistance? in what manner could he enable me to escape from that dangerous tower? "suddenly a thought came to me. i remembered the snake part of him. judging from the ratio of diminution, which i have mentioned before, that part, if hanging down, must reach nearly, if not quite, to the ground. by taking advantage of this means of descent i might be saved, but the feat would require dexterity and an immense amount of faith. this serpent-like portion of the animal was invisible. how could i know how long it was! "but there was no time for consideration; the wind had again arisen, and was blowing with fury. the tower shook beneath me; at any moment it might fall. if i should again escape from death, through the assistance of my invisible friend, i must avail myself of that assistance instantly. "i stopped and felt the animal. he still hung by part of his body and by his forelegs to the floor of the dungeon, and by reaching out i could feel that the rest of him extended downward. i therefore seized his body in my arms, threw myself out of the aperture, and began to slide down. "in a very short time i found that i had reached the snake portion of the creature, and, throwing my arms and legs around it, i endeavoured with all my strength to prevent a too rapid descent; but in spite of all my efforts, my downward progress was faster than i would have wished it to be. but there was no stopping; i must slip down. "in these moments of rapid descent my mind was filled with wild anxiety concerning the serpent-like form to which i was clinging. i remembered in a flash that there were snakes whose caudal extremity dwindled away suddenly into a point. this one might do so, and at any instant i might come to the end of the tail and drop upon the jagged stones below. "calculation after calculation of the ratio of diminution flashed through my mind during that awful descent. my whole soul was centred upon one point. when would this support end? when would i drop? "fortunately i was on the leeward side of the tower, and i was not swung about by the wind. steadily i descended, and steadily the diameter of the form i grasped diminished; soon i could grasp it in my hand; then with a terrified glance i looked below. i was still at a sickening distance from the ground. i shut my eyes. i slipped down, down, down. the tail became like a thick rope which i encircled with each hand. it became thinner and thinner. it grew so small that i could not hold it; but as i felt it slip from my fingers my feet rested on a pile of stones. "bewildered and almost exhausted, i stumbled over the ruins, gained the unencumbered ground, and ran as far from the tower as i could, sinking down at last against the trunk of a tree in a neighbouring field. scarcely had i reached this spot when the fury of the wind-storm appeared to redouble, and before the wild and shrieking blast the tower bent and then fell with a crash upon the other ruins. "the first thought that came into my mind when i beheld the dreadful spectacle concerned the creature who had twice saved my life. had he escaped, or was he crushed beneath that mass of stone? i felt on either side to discover if he were near me, but he was not. had he given his life for mine? "had i been stronger i would have searched for him; i would have clambered among the ruins to see if i could discover his mangled form. if i could but reach his faithful head i would stroke and caress it, living or dead. but excitement, fatigue, and want of food had made me so weak that i could do nothing but sit upon the ground with my back against the tree. "while thus resting i perceived that the whole of the tower had not been demolished by the storm. some of the rooms in which we had lived, having been built at a later date than the rest of the great edifice, had resisted the power of the wind and were still standing. "from the direction of the uninjured portion of the castle i now saw approaching a light-coloured object, which seemed to be floating in the air about a foot from the ground. as it came nearer i saw that it was a basket, and i immediately understood the situation. my faithful friend was alive, and was bringing me some refreshments. "on came the basket, rising and falling with the bounds of the dog. it was truly an odd spectacle, but a very welcome one. in a few moments the basket was deposited at my side, and i was caressing the head of the faithful dog. in the basket i found a bottle of wine and some bread and meat, which the good creature had doubtless discovered in the kitchen of the castle, and it was not long before i was myself again. the storm had now almost passed away, and i arose and went to my own rooms, my friend and protector still keeping close to my side. "on the morning of the next day, as i sat wondering what had happened to my servants, and whether my father had been apprised of the disaster to the castle, i felt something pulling at the skirt of my coat. i put out my hand and found that it was the invisible dog. imagining that he wished me to follow him, i arose, and, obeying the impulse given me by his gentle strain upon my coat, i followed him out of the door, across the courtyard, and into the open country. we went on for a considerable distance. a gentle touch of my coat admonished me when i turned from the direction in which it was desired that i should go. "after a walk of about half an hour i approached a great oak-tree, with low, wide-spreading branches. some one was sitting beneath it. imagining the truth, i rushed forward. it was marie! "it was needless for us to say anything, to explain the state of our feelings toward each other. that tale was told by the delight with which we met. when i asked her how she came to be there, she told me that about an hour before, while sitting in front of her father's mansion, she had felt something gently pulling at her skirts; and, although at first frightened, she was at length impelled to obey the impulse, and, without knowing whether it was the wind or some supernatural force which had led her here, she had come. "we had a great deal to say to each other. she told me that she had been longing to send me a message to warn me that colonel kaldhein would certainly kill me the next time he saw me; but she had no means of sending me such a message, for the colonel had had her actions closely watched. "when the news came of kaldhein's death she at first feared that i had killed him, and would therefore be obliged to fly the country; but when it was known that he had been almost torn to pieces by wild beasts, she, like every one else, was utterly amazed, and could not understand the matter at all. none but the most ferocious creatures could have inflicted the injuries of which the man had died, and where those creatures came from no one knew. some people thought that a pack of blood-hounds might have broken loose from some of the estates of the surrounding country, and, in the course of their wild journeyings, might have met with the colonel, and fallen upon him. others surmised that a bear had come down from the mountains; but the fact was that nobody knew anything about it. "i did not attempt to acquaint marie with the truth. at that moment the invisible dog was lying at my side, and i feared if i mentioned his existence to marie she might fly in terror. to me there was only one important phase of the affair, and that was that marie was now free, that she might be mine. "before we parted we were affianced lovers, pledged to marry as soon as possible. i wrote to my father, asking for his permission to wed the lady. but in his reply he utterly forbade any such marriage. marie also discovered that her parents would not permit a union with a foreigner, and would indeed oppose her marriage with any one at this time. "however, as usual, love triumphed, and after surmounting many difficulties we were married and fled to america. since that time i have been obliged to support myself and my wife, for my father will give me no assistance. he had proposed a very different career for me, and was extremely angry when he found his plans had been completely destroyed. but we are hopeful, we work hard, and hope that we may yet be able to support ourselves comfortably without aid from any one. we are young, we are strong, we trust each other, and have a firm faith in our success. "i had only one regret in leaving europe, and that was that my faithful friend, the noble and devoted invisible dog, was obliged to remain on the other side of the atlantic. why this was so i do not know, but perhaps it was for the best. i never told my wife of his existence, and if she had accidentally discovered it, i know not what might have been the effects upon her nervous system. "the dog accompanied me through austria, switzerland, and france to havre, from which port we sailed. i took leave of him on the gang-plank. he licked my hands, and i caressed and stroked him. people might have thought that my actions denoted insanity, but every one was so greatly occupied in these last moments before departure, that perhaps i was not noticed. just as i left him and hastened on board, a sailor fell overboard from the gang-plank. he was quickly rescued, but could not imagine why he had fallen. i believe, however, that he was tripped up by the snake part of my friend as he convulsively rushed away." the young man ceased, and gazed pensively upon the floor. "well, well, well!" exclaimed aunt martha, "if those are the sort of experiences you had, i don't wonder that realism was wonderful enough for you. the invisible creature was very good to you, i am sure, but i am glad it did not come with you to america." david, who had been waiting for an opportunity to speak, now interrupted further comments by stating that it was daylight, and if i thought well of it, he would open the window-shutters, so that we might see any one going toward the town. a milkman, he said, passed the house very early every morning. when the shutters were opened we were all amazed that the night should have passed so quickly. the tall burglar and the young man now began to exhibit a good deal of anxiety. "i should like very much to know," said the former, "what you intend to do in regard to us. it cannot be that you think of placing that young gentleman and myself in the hands of the law. of course, this man," pointing to the stout burglar, "cannot expect anything but a just punishment of his crimes; but after what we have told you, you must certainly be convinced that our connection with the affair is entirely blameless, and should be considered as a piece of very bad luck." "that," said i, "is a matter which will receive all the consideration it needs." at this moment david announced the milkman. counselling my man to keep strict guard over the prisoners, i went out to the road, stopped the milkman, and gave him a message which i was certain would insure the prompt arrival at my house of sufficient force to take safe charge of the burglars. excited with the importance of the commission, he whipped up his horse and dashed away. when i returned to the house i besought my wife and aunt martha to go to bed, that they might yet get some hours of sleep; but both refused. they did not feel in the least like sleep, and there was a subject on which they wished to consult with me in the dining-room. "now," said aunt martha, when the door had been closed, "these men have freely told us their stories; whether they are entirely true or not, must, of course, be a matter of opinion; but they have laid their cases before us, and we should not place them all in the hands of the officers of the law without giving them due consideration, and arriving at a decision which shall be satisfactory to ourselves." "let us take them in order," said i. "what do you think of the tall man's case?" "i think he is a thief and manufacturer of falsehoods," said my wife promptly. "i am afraid," said aunt martha, "that he is not altogether innocent; but there is one thing greatly in his favour,--when he told of the feelings which overcame him when he saw that little child sleeping peacefully in its bed in the house which he had unintentionally robbed, i felt there must be good points in that man's nature. what do you think of him?" "i think he is worst of the lot," i answered, "and as there are now two votes against him, he must go to the lock-up. and now what of the stout fellow?" i asked. "oh, he is a burglar by his own confession," said my wife; "there can be no doubt of that." "i am afraid you are right," said aunt martha. "i know she is," said i, "and james barlow, or whatever his name may be, shall be delivered to the constable." "of course, there can be no difference of opinion in regard to the young man," said aunt martha quickly. "both the others admitted that he had nothing to do with this affair except as a journalist, and although i do not think he ought to get his realistic ideas in that way, i would consider it positively wicked to send him into court in company with those other men. consider the position in which he would be placed before the world. consider his young wife." "i cannot say," said my wife, "that i am inclined to believe all parts of his story." "i suppose," said i, laughing, "that you particularly refer to the invisible dog-snake." "i'm not so sure about all that," she answered. "since the labours of the psychic researchers began, we have heard of a great many strange things; but it is evident that he is a young man of education and culture, and in all probability a journalist or literary man. i do not think he should be sent to the lock-up with common criminals." "there!" cried aunt martha, "two in his favour. he must be released. it's a poor rule that does not work both ways." i stood for a few moments undecided. if left to myself, i would have sent the trio to the county town, where, if any one of them could prove his innocence, he could do so before the constitutional authorities; but having submitted the matter to my wife and aunt, i could not well override their decision. as for what the young man said, i gave it no weight whatever, for of course he would say the best he could for himself. but the testimony of the others had weight. when they both declared that he was not a burglar, but merely a journalist, engaged in what he supposed to be his duty, it would seem to be a cruel thing to stamp him as a criminal by putting him in charge of the constables. but my indecision soon came to an end, for aunt martha declared that no time should be lost in setting the young man free, for should the people in town arrive and see him sitting bound with the others it would ruin his character forever. my wife agreed. "whatever there may be of truth in his story," she said, "one of two things is certain,--either he has had most wonderful experiences out of which he may construct realistic novels which will give him fortune and reputation, or he has a startling imagination, which, if used in the production of works in the romantic school, will be of the same advantage to his future. looking upon it, even in this light and without any reference to his family and the possible effects on his own moral nature, we shall assume a great responsibility in deliberately subjecting such a person to criminal prosecution and perhaps conviction." this was enough. "well," said i, "we will release the young fellow and send the two other rascals to jail." "that was not well expressed," said my wife, "but we will not criticise words at present." we returned to the library and i announced my decision. when he heard it the stout burglar exhibited no emotion. his expression indicated that, having been caught, he expected to be sent to jail, and that was the end of it. perhaps he had been through this experience so often that he had become used to it. the tall man, however, took the announcement in a very different way. his face grew dark and his eyes glittered. "you are making a great mistake," he said to me, "a very great mistake, and you will have to bear the consequences." "very good," said i, "i will remember that remark when your trial comes on." the behaviour of the young man was unexceptional. he looked upon us with a face full of happy gratitude, and, as he thanked us for the kind favour and the justice which we had shown him, his eyes seemed dim with tears. aunt martha was much affected. "i wonder if his mother is living," she whispered to me. "a wife is a great deal, but a mother is more. if i had thought of her sooner i would have spoken more strongly in his favour. and now you should untie him at once and let him go home. his wife must be getting terribly anxious." the young man overheard this last remark. "you will confer a great favour on me, sir," he said, "if you will let me depart as soon as possible. i feel a great repugnance to be seen in company with these men, as you may imagine, from wearing a mask on coming here. if i leave immediately i think i can catch the first train from your station." i considered the situation. if i did what i was asked, there would be two bound burglars to guard, three women and a child to protect, an uncertain stranger at liberty, and only david and myself to attend to the whole business. "no, sir," said i, "i shall not untie you until the officers i sent for are near at hand; then i will release you, and you can leave the house by the back way without being seen by them. there are other morning trains which will take you into the city early enough." "i think you are a little hard on him," remarked aunt martha, but the young man made no complaint. "i will trust myself to you, sir," he said. the officers arrived much sooner than i expected. there were five of them, including the chief of police, and they were accompanied by several volunteer assistants, among whom was the milkman who had been my messenger. this morning his customers might wait for their milk, for all business must give way before such an important piece of sightseeing as this. i had barely time to untie the young man and take him to the back of the house before the officers and their followers had entered the front door. there was now a great deal of questioning, a great deal of explanation, a great deal of discussion as to whether my way of catching burglars was advisable or not, and a good deal of talk about the best method of taking the men to town. some of the officers were in favour of releasing the two men, and then deciding in what manner they should be taken to town; and if this plan had been adopted, i believe that these two alert and practical rascals would have taken themselves out of my house without the assistance of the officers, or at least would have caused a great deal of trouble and perhaps injury in endeavouring to do so. but the chief of police was of my mind, and before the men were entirely released from the ropes by which i had tied them, they were securely manacled. a requisition made on david and myself to appear as witnesses, the two men were taken from the house to the wagons in which the officers and their followers had come. my wife and aunt martha had gone upstairs before the arrival of the police, and were watching the outside proceeding from a window. standing in the hallway, i glanced into the dining-room, and was surprised to see the young man still standing by a side door. i had thought him gone, but perhaps it was wise in him to remain, and not show himself upon the road until the coast was entirely clear. he did not see me, and was looking backward into the kitchen, a cheerful and animated expression upon his face. this expression did not strike me pleasantly. he had escaped a great danger, it was true, but it was no reason for this rather obtrusive air of exultation. just then alice came into the dining-room from the kitchen, and the young man stepped back, so that she did not notice him. as she passed he gently threw his arm quietly around her neck and kissed her. at that very instant, even before the girl had time to exclaim, in rushed david from the outer side door. "i've been watching you, you rascal," he shouted; "you're done for now!" and he threw his strong arms around the man, pinioning his arms to his side. the young fellow gave a great jerk, and began to struggle powerfully. his face turned black with rage; he swore, he kicked. he made the most frenzied efforts to free himself, but david's arms were strong, his soul was full of jealous fury, and in a moment i had come to his assistance. each of us taking the young fellow by an arm, we ran him into the hallway and out of the front door, alice aiding us greatly by putting her hands against the man's back and pushing most forcibly. "here's another one," cried david. "i'll appear against him. he's the worst of the lot." without knowing what it all meant, the chief clapped the nippers on our prisoner, justly believing that if burglars were about to show themselves so unexpectedly, the best thing to do was to handcuff them as fast as they appeared, and then to ask questions. the reasons for not having produced this man before, and for producing him now, were not very satisfactory to the officer. "have you any more in the cellar?" he asked. "if so, i should like to take a look at them before i start away." at this moment aunt martha made her appearance at the front door. "what are you going to do with that young man?" she asked sharply. "what right have you to put irons upon him?" "aunt martha," said i, stepping back to her, "what do you think he has done?" "i don't know," said she; "how should i know? all i know is that we agreed to set him free." i addressed her solemnly: "david and i believe him to be utterly depraved. he availed himself of the first moments of his liberation to kiss alice." aunt martha looked at me with wide-open eyes, and then her brows contracted. "he did, did he?" said she. "and that is the kind of a man he is. very good. let him go to jail with the others. i don't believe one word about his young wife. if kissing respectable young women is the way he studies realism the quicker he goes to jail the better," and with that she walked into the house. when the men had been placed in the two vehicles in which the police had come, the chief and i made an examination of the premises, and we found that the house had been entered by a kitchen window, in exactly the manner which the tall burglar had described. outside of this window, close to the wall, we found a leathern bag, containing what the chief declared to be an excellent assortment of burglars' tools. the officers and their prisoners now drove away, and we were left to a long morning nap, if we were so fortunate as to get it, and a late breakfast. in the course of the trial of the three men who had entered my house some interesting points in regard to them were brought out. several detectives and policemen from new york were present, and their testimony proved that my three burglars were men of eminence in their profession, and that which most puzzled the metropolitan detectives was to discover why these men should have been willing to devote their high talents to the comparatively insignificant business of breaking into a suburban dwelling. the tall man occupied a position of peculiar eminence in criminal circles. he was what might be called a criminal manager. he would take contracts for the successful execution of certain crimes,--bank robberies, for instance,--and while seldom taking part in the actual work of a burglary or similar operation, he would plan all the details of the affair, and select and direct his agents with great skill and judgment. he had never been arrested before, and the detectives were delighted, believing they would now have an opportunity of tracing to him a series of very important criminal operations that had taken place in new york and some other large cities. he was known as lewis mandit, and this was believed to be his real name. the stout man was a first-class professional burglar and nothing more, and was in the employ of mandit. the young man was a decidedly uncommon personage. he was of a good family, had been educated at one of our principal colleges, had travelled, and was in every way qualified to make a figure in society. he had been a newspaper man, and a writer for leading periodicals, and had shown considerable literary ability; but a life of honest industry did not suit his tastes, and he had now adopted knavery as a regular profession. this man, who was known among his present associates as sparky, still showed himself occasionally in newspaper offices, and was generally supposed to be a correspondent for a western journal; but his real business position was that of mandit's head man. sparky was an expert in many branches of crime. he was an excellent forger, a skilful lock-picker, an ingenious planner of shady projects, and had given a great deal of earnest study to the subject of the loopholes of the law. he had a high reputation in criminal circles for his ability in getting his fellow-rascals out of jail. there was reason to believe that in the past year no less than nine men, some condemned to terms of imprisonment, and some held for trial, had escaped by means of assistance given them by sparky. his methods of giving help to jail-birds were various. sometimes liberty was conferred through the agency of saws and ropes, at other times through that of a habeas corpus and an incontestible alibi. his means were adapted to the circumstances of the case, and it was believed that if sparky could be induced to take up the case of a captured rogue, the man had better chance of finding himself free than the law had of keeping him behind bars, especially if his case were treated before it had passed into its more chronic stages. sparky's success was greatly due to his extremely specious manner, and his power of playing the part that the occasion demanded. in this particular he was even the superior of mandit, who was an adept in this line. these two men found no difficulty in securing the services of proficient burglars, safe-robbers, and the like; for, in addition to the high rewards paid these men, they were in a manner insured against permanent imprisonment in case of misfortune. it was always arranged that, if any of their enterprises came to grief, and if either mandit or sparky should happen to be arrested, the working miscreants should substantiate any story their superiors might choose to tell of themselves, and, if necessary, to take upon themselves the whole responsibility of the crime. in this case their speedy release was to be looked upon as assured. a great deal of evidence in regard to the character and practices of these two men came from the stout burglar, commonly known as barney fitch. when he found that nothing was to be expected from his two astute employers, and that they were in as bad a place as himself, he promptly turned state's evidence, and told all that he knew about them. it was through the testimony of this man that the motive for the attempted robbery of my house was found out. it had no connection whatever with the other burglaries of our neighbourhood, those, probably, having been committed by low-class thieves, who had not broken into my house simply because my doors and windows had been so well secured; nor had our boy, george william, any share whatever in the protection of the household. the burglary was undertaken solely for the purpose of getting possession of some important law papers, which were to be used in a case in which i was concerned, which soon would be tried. if these papers could be secured by the opposite party, the side on which i was engaged would have no case at all, and a suit involving a great deal of property must drop. with this end in view the unscrupulous defendants in the case had employed mandit to procure the papers; and that astute criminal manager had not only arranged all the details of the affair, but had gone himself to the scene of action in order to see that there should be no mistake in carrying out the details of this most important piece of business. the premises had been thoroughly reconnoitred by sparky, who, a few days before the time fixed for the burglary, had visited my house in the capacity of an agent of a telescopic bookcase, which could be extended as new volumes were required, therefore need never exhibit empty shelves. the young man had been included in the party on account of his familiarity with legal documents, it being, of course, of paramount importance that the right papers should be secured. his ingenuity was also to be used to cover up, if possible, all evidence that the house had been entered at all, it being desirable to make it appear to the court that i had never had these documents in my possession, and that they never existed. had it not been for a very natural desire for refreshment that interfered with their admirably laid plans, it is probable that the mechanical skill of mandit would have been equal to the noiseless straightening of the bent bolt, and the obliteration of the scratches and dents made by the attempts upon other shutters, and that sparky, after relocking all open desks or cabinets, and after the exit of the others, would have closed and fastened the kitchen shutters, and would then have left the house by means of an open window in the upper hall and the roof of a piazza. thus it was that these three men, so eminent in their different spheres of earnest endeavour, came to visit my comparatively humble abode; and thus it was that they not only came to that abode, but to the deepest grief. they were "wanted" in so many quarters, and on so many charges, that before they had finished serving out their various sentences their ability to wickedly avail themselves of the property of others would have suffered greatly from disuse, and the period of life left them for the further exercise of those abilities would be inconveniently limited. i was assured by a prominent detective that it had been a long time since two such dangerous criminals as mandit and sparky had fallen into the hands of the law. these men, by means of very competent outside assistance, made a stout fight for acquittal on some of the charges brought against them; but when they found that further effort of this kind would be unavailing, and that they would be sentenced to long terms of imprisonment, they threw off their masks of outraged probity and stood out in their true characters of violent and brutal ruffians. barney fitch, the cracksman, was a senior warden compared to them. it was a long time before my aunt martha recovered from her disappointment in regard to the youngest burglar. "of course i was mistaken," she said. "that sort of thing will happen; but i really had good grounds for believing him to be a truthful person, so i am not ashamed for having taken him for what he said he was. i have now no doubt before he fell in his wicked ways that he was a very good writer, and might have become a novelist or a magazine author; but his case is a very sad proof that the study of realism may be carried too far," and she heaved a sigh. the end. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) [illustration: in an instant sam was off at full speed, crying, "stop thief!" at the full strength of his lungs.] the adventures of a country boy at a country fair by james otis author of toby tyler etc. illustrated boston charles e. brown & co. copyright, , by charles e. brown & co. s. j. parkhill & co., printers boston contents. chapter. i.--a young fakir ii.--an old fakir iii.--a friend iv.--uncle nathan v.--the fair vi.--a clue vii.--the clerk viii.--the jewelry fakir ix.--a brave rescue x.--an encounter xi.--long jim xii.--a discovery xiii.--amateur detectives xiv.--the rendezvous xv.--sam's adventures xvi.--missing xvii.--a terrible night xviii.--a narrow escape xix.--the arrest xx.--a proposition xxi.--with the burglars xxii.--a disaster xxiii.--a second arrest xxiv.--a third arrest xxv.--on bail xxvi.--the fakirs' party xxvii.--in hiding xxviii.--a failure xxix.--the testimonial xxx.--the trial xxxi.--an arrival xxxii.--in conclusion _the adventures of a country boy at a country fair._ chapter i. _a young fakir._ "i'm going to try it. deacon jones says i can have the right to run both things for ten dollars, and uncle nathan is going to lend me money enough to get the stock." "what scheme have you got in your head now, teddy hargreaves?" and mrs. fernald looked over her spectacles at the son of her widowed sister, who was literally breathless in his excitement. "i'm going to run a cane an' knife board at the peach bottom fair, and try to make money enough to pay the debt mother owes on the place." "you're crazy--mad as a march hare! the idea of a child like you setting yourself up to earn three or four hundred dollars, when your father worked all his life and couldn't get so much together." mrs. fernald really appeared to be angry, and she really believed there was good cause why she should lose her temper. the thought that little teddy--a "whiflet" she called him--should set up his opinion in such matters against his elders, and attempt to earn in one season an amount which seth hargreaves had never been able to repay during his thirty-six years of life, was so preposterous that the good lady looked upon the boy's assertion as positive proof that he was not only ready but willing to "fly in the face of providence." "i shall try it all the same," teddy replied in a most provokingly matter-of-fact tone, "an' i'm going down to see uncle nathan this very minute." "very well, and i consider it my bounden duty to advise your mother to keep you in the house until the fair is ended," aunt sarah said, as she took from its peg the well-worn gingham sun-bonnet. teddy had no desire to prolong the conversation, which had been begun simply because his aunt insisted on knowing where he had been, but hurried away from the gate on which he had been swinging while mrs. fernald questioned him, as if fearful lest she might try to detain him until the matter could be settled according to her own ideas of propriety. "i can have the right to run what i want to, every day the fair lasts, for ten dollars, an' now, if you lend me fifteen, i'll be all right," the boy cried as he burst into nathan hargreaves' store, just as the old gentleman was adding a trifle more sand to the sugar, in order to compensate for what might possibly have been spilled by the careless clerk. "oh, it's fixed, eh? and you're really goin' to turn fakir?" uncle nathan asked, wrinkling his face into the semblance of a laugh, but remaining silent, as if fearing to waste even such a cheap thing as mirth. "what's a fakir?" "a man, or a boy, for that matter, who goes out to sell things as you count on doin', if i'm fool enough to let you throw away fifteen good dollars of mine." "but you promised to lend me the money." "an' i'm going to do it; but that don't make me any less a fool jest because i'm holdin' to my word. tell me what you count on doin', an' then we'll come down to the business end of the scheme." "i'll pay the ten dollars i've got to deacon jones for the right to run the games, an' with what you lend me i'm goin' to waterville an' buy a whole lot of knives an' canes. there's a storekeeper over there who promises to sell that kind of goods for less than they cost him." "an' he's lyin' when he says it. people don't do business for the fun of it; but that's neither here nor there so far as our trade is concerned. i'm goin' to give you the fifteen dollars now--it's a power of money for a boy of your size, teddy--, an' if you make anything, as i allow you will, i'm to have eighteen dollars back; don't forget that part of the trade." "i'll stand to what i agreed, uncle nathan, and you shall be paid the very day the fair closes." "here it is," and with a sigh which was almost a groan uncle nathan took from a fat calfskin wallet three five-dollar bills, adding, as he handed them to teddy: "be careful of it, my boy, for i'm puttin' almost too much confidence in a child of your size, an' nobody knows how distressed i'd be if anything happened to prevent your paying it back." teddy placed the money carefully in the inside pocket of his vest, and, after promising for at least the hundredth time that it should be repaid by the close of the following week, hurried home confident in the belief that he was on an extremely short road to wealth. mrs. hargreaves was by no means as sanguine as her son concerning the success of the scheme, and actually appeared frightened when teddy showed her the money he had received from his uncle nathan, who was reputed to be the "closest-fisted" merchant to be found within a day's ride of peach bottom run. "if you should lose it, teddy, and be unable to pay him back at the exact time you promised, it would be the undoing of us, for we could never expect to get another dollar. i know he is not generous, but have always believed that if we should be in yet more straitened circumstances he would give us some assistance. he has neither charity nor mercy for any one who does not pay a little more than his just debts--" "but i shall give back every cent of this, mother, so don't look as if you were in such distress. i want to go to waterville to buy my stock in the morning, an' am counting on walking. it's only seven miles, an' i'll save fifty cents by traveling on shanks' mare." "i will have breakfast ready by four o'clock; but you must come back on the stage, teddy." "yes, if i feel very tired; but i don't know of any easier way to earn a dollar than by walking both ways." the young "fakir" believed he knew exactly what kind and amount of stock he wished to purchase on the following day, therefore he had no preparations to make for the journey save to get his limbs in the best possible condition for the tramp by retiring very early, in order to "scoop in" plenty of sleep. the thought of the success which should attend him in his new venture kept his eyes open a long while after getting into bed, and when he finally succeeded in crossing over to the land of nod, dreams of the fortune to be made during the coming week visited his brain, and remained there until his mother's voice summoned him to breakfast. the sun had not yet come up from behind the hills when he was trudging sturdily along over the dusty road, carrying a generous luncheon tied in a snowy-white napkin, and with his money secured by many pins in the lining of his cap. "be careful not to lose it, for your uncle nathan would never forgive you," his mother had said, and he cried cheerily, as he walked swiftly down the lane to the highway: "there's no fear of anything like that happening; the bills can't get away without my knowing it so long as they stay here," and teddy pulled his cap yet more closely down on his head. in a trifle more than two hours he was at waterville, wondering why the stores were not open, no matter how early it was, when such an important customer as himself came to town. since the merchants were evidently ignorant of his arrival, as was evidenced by the fact that their places of business yet remained closed, there was no more profitable occupation for him than to eat a second breakfast, which he proceeded to do, using a hand-truck on the depot-platform as a seat. the train which left new york on the evening before had arrived some time previous, and the station was temporarily deserted by all save a boy of about teddy's age, who was walking to and fro in an aimless manner. by the time the young "fakir" had finished his second biscuit he noticed that the stranger was watching him narrowly, and, holding forth the napkin with its generous store, he asked: "have one?" "i don't care if i do," said the boy, carelessly, and he continued: "i reckon you live 'round here?" "no, i jest come up from peach bottom run, an' am waiting for the stores to be opened." "why, you're from the same place where the fair is goin' to be held." "no; i live at the run, an' the fair is over to peach bottom, most five miles from my house. are you goin' there?" "i should reckon i was. why, i'm goin' to help run it." "you are?" and teddy's mouth opened wide in astonishment. "yes, sir-ree, an' you fellers will be jest about crazy when i tell you what i've come to do." "don't flash it upon us too quick, for we wanter kind of keep our wits about us till the fun is over." the tone of sarcasm in teddy's voice appeared to nettle the stranger. "i've come down here to give away a steamboat what's worth five hundred dollars." "then there ain't any need for you to go any farther, 'cause i'm willin' to take it now." "if you won't be so smart i'll tell you about it," was the dignified reply. "there's a firm out in detroit what's goin' to do that very thing to the feller that can guess how much she weighs, an' i've been hired to help the man who is comin' down to peach bottom to show off a lot of boats." "what are you goin' to do?" and now teddy was interested. "row around in the creek while he looks out for the stuff in the fair. it won't be any more'n fun, an' if you'll come over i'll take you out." "i don't s'pose you could help me guess how much the steamer weighs, could you?" "there ain't anybody as can do that, 'cause you see she ain't built yet; but you can find out all about it by lookin' on the fair grounds for the circulars what the davis boat and oar company of detroit will throw around, an' if there's somethin' else you wanter know jest ask for sam balderston; all the folks will know me before i've been there very long." "i'm going to work at the fair myself," teddy replied, and then, in response to his new friend's questions, he gave him all the particulars of his proposed venture. "i reckon you'll get along all right, an' come out way ahead, if some of these smart fakirs don't try to get the best of you. say, why can't i go to your house, an' stay till it's time to go over to the fair? i'll pay my way." "if mother's willin', i'd like to have you, an' i don't believe she'll care. now, i've got to buy my stuff. where'll i meet you afterward?" "i'm goin' with you," sam said, in a matter-of-fact tone. "i know a good deal about such things, an' won't see you cheated." teddy hardly thought he was in need of any assistance; but since he did not want to offend this fellow who was concerned in giving away a steamboat, he could not well refuse, therefore the two started up the street together. chapter ii. _an old fakir._ sam had very much advice to give during the short walk, and while the greater portion of it was worthless, there were bits which might be of value to the young "fakir." "don't buy anything till you have seen all there is in town, an' then you'll know which is the cheapest," sam repeated several times, with an air of wisdom, and teddy believed this to be a good idea. with this object in view the two boys walked from store to store, examining that particular quality of canes and knives which teddy thought would be best suited to his purpose, and sam had no hesitation in criticising the goods boldly, until more than one of the clerks lost his temper entirely and refused to show the full stock. "if you go on this way, sam, we won't get the business done to day, an' i want to send the stuff down in the stage, which leaves here at three o'clock." "there'll be plenty of time for that; i know what i'm about. now, if you had sent your money to me, i'd got you a dandy lot in new york for almost nothing." "seein's how i didn't even know your name till a couple of hours ago, there wasn't much chance for me to do that, an' i guess i'll make out well enough here if you don't keep on raisin' a fuss with the clerks." "i won't so much as yip ag'in, if that's the way you look at it. the question is, which store you're goin' to buy from?" "there's a place near the depot that wasn't open when we came past. let's go there, an' then i'll make up my mind." sam, feeling a trifle injured because his advice had not been fully appreciated, said nothing more until they were near the station, and then, seeing a train approaching, he proposed that they stop for a few minutes. "jest as likely as not there'll be people on it whom i know goin' to the fair, an' you want to get acquainted with all the fakirs, so's they'll help you along now an' then." "the stage goes at three." "an' it ain't more'n ten now. come on!" sam cried, triumphantly, as he motioned for teddy to come nearer. sam had already quickened his pace, and teddy was forced to follow, or injure the feelings of one whom he believed held a responsible position in the peach bottom exhibition. among the passengers alighting from the train as the boys arrived was a man who carried a large package enveloped in green cloth, and sam whispered, excitedly: "i'll bet that's an old fakir, and if he is we want to let him know who we are." teddy failed to understand exactly why this was necessary; but his companion seemed so positive on the point that he remained silent. this particular passenger appeared to have plenty of time at his disposal. he placed his package at one end of the platform, lighted a pipe, and then walked to and fro as the remainder of the travelers dispersed. "you foller me, an' we'll find out who he is," sam whispered, when he thought a fitting opportunity had come, and then advanced boldly toward the stranger. "goin' to the fair?" he asked. "yes; what of it?" "nothin', only i s'pose you know you've got to take another train here." "if i didn't why would i be loafin' around this dead place?" "i jest spoke of it 'cause this feller an' i are goin' there, too," and sam waved his hand in the direction where teddy was standing. "i s'pose there'll be other boys besides you at the fair, eh?" "but we belong to it. i'm to give a steamboat away, an' he's goin' to run a cane an' knife board. we're waiting here to buy the stock." [illustration: the three notes were handed to the generous stranger.] "oh, you are, eh?" and now the man appeared to be interested. "i reckon you're goin' to spend as much as a dollar?" "one? why, he's got fifteen, an' the whole of it will be spent before the stage leaves. we know something about the business an' don't count on gettin' an outfit for nothing." "i thought you was a fakir," the man said, in a more friendly tone, as, unobserved by the worldly-wise sam, he made a peculiar gesture to a stranger immediately in the rear. "that's what i am," was the proud reply, "an' i'll make things hum over at peach bottom before i leave the town. you see i thought i'd speak to you, 'cause all of us fellers should know each other." "you're right, an' it's mighty lucky you did strike up an acquaintance, for i can give you a big lift. i've helped many a boy into the business when they had money enough to help themselves." the last dozen words were spoken in a loud tone, as if for the benefit of the stranger in the rear; but instead of waiting to hear more the latter turned abruptly and walked toward the package with a green covering at the end of the platform. "i knew we oughter talk with you." "did you count on buying your stuff in this one-horse town?" the man asked as teddy approached, and the latter replied: "there wasn't any other place i could go to, 'cause it costs too much for a ticket to new york." "how big a stock do you want?" "all i can get for fifteen dollars. don't you think that will be enough?" "it depends," the stranger replied, reflectively. "if you buy the goods here you'll have to pay such a big price that it won't be much of a pile. now, if--i've got the very thing in mind! you'll remember the day you saw me if my plan works. i know a fakir here who has a fine layout that he wants to sell. you can get fifty dollars' worth of stuff for--well, he asks twenty; but i'll say you are friends of mine, an' the chances are you can make a trade." "that would be a regular snap!" sam cried, and teddy's eyes glistened at the thought of thus procuring a full outfit so cheaply. "i'll do what i can for you," the man said, in a patronizing tone. "at any rate, i'll make him come down in his price, and if there's any balance it can be paid after the fair has been opened long enough for you to take in some money." "if business is good, i'm willing to do what is right," teddy replied; "but i must pay uncle nathan first." "how much do you owe him?" "fifteen dollars." "why, bless my soul, it'll be a pretty poor fair if you can't make five times that amount in the first two days." "where can we see the man?" sam asked, eager that his wonderfully good trade should be consummated at the earliest possible opportunity. "i don't know; but he's somewhere in the town. give me your cash, an' i'll hunt him up inside of half an hour. the stuff is right here in the baggage-room, and you can ship it on the stage without any trouble." just for an instant teddy hesitated to part with what seemed to him like an enormous amount of money; but then came the thought that an old fakir would not wrong a young one--and he considered himself such. after some little difficulty he succeeded in extracting all the pins, and the three notes were handed to the generous stranger almost at the same moment that the green-covered package disappeared from the edge of the platform simultaneously with the departure of the second stranger. "wait right here for me," the man said, as he put the money in his pocket. "i've got too much work to do to spend any very great amount of time hunting you fellows up in case you don't stay in one place." after thus cautioning them, the old fakir walked slowly away, and sam said: "it was lucky you fell in with me, teddy, for i know how these things are worked, an' can give you a good many pointers before the fair is over. why, you'll have a first-class outfit for about half what it's worth." "yes, it's a good chance; but i can't see why he didn't take us with him if he was in a hurry, an' then he wouldn't have had to come back." "he's got to do that anyway, for his stuff is here," sam replied, pointing toward where he had last seen the man's package; but it was no longer there. "i guess the baggage-master has taken it in," he added; "but you needn't be afraid of losin' your money while i'm with you." then sam occupied his companion's attention by telling of his many alleged wonderful exploits, and an hour passed before his story was concluded. in the meantime one train had arrived and departed; another was on the point of leaving the depot, bound for peach bottom, when teddy cried as he leaped to his feet: "see! i'm certain that's the man who has got my money!" "where?" "on the platform of the front car!" before he could say anything more the train steamed out, leaving the would-be young fakir staring at it in distress and consternation. "of course it wasn't him," sam said, confidently, when the last car had disappeared from view. "the stuff he was goin'to buy for you is here in the baggage-room, 'cause he said so, an' we'll see him before long." [illustration: "see! i'm certain that's the man who has got my money."] teddy's suspicions had been aroused, and he was not easily quieted. the thought that it was possible he might have lost the money loaned him by uncle nathan was sufficient to cause the liveliest fear, and he said, decidedly: "i'm going to know where that man's baggage went to." "how'll you find out?" "ask the baggage-master." "don't make a fool of yourself. it would be nice for an old fakir like that man to know you thought he'd steal your money." "i don't care what he knows, so long as i get my fifteen dollars back." teddy, trembling with apprehension and excitement, went into the baggage-room and asked there if a green-covered package had been taken in by any of the attendants. no one had seen such an article, and all were positive there was nothing of the kind remaining in their charge. then he asked if a bundle of canes had been left there, and to this question there was a most decided negative. "the hangers-on at the fairs haven't begun to come yet," the baggage-master said, "and when they do come, we sha'n't have any of their stuff to handle, for it will all be transferred across the platform without being brought in here. what is the matter? anything gone wrong?" the lump which had been rising in teddy's throat was now so large that it was with difficulty he could say: "a man has run off with fifteen dollars of mine, an' uncle nathan will jest about kill me!" chapter iii. _a friend._ the baggage-master immediately displayed the utmost sympathy for the victim of the old fakir's seductive scheme, and sam was loud in his denunciations of a brother in the craft who would serve them in such a shabby manner. "you leave him to me, an' i'll show you what can be done," that young gentleman said, and teddy replied, reproachfully: "i've left too much to you already. if you hadn't thought it was necessary to make the acquaintance of every fellow who was going to the fair i'd have my fifteen dollars in my cap now." "i'll get them back for you." "how?" "i can't say jest now; but you wait an' see what i can do." inasmuch as teddy must account first to his mother and afterward to uncle nathan for that amount, the confident assertion of his friend failed to give him any mental relief, and he said, quite sharply: "you thought it was all right to give the money to him, an' if you didn't know any more than a country boy who'd never even heard of such fellows, i can't see how you can do much toward helping." at this point the baggage-master, who had been listening to the conversation, broke in with the sage remark: "it's no use for you fellows to fight over what has been done. the money is gone; there's no doubt about that; but it may be you can get it back." "how?" teddy asked, eagerly. "by notifying the police, and it is possible that they may find your man long before the fair is ended." "but even if they should, how can i pay uncle nathan the eighteen dollars he wants, after givin' deacon jones the ten which i promised?" "that, of course, is a question i cannot answer," the officer of the company replied, not unkindly; "but it will certainly be better to get some of the money back than to lose the whole." "of course it will," sam said, promptly, after waiting a few seconds without hearing any reply from teddy. "tell us what to do, an' i'll see to the whole thing." "hello! what kind of a meeting are you holding here?" a cheery voice cried, and, looking up, the disconsolate teddy saw a merchant whose stock he had been examining a short time previous. in a few words the baggage-master explained the condition of affairs. "can nothing be done?" the merchant asked. "it is barely possible. the fact of the matter is that the two swindlers left on the last train, and this boy's money has gone with them beyond a doubt." then the merchant turned to the would-be fakir and asked for further particulars, which were readily given, the latter saying, as he finished the sad story: "uncle nathan is bound to raise a big row, an' i won't be able to help mother, as i counted on doing; but i s'pose it serves me right." "i'm not so sure of that, lad, for all of us are liable to be taken in at some time or another. it is possible you may make money at the fair, and i will give you credit to the amount you lost. go to the store, show this slip, and get what you think may be needed." while speaking the merchant had been writing on a piece of paper torn from his memorandum book, and when he handed it to teddy the almost heartbroken boy read the following words: the bearer, edward hargreaves, is entitled to credit, thirty days' time, on all he may need, to the extent of thirty dollars. john reaves. "but i only lost fifteen dollars," teddy said, as he read the order. "i so understood; but you may need more, therefore i have made the amount sufficiently large. don't hesitate to buy what is wanted, and whether you ever find the swindler or not, i feel very positive my bill will be paid." teddy tried to thank the merchant, but that lump in his throat was still too near his mouth to admit of many words, and sam whispered: "don't say anything more about it. you've struck the biggest kind of luck, and the safest way is to hold your tongue." even had it been possible to speak, teddy could not have said all that was in his heart, and before sam had time to give any further advice the merchant boarded a train which was just starting for new york, leaving the young fakir and his newly-made friend to settle matters among themselves. "you're in big luck," the latter said, consolingly. "what's the difference if you have lost fifteen dollars so long as you know how to get thirty dollars' worth of goods to start in business?" "but this bill will have to be paid, and uncle nathan must have his money; that leaves me forty-five dollars in debt." "s'pose'n it does? you're bound to make a good deal more'n that, an' i'm here to help you through." teddy came very near saying that if sam had not been there the fifteen dollars would still be reposing beneath the lining of his cap; but he succeeded in checking himself, and the reproachful words remained unspoken. at this point in the conversation the baggage-master insisted that information of the swindler should be given to the police, and, whether they desired to do so or not, the boys were forced to accompany him to headquarters. here it is possible their story might have been told without exciting more than ordinary interest if the name of the kindly-disposed merchant had not been used; but that was sufficient to awaken a decided interest, and every detail was written down carefully. "we will try to get the money for you," the chief said. "several of my men will be at the fair, and if you see this fellow again, information must be given to them immediately." teddy had but little hope that any good would result by this means, but he promised faithfully to do as requested, and then the boys were at liberty to finish the business which had been interrupted so disastrously. so much time had been wasted that it was necessary to move around very lively in order to have the goods ready before the stage should leave, and teddy did a great deal toward expediting matters by explaining to the clerk at the store on which he had the order for credit exactly what he proposed to do. the young man understood at once the kind of goods which would be needed, and without listening to the many suggestions made by sam selected a good assortment of both knives and canes. "ain't you getting more than thirty dollars' worth?" teddy asked, as the clerk continued to add to the pile. "i think not. these are all cheap goods, you know, and make a big show without amounting to any very great value. i will put in cotton cloth enough for the cane board, and as many rings as you will need unless business should be very brisk." the clerk was bent on making the bill exactly the size of the order, and when the prices had been figured out teddy had invested just thirty dollars in a stock which must bring in a profit of at least fifty per cent. in order to admit of his paying the debts already contracted. the goods were to be put on the stage by the salesman, and there was nothing further for the boys to do but decide on their manner of traveling to the run. "after losin' fifteen dollars, i reckon there's only one thing for me to do," teddy said, as they left the store. "i'm goin'to walk; but you can do as you please." "s'pose'n we both ride? you're bound to make a pile of money before the fair is over, an' can afford---- by jinks! there's that fakir now!" in an instant sam was off at full speed, crying: "stop thief!" with the full strength of his lungs, as he pursued a man carrying a bundle covered with green cloth. such an appeal was well calculated to arouse every idler in the immediate vicinity, and before teddy fully understood what had happened not less than twenty men and boys were in chase of the stranger, who, strange to say, had not quickened his pace. the thought that it might yet be possible to regain his money lent unusual speed to the would-be fakir's heels, and he was among the foremost when the man suddenly halted, turned squarely around, and asked: "what is the matter with you people? do you want me?" "i guess we do," a policeman replied, as he seized the stranger by the collar. "somebody yelled for us to stop the thief, and you must be the man." "who says i am?" was the angry question. by this time both teddy and sam had discovered the latter's mistake. the only point of resemblance between this stranger and the one who stole the money was that both carried packages covered with green cloth; but while the first bundle was bulky and apparently heavy, this was small and readily held under the man's arm. sam did not wait to explain matters. fearing lest he might get into serious trouble because of the mistake, he slipped quietly away, leaving teddy to bear the brunt of the accused's wrath. the latter realized that something must be done at once, for the greater portion of the crowd was looking inquiringly at him, and he said, in a voice which was far from steady: "i didn't do the hollerin'; but a feller who was with me when a man stole my money thought you must be the one." "where is he?" the stranger asked, advancing threateningly. "i don't know. he ran away when he saw it was a mistake." the crowd immediately began to disperse. the policeman called down quite the reverse of blessings on sam's head, and then walked away, leaving teddy and the stranger comparatively alone. "i don't know as it does any harm to have a lot of fools chasing a man," the latter said, "but it might give him a bad name in his work." "i'm very sorry, sir, but you see----" "i'm not blaming you, my boy, since it was the other fellow who did the mischief. tell me how you lost your stuff." "my what?" "your stuff--money." "oh!" and teddy at once gave the stranger a detailed account of all that had happened, the latter saying, as the story was concluded: "i wouldn't be afraid to bet my head that long jim was the duck who played the trick. i know he came here, headed for the fair grounds, and it's jest about his style of working." "do you think there's any chance i'll get it back?" "he shall give up if i see him. i'll be at the fair myself, working a neat little game, and will see you there." with this remark the stranger walked away, and teddy went toward the depot once more, feeling quite certain he had made a friend who would aid him in his new venture. chapter iv. _uncle nathan._ when teddy reached the depot he was not obliged to hunt very long for sam, for that young gentleman crept out from behind a pile of baggage on seeing his friend was alone, and asked, in a hoarse whisper: "what did that feller do to you?" "nothing; but that don't prove we should get out of another scrape so easily, and you must be careful, or we'll be in no end of trouble before the fair is ended." "i was only tryin' to catch your money." "it surely wouldn't have done any harm if you had found out whether that was the man or not before you started the whole crowd after him." "that's right, rub it into a feller when he tries to do you a good turn," sam said, sarcastically, and then remembering an instant later that he proposed to be this boy's guest, he added, "i was only lookin' out for you, an' so long as there's been no harm done we needn't talk about it. do you still mean to walk home?" "there's nothing else to be done, if we want to get to the run to-night, for the stage left while we were chasing that man." this was exactly what he did not want to do; but, under the circumstances, there was no help for it, and the young gentleman who expected to form such a prominent portion of the fair set out by the side of the friend whom he had injured while thinking to do him a favor. at the end of a trifle less than three hours, when both were footsore, hungry, and weary, the boys arrived at teddy's home, and mrs. hargreaves made the stranger welcome despite the inconvenience caused by his coming. not until after sam had retired did teddy tell his mother of the theft, and for several moments the widow was in great mental distress; but finally she viewed the matter in a more cheerful light, and it was resolved that uncle nathan should not be told of the mishap. "it would only make him angry," mrs. hargreaves said, "and you must pay him before the merchant who was so kind to you gets his money; but i am terribly afraid, teddy, that the whole scheme will be a failure." the amateur fakir assured her as best he could, and when they retired that night both teddy and his mother were in a comparatively contented frame of mind. the following day was sunday, on which not even the all engrossing topic of cane-boards and knives was to be discussed; but before the family had finished breakfast the arrival of a stranger forced them into worldly topics. the newcomer was none other than the man whom sam had accused of being the thief, and he explained the cause of his visit by saying: "i have reason to believe that long jim, the fakir who got away with your son's money, will be over here to-night, because the hotels at peach bottom are crowded, and it is possible he may be forced to give up the stuff." although not exactly understanding what he meant, the widow insisted on his coming into the house, and he laid the details of his plan before teddy and sam. "i'll hang around here for him," the stranger said, "and you shall say if he is the man who did you up; after that i'll take a hand in the business, and it'll be queer if between us all we can't make him do the square thing, more especially since the rest of his gang haven't come yet." as might be expected, teddy was excited by the prospect of recovering the money which he had believed was lost beyond reclaim, and plans were at once laid to trap the dishonest fakir. while this conversation was being carried on uncle nathan came in to learn how his nephew had succeeded in town, and the stranger introduced himself as frank hazelton, a dealer in jewelry, which was to be on exhibition during the coming week at the fair. the old man was delighted to make the stranger's acquaintance, for he fancied there would be an opportunity for him to take the agency of a valuable line of goods without the outlay of any money, and in a very few moments the two were fast friends. uncle nathan not only monopolized nearly all the conversation, but insisted on showing mr. hazelton around the village, and actually forced the latter to accompany him, despite the fact that it was sunday, when an honest merchant is not supposed to so much as think of business. on the following day it would be necessary for those who had purchased the privilege of doing business on the fair grounds to be present, ready to select their different sites for working, and very shortly after the sun sank behind the hills sam and teddy retired in order to be ready for an early start next morning, since the first stage left the run at half-past five. it lacked fully an hour of that time when the boys were called to breakfast by mrs. hargreaves, and in less than fifteen minutes they were at the table eating a hearty breakfast, which was interrupted by the appearance of uncle nathan, who looked as if he had not been in bed since the evening previous. "i've been robbed!" he cried, passionately, "and this is what comes of trying to help my nephew enter a disreputable line of business. i believe you induced that man to come here, explaining all about my store, simply that he might act the burglar. and it wouldn't take much to make me think you had agreed to divide with him the ill-gotten gains," he added, shaking his fist in the direction of teddy, who was so astounded by the news as to be literally incapable of movement. "what do you mean, nathan?" mrs. hargreaves cried. "just what i said! my store was robbed last night, and your precious son knows the thief better than i do!" "you mean the man who came here yesterday?" the widow asked, while teddy and sam gazed at the old man in open-mouthed astonishment. "of course i do; who else could it be? didn't i take him over there yesterday, and didn't i explain just how difficult it was to deposit money in a bank, because a man would have to pay a dollar to go to waterville an' back, or trust the stage driver to do the business?" by this time teddy had recovered something like composure, and he said, gravely: "we have no means of knowing what you said to mr. hazelton, but if you told him all your business, that is no concern of ours. you insisted on his going away with you, and we haven't seen him since." "but you lied to me about my money." "in what way?" "you never said a word about its being stolen." "if i never said a word i couldn't have told a lie. he has evidently given the whole story; but what happened in waterville has nothing to do with the robbery of your store." "oh, it hasn't, eh? well, i'm beginning to think it was a job cooked up by all hands to get the best of me." "if it had been," and now teddy was on his feet, looking the angry old man squarely in the face, "why wouldn't i have said something about it in order to make the story seem straighter? a merchant in waterville trusted me for the goods i wanted after he heard the money was gone, and i count on paying you before i do him." "oh, you do, eh? well, it's mighty doubtful whether you or this precious friend of yours will ever see the fair, for i'm going to get out a warrant for the whole lot before i'm done with this thing." "would you arrest teddy when he has been in this house ever since you left here yesterday morning?" mrs. hargreaves cried. "i'll have my money back, and the sooner your smart son tells me where it is, the sooner he can go about his business; but he must first pay me back my eighteen dollars." "i only borrowed fifteen, uncle nathan, and that you will get before next wednesday. if you want to arrest me, go ahead; but i promise that you'll be sorry for it." "so you threaten, do you? that's what comes of trying to help an ungrateful boy! i knew he was going to the bad from the first minute he talked about having a cane-board," the old man added, as he turned to the widow, "and i predict that he'll come to no good even if he manages to get out of this scrape." "you thought it was a good idea for me to do as i proposed," teddy replied, standing his ground bravely, "and was willing to loan me the money, provided i would pay you three dollars for the use of fifteen for one week." "that's right; throw in my teeth what i wanted to do in order to help you along, and call me an old skinflint. i am old enough to expect such things from such as you." "i haven't called you any names, nor do i intend to do so; i only wanted mother to know the truth of the business between us. do you really believe i had any hand in breaking into your store?" "if you didn't your friends did, and that amounts to the same thing, as you'll soon find out. i'll have a warrant issued for the arrest of the whole crowd, if you don't tell me the truth this very minute." "but i don't know anything, uncle nathan." "i'll have the truth out of you before the day is ended," the old man cried, angrily, and without saying or doing anything save to shake his fist in the direction of his nephew and sam he left the house. as yet none of the little party knew the full extent of what had happened, but before uncle nathan was fairly out of the yard a neighbor came around to tell mrs. hargreaves that the old man's store had been entered by burglars on the night previous, and a large amount of money, together with the most valuable goods, had been carried away. it is not difficult to imagine the consternation which seized upon the little party after uncle nathan's departure. teddy was so overwhelmed that it was literally impossible for him to say a word, and sam shook like one in an ague fit at the thought that he might be carried off to jail before it was possible for him to astonish the people by his skill as an oarsman. "you must not think of leaving here until we know what your uncle proposes to do," mrs. hargreaves said, as she returned to the dining-room after talking with the neighbor. "of course i know that neither of you two boys had anything to do with the robbery; but you must not run away." "i've got to leave, no matter what the old fool says," sam replied. "i don't know how the folks would get along if i didn't show up, an' it won't do to disappoint them." "are you going?" teddy asked, and sam replied in a voice which trembled despite all his efforts to make it sound firm: "of course i am. you don't allow i'm such an idiot as to stay till he can have me arrested, an' if you're sensible, both of us will go." "i must stay here, an' lose all my chances of making money," teddy said, gloomily. "all right, then i'm off, an' after i once get on the fair grounds i'll bet that old duffer won't get hold of me." sam did not propose to lose any time. he had no baggage, and in a very few moments after so deciding he was walking up the road over which the stage would pass, while teddy, with a heavier heart than he had ever known before, waited for his uncle to send the officers of the law to carry him to prison. chapter v. _the fair._ it seemed to teddy as if everything pleasant in life had departed from him as he waited for the return of uncle nathan accompanied by the officers of the law, and neither he nor his mother had any idea that the visit would be long delayed. the widow had every proof, even if her heart had not told the truth, that her son was innocent of the charge which the angry old man made. she knew both he and sam remained in the house during the entire day previous to the robbery, and it would have been almost impossible for them to have left during the night without her knowledge; but at the same time it was only reasonable she should be distressed in mind as to the final outcome of the matter. one, two, three hours passed, and yet no arrest had been made. teddy no longer hoped to play the part of fakir at the fair; but yet he fancied it might be possible to sell his stock, which had already been forwarded by the stage, to some more fortunate fellow, and in order to do this it was necessary he should be on the grounds at the earliest possible hour; but the charge made by his uncle held him a voluntary prisoner. at eight o'clock a neighbor, whose love of gossip was greater than her desire for housework, came to the garden gate to say that she had just heard the justice of the peace refuse to issue a warrant for either of the boys, and she added to this information her belief that it, the burglary, was a judgment upon uncle nathan for presuming to talk business on the sabbath. when this busybody had departed, mrs. hargreaves said, as she re-entered the house: "there is no longer any reason, teddy, why you shouldn't carry out your plans. every one in this village knows where to find you in case a warrant is granted, which doesn't now seem possible, and it is better to go ahead as you proposed, knowing that your mother is certain you are innocent of any wrongdoing." teddy's one desire had been to be on the fair grounds, and when this advice was given from "a fellow's best friend," he started at once, saying as he left the house: "i'll come back if there's nothing to do; but there's no reason to worry if you don't see me until saturday, for i shall stay jest as long as things run smooth." ten minutes later, while he was trudging along the dusty road with no other idea than that he would be forced to walk the entire distance, a friend in a wagon overtook him, proposed that he ride, and before the fair grounds were reached he had heard all the particulars of the robbery. it appeared that the burglars must have effected an entrance to uncle nathan's store after midnight saturday, and when the proprietor arrived on the following morning there was absolutely no clue to the thieves. "they must have had a wagon to take away all the old man says he has lost," teddy's informant added, as the story was concluded, "and because of that the justice refused to issue a warrant for the man who slept at the hotel last night. of course the idea that you knew anything about it was all in that old fool's eye." "then nobody has been arrested?" teddy exclaimed, in surprise. "of course not, an' more than one in town hopes he'll never see hide nor hair of his goods or money; but between you an' me i don't believe he's lost half as much as he tries to make out." to this last assertion teddy gave but little heed; the all absorbing thought in his mind was as to whether he would actually be arrested for the crime, and this was sufficient to prevent any speculations as to the amount of loss, or his former dreams of the future. arriving at the fair grounds, he found everything in a state of confusion. goods were arriving and being put in place; men were quarreling for this or that vantage ground, and carpenters were busy in every direction. as a matter of course, he knew that all this would be changed on the following day when the visitors began to arrive; but, nevertheless, it gave him a homesick feeling which he could not suppress, and, for a time, prevented him from attending to his own interests. "hello! what are you sittin' there for?" a voice cried, after he had remained inactive near the entrance nearly an hour, debating in his own mind whether or not it would be worth the while to unpack the goods which he knew were awaiting his call somewhere on the grounds. looking up quickly he saw sam, self-possessed and jaunty as at the first moment he met him in waterville, but wearing an air of considerably more importance. "have you gone to work yet?" he asked, listlessly. "of course not; there's nothin' for me to do till the folks begin to come in to see how well i can row a boat. what did the old duffer do?" "do you mean uncle nathan?" "of course." "he hasn't had anybody arrested yet; but there's no knowin' how soon he'll begin." "he'd better not try it on me," sam said, with an assumption of boldness. "i've found a feller here that's goin' to show off rifles, an' i can borrow as many as i want if he does any funny business." "would you shoot anybody?" "you jest stay till an old lunatic comes along sayin' i've helped to rob him when your mother knows where i was, an' see what i'll do," sam replied, in a really bloodthirsty tone as he turned to walk away, and then, as if reconsidering the matter, he stopped long enough to say, "wait here a minute, an' i'll show you a feller what knows a thing or two." inasmuch as teddy had no idea of moving from the position he had taken up near the gate it was not irksome to do as the exhibitor of boats requested, and without troubling his head as to who this very important person might be, he remained at the precise spot until sam returned with a boy who appeared to be a year or two older than himself. "this is dan summers, an' he's here to help show off a dandy rifle made in chicopee falls down in massachusetts, or some such place. he'll help us out of the scrape if anybody can." dan looked as if this introduction was disagreeable to him rather than otherwise, and after nodding to teddy, he said, in an explanatory tone: "i'm here to help the man what exhibits goods from the stevens arms company, that's all; but i don't see how i could be of any help if you fellers have got in a fuss." "neither do i," teddy replied, and then to show that no one could aid him, he told the whole story, including all that uncle nathan had said. "i wouldn't let that worry me," dan said, philosophically, when the tale was ended. "if you want to make any money out of this fair it is time you was lookin' out for a stand, an' i know of the best place on the grounds. come with me now, an' you can get it before the crowd of fakirs have a chance to take it up." teddy, rather liking the appearance of this boy, resolved to follow his advice, and signified the same by slipping down from the stack of exhibits, as he said: "show it to me an' i'll get right to work, for there's forty-five dollars i've got to pay back, no matter what uncle nathan makes up his mind to do." "that's the way to talk," sam cried, approvingly, and forthwith he proceeded to take charge of his two acquaintances, resolved that lack of energy should not prevent him from sharing in their triumphs, if indeed, they had any. dan professed to have had considerable experience with fairs, and the manner in which he proceeded to work showed that there had been no boasting on his part. he selected a spot where nearly all of the visitors would be forced to pass in order to see the cattle or the racing, and set about putting up a stand for teddy in the most approved manner. he ordered sam here and there to such places as he had seen an accumulation of lumber, and so well did he work, after borrowing an ax and a hatchet from a "candy butcher," that it was not yet noon when teddy had an inclosure sufficiently large for his purpose; the cloth was in place and the holes cut for the canes, so that it would be but the work of a few moments to make everything ready when business should begin. "you can't do the whole thing yourself if there is anything like the crowd that ought to come," dan said, "and i advise you to hire a clerk." "where'll i find one?" teddy asked, helplessly. "take some of the fellers from your own village; but be sure they're honest, for after business begins there won't be any chance to watch 'em." teddy thought he could find the proper party before the following day, and then came the question of where they were to sleep. "i've got that all fixed," sam said, confidently. "the man what runs the museum in that big tent is a friend of mine, an' he won't say a word if we stay under the canvas to-night." "how long have you known him?" teddy asked, warned by previous experience that sam's statements were not always to be depended upon. "i never saw him till this morning; but that don't make no difference so long as he's willin' for us to stay there." "we'll go over an' look around," dan said, leading the way, and to the surprise of at least one of the party it was found that master sam's statement was absolutely correct. the proprietor of the museum was more than willing to allow the boys to sleep under his canvas, for the very good reason that they would act as sentinels in lieu of those he had neglected to hire, and all three went away in search of a place where they could obtain meals during the expected five days of excitement and money-making. this was even a more simple matter than the first. at a boarding-house nearly opposite the main entrance to the grounds they could be accommodated at a reasonable rate, and the preliminaries had been settled. it only remained now to welcome the visitors, and get from them as much money as possible. teddy almost forgot the terrible fact that his uncle nathan might yet have him arrested, and sam acted as if such a thing had never been possible. it is true all three of the boys discussed the possibility of finding the money which had been stolen from teddy; but neither thought of connecting the two crimes as the work of one person. during the afternoon teddy looked around in the hope of seeing the man, unjustly accused of the theft, who had promised to aid him; but as yet he had not put in an appearance, and it seemed as if all the choice places would be taken before he arrived. it was anything rather than sport to wander around the almost deserted grounds, and at an early hour, after partaking of a remarkably poor supper, the three boys sought the seclusion granted by the mildewed canvas of the alleged museum of the "world's wonders." a goat, a wax baby, two or three snakes, an alligator, and a contortionist, who was none other than the proprietor of this magnificent array of "marvels," made up the entire list of curiosities; but the tent would shelter the young fakirs from the wind and dew, and it was possible they might sleep as soundly as at home. chapter vi. _a clue._ sam and dan, who had worked at many fairs and been forced to sleep in far less desirable places, thought it was a rare piece of good fortune to get such comfortable quarters free; but the prospect of lying on the ground all night was far from pleasing to teddy. he looked around for some spot softer than another; but there was no choice, and he said to himself: "there's one satisfaction about it, i'm better off on the ground than i would have been if uncle nathan had succeeded in having me arrested and put in jail." this thought caused the interior of the tent to seem less disagreeable, and he almost persuaded himself that it would be sport to stay all night in a museum with a real contortionist as host. dan had thrown himself at full length on the ground where he could watch the proprietor of this "enormous exhibition" cook his supper on an oil-stove, and sam, anxious about other people's affairs as usual, devoted his entire time to asking questions regarding the business. "how do you count on gettin' along when the crowds get here? you can't sell tickets an' act too." "i've got a barker an' a clown coming to-morrow; it was no use to pay 'em wages for layin' around when there was nothing to be done but put up the tent." "what's a 'barker?'" sam asked, in surprise. "why, the man who stands outside an' does the talking, of course." then, his supper having been cooked and eaten, the host amused himself and his guests by telling of his experience in the show business; relating stories and talking of the different fakirs he had met. "when i started out," he said, "i made up my mind that a fortune could be made in one season. i bought a fine tent; had lots of performers, about twenty animals, and a dozen cases of stuffed birds and other curiosities. we struck hard luck from the sendoff, an' first the woman with an iron jaw gave me the shake because she got tired of waiting for the salary that never came. two of the bears grew so disgusted with the bad business that they died, and one after another of the people skipped, till i was pretty nigh alone. a sheriff in harmer seized the cases, another levied on my live stock, and it has only taken two seasons to bring the show down to where you see it." this was not pleasing information for teddy, who was obliged to make such a large amount of money in order to free himself from debt, and he asked: "isn't it possible to make money at every fair? i thought the fakirs got rich in a little while." "so did i before i went into the business. a fellow may make a big stake this week and lose it all at the next stand. if you strike bad weather, or a crowd that hasn't got any money, it's up-hill work to pull in the entrance fee. now, i have to pay a hundred dollars for this privilege, because i've got a big tent, and it wouldn't be any more if i had a show to compare with it in size. it'll take a good many ten-cent pieces to make that up." this plain statement of facts caused teddy to figure how many nickels he must receive before the capital invested and stolen would be returned, and the result was far from gratifying. "the eighteen dollars which must be given to uncle nathan, the thirty i owe in waterville, and ten i paid for the privilege of running the boards makes eleven hundred and sixty five-cent pieces. i'll never see so many customers as that, and aunt sarah was right when she called me a fool for thinking of going into the business," he said to himself, as his companions began to make their preparations for the night. it is useless to "cry over spilled milk," however, and this he realized in time to prevent himself from being plunged into the lowest depths of despondency. it was barely possible business would be exceptionally good, he argued mentally, and if hard work could accomplish the desired result he must be successful. dan was already lying down with his head toward the side of the tent and his feet near the oil-stove, which had been left burning because of the dampness, and teddy crawled over by the side of him. sam had decided to sleep by the side of his host, probably with the idea that he might appear to be on terms of greater intimacy, and all hands gave themselves up to slumber. the excitement of the morning and subsequent labor had so tried teddy that, despite the hardness of his bed, he fell asleep in a very few moments, and it was not yet nine o'clock when all the inmates of the tent, save the goat, and possibly the alligator and snakes, were wrapped in blissful unconsciousness. half an hour later a terrific yell from sam caused the remainder of the party to spring to their feet in alarm. "what's the matter?" dan cried. "somebody has got into the tent and been poundin' me with a club! i'm pretty near killed." the faint glow cast by the oil-stove was not sufficient to illumine any portion of the tent, and the host made all haste to light a lantern, after which dan proceeded to search for the supposed intruder; but before he had taken a dozen steps the proprietor of the museum burst into a hearty laugh. "funny, ain't it?" sam cried, angrily. "i s'pose you'd laugh if i'd been killed in your old tent!" this savage remark appeared to excite the man's mirth rather than check it, and while he was thus enjoying himself teddy and dan stood gazing at him in surprise. it was several minutes before the man could speak, and then he said, as he pointed to the goat who stood a short distance away calmly munching some potato parings: "that's the fellow who has been beating your friend with a club. i always let him loose at night, and he has walked over our dying boy." sam insisted that he had been beaten with a club; but on examining his clothing two spots of fresh earth were found, showing where the animal had stepped. a hoof-print on the sleeve and another directly on the breast of his coat comprised the full amount of damage done. the boy who had believed himself so dangerously wounded now grew angry, and, leaping to his feet, declared he would not remain in the tent another minute unless the goat was tied. "there's nothing to prevent your bunking somewhere else," the owner of the animal replied, quite sharply. "billy always has had the liberty of the tent at night, and i reckon he won't lose it now." sam started toward the entrance; but before reaching it he realized that he would be punishing no one but himself, and slowly turned back, saying as he approached the stove: "it's too late to hunt for lodgings now, an' i s'pose i'll have to make the best of it." "i guess you will," the host replied, quietly, and the angry sam lay down on the seat of the baggage wagon, to insure himself against another visit from "billy." this incident had driven the desire for sleep from the eyelids of teddy and dan, and they remained awake some time after the loud breathing of their companions told that the visit from the goat had been temporarily effaced from their minds. now teddy discovered what a hard, uncomfortable bed the bare earth was, and after tossing about for half an hour, he whispered to dan: "do you suppose it would be any better in the wagon?" "no; you'll get used to it in a little while, and the ground is softer than a board." teddy was about to reply when the sound of voices from the outside attracted his attention, and then came the crackle as of a match being lighted. two or more men had halted near the canvas within a few feet of where the boys were lying, evidently that they might be sheltered from the wind while getting their pipes or cigars in working order. a moment later both the listeners heard one of the newcomers say: "i don't think it will be safe for you to show up very much while we stay here." "why not? if them boys recognize me it will be an easy matter to frighten 'em into holdin' their tongues, and there's goin' to be good pickin's this week." "but what's the use of runnin' any risk? we've made a fairly good haul already, an' it's better to get safe off with that than stick our noses where it'll be hard work to pull them back." teddy was in the highest possible excitement. in the tone of the second speaker's voice he recognized the man who had stolen his money, and he punched dan with his elbow to assure himself that the latter was listening. "keep quiet," dan whispered, and then the conversation on the outside was continued. "i'll take good care to keep shady, an' you see what can be done to-morrow." [illustration: the boys crept through the flap of the tent and followed the two men.] "will you promise not to leave the house till after dark?" "i thought you had more nerve; but so long as you haven't i reckon i'll promise, for this is bound to be a fat thing, and i don't want to lose the whole of it. "when these country jays begin to send their stuff home i'll have ours shipped, an' there's little danger it'll be overhauled, more especially since the old man couldn't get a warrant for the only one he suspects. it's a safe bet that hazelton has a pretty good idea who did the job, an' if they make trouble for him he'll most likely tell what he thinks." "there's no call to be afraid of him after he has worked a couple of days, for those he ropes in would do all they could to have him arrested." the last portion of this remark was almost indistinguishable, owing to the fact that the men were walking away, and when the sound of their footsteps could no longer be heard teddy said: "those are the men who robbed uncle nathan's store, an' i'm certain one of them got my money." "would you know their voices if you heard them again?" "sure; but why don't we find out where they are going? it wouldn't be a hard job." "are you willin' to sneak after them?" "of course i am. come on!" the boys arose softly and crept through the flap of the tent without awakening the sleepers. the night was dark and cloudy, and it was impossible to see any very great distance in either direction; but dan had taken especial heed to the course taken by the men, and he started off without hesitation. "we ought to have a club or something to protect ourselves in case they should see us," teddy whispered. "we won't get near enough to let them do much mischief. do you see two sparks over there? they are the lighted ends of cigars, an' our men are behind them." dan quickened his pace; but he had failed to calculate the distance correctly, and was much nearer the game than he had suspected. "be careful they don't see us," he said, in a low tone, and in another instant the boys were directly in front of the men. teddy started back in alarm; but he was too late. in an instant the sparks flashed before his eyes, and he fell to the ground unconscious just as dan succeeded in warding off the blow of a fist which was aimed at him. chapter vii. _the clerk._ when teddy recovered from the vicious blow which had rendered him unconscious he saw dan lying on the ground beside him, but no one else was near. it was as if they had been fighting with phantoms of the brain, save for the fact that both bore the most indisputable signs of having been assaulted by beings of true flesh and blood. one of dan's eyes was closed as if by a violent blow, and teddy bled freely from the ear, the crimson fluid telling eloquently of the exact location of that superior force which had caused so many stars to dance before his mental vision. "we got through with that part of it mighty quick," dan said, ruefully, as he rose to his feet. "there wasn't anything slow about the way they struck out after we made fools of ourselves by running into them, eh?" "i don't understand how it all happened. it wasn't more than three seconds from the time i first saw them before there was a regular set of fireworks dancing in front of my eyes." "it so happens that they saw us first," dan replied, as he rubbed his head. "those men were the thieves, and what i said showed them that we were on the scent." "where are they now?" "you'll have to ask that question of someone else," dan said, with a grimace of pain. "the last thing i know was when the tall fellow landed one square on my nose, and before i recovered both were out of sight. we have done harm rather than good, for now they know we overheard the conversation, an' we'll be mighty lucky if this is all we get before the fair comes to an end." "suppose we tell the police now?" "what can you say to them? we heard those men talking about something which may have had nothing to do with the robbery, and want to have them arrested. on what grounds will we ask for a warrant? besides, if nathan hargreaves was my uncle, i would let him fight his own battles." "but i owe him eighteen dollars." "what of that? he wouldn't take a penny off if you got your head broke while trying to find his money, and after all that has happened i think we have good reason to let him severely alone." "i'm willing to go back to the tent," teddy said, as he began to feel faint, and dan aided him during the short walk, both staggering as they came through the flap, meeting their host near the entrance, who asked, sharply: "what has been going on? i counted on helping a party of boys, rather than giving my tent up to a lot of roughs, as you appear to be." in the fewest possible words dan explained what had happened, and in addition told all the story of teddy's losing his money, together with the accusation made by uncle nathan. "i'm sorry i said a word," and the proprietor of the museum did really appear to be grieved. "it makes no difference whether you got a whipping or not, the guilty parties are here, and you can count on my help in turning them up." "that's what i'm afraid we sha'n't be able to do," teddy replied; "we tried our best to-night, and got the worst of it." "there is plenty of time between now and saturday. i'll do all any man can, an' it'll be strange if we don't get some proof before the fair closes." "how did you know we were out?" dan asked. "i saw you go, and there was no reason why i should kick; but i began to be afraid you were up to something crooked. now i know the whole story, i'll do my best to help you out of the scrape. go to sleep, and we'll talk the whole matter over in the morning." this was good advice, but not easily followed. both the boys began to feel the effects of the blows received from the thieves, and the pain resulting therefrom was not conducive to repose. they did manage to close their eyes in slumber now and then, however, and when the day broke mr. sweet, the proprietor of the museum, was standing ready to minister to their necessities. "you haven't got exactly the right kind of faces to bring very big business," he said, cheerily; "but i reckon we can make a change in the general appearance. use this plentifully as a bath, and before business opens you'll be respectable members of society." it was certainly necessary for them to do something toward improving their appearance. teddy's ear was swollen to nearly twice its natural size, and dan had an eye which was rapidly blackening. thanks to the application provided by the owner of the museum, these evidences of a fight were rapidly reduced, and when sam awoke they looked little the worse for wear, although he readily discovered that something serious had happened while he was wrapped in slumber. "what has been goin' on?" he asked, suspiciously. "nothing much," dan replied, with a forced laugh. "the goat walked over us, and we're kinder used up, that's all. are you ready to go to breakfast?" it was evident that sam did not believe this explanation, but since he said nothing more about it, the two actors in the previous night's adventures held their peace; therefore it would not be in his power to betray any secrets. breakfast was eaten at an early hour, and the young fakirs returned to the grounds in time for teddy to meet the first visitors. under dan's instructions he continued to cry out: "here's where you can get a cane or a knife for nothing! three rings for five cents, and every time you throw it over the mark you get what you ring! three for five, and every cane or knife you ring is yours!" it was yet too early for the exhibits to be opened, therefore teddy had the assistance of his friends in reclaiming the rings thrown, and after nearly four dollars had been taken in with a loss only of a ten cent cane, the amateur fakir began to understand that it would be necessary for him to have a clerk. "you're bound to do a good business this week," dan said, at about eight o'clock. "sam and i must go now to attend to our own work, an' if you see some fellow who can be trusted, i advise you to hire him, or there'll be considerable trade lost, for when these people want to spend their money they won't wait for you to hunt up assistants." "yes, i reckon there's more'n a thousand who are jest aching to see how i can row in one of them dandy boats," master sam added; "but if you get into any kind of a scrape, an' don't know how to get out, come to me. i'll see you through, no matter how good business is." these two friends and advisers had hardly left him when a particular chum from the run came up, and knowing he could be trusted, teddy immediately made a trade for his services. tim jones accepted the offer of ten cents on each dollar which might be taken in, and straightway engaged himself as teddy's clerk, promising faithfully to account for every penny he should receive. "i know you are honest," the proprietor of the board said to his friend, "and i want you to help me on the square, so i'm willing to give a fair price, for i may have to be away a good deal of the time." "you mean that nathan hargreaves is goin' to have you arrested?" "why do you say that?" "because he's tellin' around town at the run that you know who robbed his store, an' says he'll have a warrant out, if he has to go to waterville for it." "that is where he's making a great big mistake, tim; but if he should do anything of the kind i expect you to do your best here," and teddy spoke very solemnly, for he really believed his uncle would succeed in having him arrested. "i don't know positively who broke into his store; but dan an' i heard enough last night to make us believe we can find the thieves if we have time to work it out." "i'd let him hustle to get the stuff, if it was my pudding," tim replied with emphasis, and then as a party of young fellows bent on spending money approached the board he began to cry, as lustily as might have been expected from any old fakir: "here's where you get 'em, three rings for a nickel, and every cane or knife you ring is yours; all for the small sum of five cents!" convinced that he had a capable clerk, who was willing to work hard in order to earn an additional percentage, teddy contented himself with making change for the rush of customers, which continued unabated until nearly ten o'clock and then came a lull, when he was able to watch the other fakirs around him. up to this point business had continued in the most promising manner, and if it held out as well there would be no difficulty in his paying all the money he owed, even although there might be no very large profit. "i only want to get out square," he said to himself, while nursing his injured ear; but this experience led him to believe it was possible to do very much toward helping his mother, and already had he begun to dream of large returns, despite the fifteen dollars out of which he had been swindled. it was just when his customers had gone to other parts of the ground, and after teddy had figured up the amount of money taken in, showing that there was nearly eight dollars in the treasury with an offset only of one twenty-cent knife and two ten-cent canes lost, that the young fakir saw hazelton standing some distance away beckoning to him. "look out sharp for things, tim," he cried, as he vaulted over the railing and ran to the side of the man whom he believed to be a friend. "did anything happen last night?" the latter asked. teddy told him the whole story, keeping back not one incident. "i heard quite so much in the hotel where i board. it is long jim and his partner who have done the job of which both you and i are accused. as for your uncle, he isn't worth a minute's thought; but i'm going to get to work, an' what he says may go against me, so you and i must turn those fellows up if we can." "ain't your business honest?" teddy asked, in surprise. "well, when we come right down to dots, i don't suppose it is. watch me when i leave here, and you'll have a chance to judge for yourself. i may want to leave my satchel with you for a while, and i reckon you're willing to take care of it?" "of course i am. i'll do anything you ask." "better wait and see the game first, but don't forget that we've got to turn up the two men who whipped you and your friend last night, or stand the chance of being hauled up for the robbery ourselves." "did you say anything to uncle nathan to make him think you would break into his store?" "no; i only played him for a jay, as you shall see me do with two or three hundred of these smart fellows here, and he jumped down on me because there was no one else on whom to fasten the crime. i've got to go, now. don't forget to hurry back to your cane-board when you see i'm getting through with my first stand, for i want to leave my stuff with somebody whom i can trust." chapter viii. _the jewelry fakir._ teddy's curiosity regarding the kind of business which hazelton proposed to do was so great that, for the time being, he forgot his own venture in watching this supposed friend. the jewelry fakir disappeared amid the crowd for a few moments, reappearing in a carriage drawn by a fancifully decorated horse, and the gaudy trappings caused the sightseers to stop, believing something interesting or curious was to be seen. hazelton introduced himself as an agent for a large manufacturing company, and proposed to dispose of "samples" of their goods in a manner which would be satisfactory to all. he began by throwing away great numbers of cheap rings made to imitate gold, and as the boys scrambled for them he complained that the older members of the throng--those people whom he particularly wished should test the merits of his wares--were getting nothing. "i can change that," he said, after hesitating a moment, as if to devise some plan. then holding up half a dozen pairs of cuff-buttons, he continued: "i am allowed to give away only six of these. what gentleman will advance twenty-five cents for one of these sets, knowing the money will be returned to him? by that means i shall place the goods where they will do the most good." in a short time the necessary number of purchasers was found, each having paid a quarter of a dollar, and then, with great ostentation, the fakir returned to every one the money he had given. a similar performance was gone through with in the case of ten seal rings, and by that time the crowd were in a state of high excitement, for they were getting supposedly valuable goods by simply loaning this agent their money for a short time. the fakir then held up a lot of watch-chains, asking who would give him a dollar for one, but in this instance he made no mention of returning the money. believing these also were to be given away, every man scrambled to pass up his dollar before the supply should be exhausted, and fully two hundred dollars was taken in by the generous "agent." then, as the demand ceased, hazelton produced from his valise what appeared to be a heavy gold watch. wrapping it in paper, and attaching it to a chain, he cried: "who wants to take another, and receive as a present what i have fastened to the end of it; but on the condition that this paper shall not be removed until i give permission?" a young fellow standing near teddy made all possible haste to pass the fakir a dollar and receive the prize. then the remainder of the crowd clamored for more to be put up in the same manner, and hazelton disposed of at least a hundred before the clamorous throng could be appeased. while this was being done teddy saw the young fellow slyly remove the paper and examine his goods. a look of anger and disappointment overspread his face as a cheap, empty locket, fashioned on the outside something like the case of a watch, was revealed to view. twenty cents would have been an extravagantly high price for what he had paid a dollar; but it was possible the agent would return the money as he had done in the previous cases, and the victimized fellow held his peace. hazelton was now ready to take a hurried departure. no more dollars were passed up, and quickly seizing the reins, he said: "i have not represented these goods to be gold; but they are a fine imitation, and mr. nathan hargreaves, of peach bottom run, will probably act as my agent for the sale of them. you can get what may be wanted from him if you need any more." the last words were hardly spoken before he drove quickly through the throng, leaving his dupes in a daze, from which they did not recover until he was lost to view. now teddy understood what the "give-away" game was, and he also knew that it was far from being honest, although hazelton had really made no promises which he did not fulfill. some of the victims were angry, and vowed to flog "that feller within an inch of his life" before sunset; others bore their loss philosophically, and turned away with the remark that the fakir was "a cute one," while the majority hastened off lest they should be suspected of being victims. teddy returned to his cane-board feeling sad because he had been so mistaken in this particular man, and had hardly reached there when hazelton, on foot, came from the side of the fair grounds opposite where he had disappeared, saying hurriedly, as he handed the boy a black satchel somewhat resembling a sample case: "look out for this! all my money is in it." without waiting for an answer the man was gone, and the young fakir was in no slight distress at being the custodian of so much wealth. after considerable discussion with tim he decided to leave it behind the cane-board where it would be screened from view, and then a crowd of customers suddenly appearing, he was so busy during the next half hour that he hardly had time to think of that which had been intrusted to his keeping. not until trade grew dull once more did hazelton appear, looking decidedly well pleased with himself, and, standing where the passers-by could not hear, he asked: "well, what do you think of the give-away game now?" "it looks to me like a swindle," teddy replied, bluntly. "the things you sold were not worth half what you got for them." "six cents apiece for the chains, and five for the lockets is what i pay by the quantity," the fakir said, with a laugh. "but you made the people think they were getting real watches." "i was mighty careful to say nothing of the kind. they thought they saw a watch, and i told them i would make each purchaser a present of what was on the chain. their idea was to get the best of me, and in that i didn't lose very much. it's a case of setting a thief to catch a thief, and the smartest man comes out ahead." "but why did you leave all the money with me?" "because it sometimes happens that my customers make a kick, and try to get back their stuff by force, so i don't carry much cash in my pockets while i am on the fair grounds." "of course you are all through now. you can't expect to do the same thing over again." "that's exactly what i shall do in about an hour, only in a different portion of the inclosure, and you'll see that i can catch just as many suckers as before." then, in order to be rid of the satchel, for it seemed as if he was really concerned in the swindle so long as it remained in his keeping, teddy said he wanted to see what dan and sam were doing. "go ahead; i'll stay near by where i can keep an eye on the stuff, so you needn't let that worry you." as a matter of fact, the boy was not eager to leave his place of business; but having said so, it was necessary to go, or let hazelton understand exactly why the remark had been made. cautioning tim to "keep his eyes open for trade," he walked across the grounds to the building where dan was employed, and found that young gentleman displaying the good qualities of a peculiar-looking weapon. "this is the model pocket rifle," dan was saying to a party of gentlemen. "the shoulder-rest is detachable, and you can buy an effective weapon for a trifle over fifteen dollars, as---- hello, teddy, how's business?" he added, suddenly, on observing his friend, and the two had an opportunity for conversation, while the curious ones were examining the rifle. teddy gave a brief account of what had already been done, and then asked: "can't you get off a few minutes and go with me to see what sam is doing?" it was not difficult for dan to get a short leave of absence, and the two went directly to the creek where their acquaintance, who proposed to make himself the central figure of the fair, was rowing around in a jaunty looking craft. sam wore a sailor's shirt, turned away at the throat, and tied with a black silk handkerchief, while on the breast of the garment was worked the name "davis boat and oar co., detroit, mich." the same legend being printed in gold on the band of his straw hat. sam had evidently been expecting his friends, for he espied them before they reached the shore, and, rowing to the bank, insisted they should take a sail. "come on, it's all right," he said. "it don't make any difference whether i carry passengers or not so long as the boat is kept goin', an' i want to show you somethin' fine in the way of rowin'." neither of the boys cared very much about accepting the invitation; but he was so persistent that they finally stepped on board as the easiest manner of settling the matter. "i tell you what it is, fellers," he said, as he pulled out into the stream, "i'm jest makin' things hum around here. these folks have never seen any kind of style put into rowin', an' i'm knockin' their eyes out." "don't give it to them too strong, or they may want to keep you here as an ornament after the fair closes, and then the rest of the world would suffer," dan said, with a laugh, and sam replied: "you fellers can make fun; but what i say is straight," and then he made preparations for giving an exhibition. "watch me now, an' you'll learn a thing or two about boats." during the next ten minutes he pulled as if in a race, first up and then down the stream, until sheer lack of breath forced him to stop. "i hope you haven't set the keel on fire," dan said, solicitously. "there's no question but that you made good time, though i'm inclined to think the build of the boat had considerable to do with the speed. this one looks as if she would row herself." "that's all you know about it. if i hadn't been a first-class hand at----" "see there!" teddy cried, excitedly, as he pointed toward the shore. "that's the man who got my fifteen dollars. pull in, sam, an' pull for all you are worth!" the oarsman delayed only long enough to gaze in the direction indicated, where he saw the old fakir whom they had met with such great loss at waterville, and then he bent himself to the task. "do you believe it will be safe to tackle him after last night?" dan asked. "i'm going to, and if he don't get away from me i'll ask some of the crowd to help me have him arrested," teddy replied, grimly. the little craft was a considerable distance from the shore. sam was so excited that he only thought of landing in the shortest possible space of time, and instead of keeping a lookout for other boats, rowed vigorously, as if he were the only oarsman on the stream. teddy and dan sat motionless, with their eyes fixed on the man, and thus it happened that no one on board saw a double ender, in which were three ladies and two gentlemen, come around a bend in the creek directly in sam's course. there was a shout from the bank, three shrill screams of terror, and then a crash as the two craft came together with terrific force. the occupants of both boats were thrown into the water as the frail timbers were splintered, and the spectators on the bank acted as if panic-stricken. chapter ix. _a brave rescue._ sam was a fairly good swimmer, and as soon as he found himself in the water he struck out for the shore, paying no attention to any one else until he had assured his own safety. one of the gentlemen in the other craft did the same selfish thing, while the other, unable to help even himself, was trying to keep his head above water by resting his chin on an oar and piece of planking. the women were in imminent danger of being drowned, for there was no other boat near at hand which could be sent to the rescue, and the throng of spectators was in that unreasoning state of fear and excitement which prevents people from being of any service at such a time. when teddy and dan came to the surface after having been thrown from their seats, they were within a few feet of each other, and the latter asked: "can you swim?" "yes; don't pay any attention to me, but do what you can toward saving those women." "will you help me?" "of course; but i can't take care of more than one." both boats had disappeared, and nothing save a few fragments showed where they had gone down. teddy thought only of aiding the struggling women, for there was no question that the man with the oar could take care of himself, at least until those on the bank should be sufficiently composed to do something effective, and he swam to the nearest struggling being, clasping her firmly under one arm as he said: "don't make a row; but keep perfectly quiet, an' i'll take you ashore." half-unconscious as she was, the woman attempted to grasp him by the neck, and for several seconds he had all he could do to prevent her from choking him to death; but after two or three kicks judiciously administered, he succeeded in making her understand that her life as well as his own depended upon her remaining passive, and from that moment all went well. the employees of the company which had the boats on exhibition flung into the water several life-saving arrangements of cork and canvas, and by dint of much persuading he induced her to trust to one of these while he went to the assistance of dan, who had been carried beneath the surface more than once by the struggles of the woman whom he was trying to save. by this time a boat was brought up from around the point, and as these two helpless ones were taken on board both the boys swam to the rescue of the last of the party who had sunk beneath the surface for the third time. teddy, now nearly exhausted by his efforts, was the first to grasp her; but if it had not been for dan the struggle would have been useless, since his strength was so far spent that he could not have brought her above the water unaided. by their united efforts, however, she was taken on board the boat in a state of unconsciousness, and they made their way to the shore cheered by the shouts of the assembled multitude. weak, almost exhausted beyond the power to stand upright, they landed a few seconds in advance of the craft, and the reception received was enough to have nerved stronger men to a semblance of strength. it was not until they were in the private apartments allotted to the davis company that either fully understood how weak he was, and then willing hands aided them to recuperate. hot flannels, warm drinks, and dry clothes were contributed by the different exhibitors, until, as teddy said, they looked like "circus clowns;" but they were in fairly good bodily condition, and it appeared as if the involuntary bath had done them no real injury. outside the building the people were shouting themselves hoarse in praise of the two boys who had saved three lives, and sam stood bowing acknowledgments as if he had been the chief actor in the thrilling scene. the difference between the real and the pretended life-savers was readily understood, however, when dan and teddy made their appearance, looking decidedly the worse for their struggles, and the cheers which went up would have been ample reward for the most praise-loving person in the world. they looked like anything rather than reputable employees as they appeared in the borrowed garments; but as teddy said, they couldn't stay in the building until their clothes were dried, and it was absolutely necessary he should attend to his business. dan's duties necessitated his remaining near the creek; but teddy was forced to go back to his cane-board, and the crowd which followed him was good evidence of the money he would make. during two hours after he returned from this thrilling adventure the cane-board had more customers than could conveniently be attended to, and it is safe to say that he then handled a larger amount than he had ever before seen. "at this rate it won't take long to square up things, and you shall have a fair portion of the profits, tim," he said, when there was an opportunity for him to speak with his clerk without being overheard by the customers. "it's a lucky thing for us that them boats were smashed," tim said, devoutly, as he handed his employer half a dollar to change. "we might have stood here with our tongues hangin' out all day an' never seen a quarter of this money if you hadn't known how to swim." "you are right to a certain extent; but i can't take all the credit of this spurt, because more than half the people are trying to get a cane for nothing." "in the same way they thought to swindle mr. hazelton out of a watch," tim replied, with a smile; "but we won't fight about what brings trade so long as it comes with the cash." up to this time teddy had no very definite idea of how much money had been taken in, and he was thinking it would be a good idea to ascertain, when a gruff, familiar voice from the rear asked: "are the wages of sin as much as they should be?" turning quickly he saw uncle nathan, and replied: "i don't know exactly what they should be; but, perhaps, you do." "whatever i may know now, i remember that it was not allowed i should insult my elders either by plainly spoken words or insinuations," the old man said, sternly. "neither would i have done such a thing if you had not given me the provocation; but when i promised to pay three dollars for the use of fifteen one week, you did not seem to think that amount would be the wages of sin." "at the time i had no idea you would conspire with others to rob me of my hard-earned savings." "you know very well, uncle nathan, that i haven't done any such thing. on the night your store was robbed i staid in the house, and hadn't left it when you came to tell us the news." "every person of your class has some such excuse ready in case of an emergency; but that kind of talk will not do with me. if you meant to do the square thing, why was i not told you lost the money i lent you?" "because i knew you would raise an awful row, thinking possibly it would not be paid back." "have i yet any assurance that it will be?" the old man asked, in a fury. "do you need it now?" "i always need my own." "and in this case, if i pay you at once, do you think it right to charge me three dollars for the use of fifteen lent two days ago?" "that was what you promised, and the world gauges a man by the way he keeps his word." "i owe the storekeeper in waterville thirty dollars; but i told him you must be paid first, and so you shall." "then give me the money now," uncle nathan snarled. "that is exactly what i am willing to do," teddy replied, calmly; "but if you can't trust me i have reason to be suspicious of you, so give me a receipt for the amount, and the matter can be settled." the old man literally glared at his nephew for an instant, and then, eager to have the cash in his possession, he wrote a receipt, handing it to the young fakir, as he said, angrily: "now, let me see if you can settle the bill." since the mishap on the creek, where teddy had covered himself with glory, business had been so good that he had more than twice that amount, and, emptying the contents of his money bag on a board, he proceeded to select the required sum. uncle nathan watched him jealously, his eyes twinkling enviously, and when the money was placed in his hand he counted it twice over before delivering up the written acknowledgment. "are you certain all this has been honestly earned, teddy?" he asked, gravely. "how else could i have got it?" "there are many ways. while i would not be willing to take my oath to it, several of these ten-cent pieces look very much like those i lost night before last." "do you mean to say i had anything to do with robbing your store?" and now that this particular debt had been canceled teddy felt very brave. "i know that such an amount of money has not been earned honestly, and, what is more, my eyes have been opened to the character of your friends." "if you mean mr. hazelton, he is as much your friend as mine, for you were with him all day sunday." "that is exactly who i do mean," uncle nathan replied, with provoking deliberation. "i have seen his method of doing business since i came into this fair, and know he is nothing more than a deliberate swindler." "but one with whom you were perfectly willing to go into partnership," a voice in the rear of teddy cried sharply, and the jewelry fakir stepped directly in front of uncle nathan. "i told you exactly how i worked, and you offered to put up even money with me, growing angry when i said you would be of no use in the business. if it is swindling, you were mighty eager to have a hand in the same business." "i don't want to talk with you," uncle nathan said, as he put teddy's eighteen dollars carefully in his pocket. "then why do you come around here trying to bully this boy? he had no idea of what i was going to do until he saw me work, while you understood the whole plan. make any trouble for him, and i will get up here and tell every person who comes along that you wanted to be my partner." "do it," the old man said, angrily. "after having cheated so many people out of their money, who will believe a word you say?" at the same time, however, uncle nathan took good care to leave this particular spot, and hazelton stepped to the rear of the board where he could talk privately with teddy. chapter x. _an encounter._ first of all, the jewelry fakir wanted to hear the particulars of the accident on the lake, and teddy began by telling him the primary cause of the trouble. "i reckon all three of us lost our heads when we saw that man; i know i did and we were so eager to get on shore that we paid no attention to anything else. have you seen him?" "who? long jim? no; but the boys say he is here somewhere running the swinging ball game." "what is that?" "a wooden ball is swung on two short uprights about eight inches apart, and between them, in the center, stands a small peg. you pay ten cents for the privilege of swinging the ball, and if it hits the peg when it comes back after leaving your hand, you get a dollar." "i should think that would be easy enough to do." "well, don't try it with such an idea or you'll go broke mighty quick. it looks simple; but it isn't accomplished very often." "have you done anything since i left here?" "yes, and scooped in as much as i had any right to expect. i don't want to spoil to-morrow's business, so sha'n't make another pitch, but will spend my time trying to find jim." "what good can that do?" "i still count on making him give back your fifteen dollars, if nothing more. i reckon your uncle nathan won't try again to get a warrant out for us, and so i sha'n't bother my head about learning anything regarding the robbery." "he'll make things just as disagreeable as he can; there's no question about that." "well, let him, and we'll see who comes out ahead. trade is beginning to pick up, and you'd better attend to your customers." hazelton walked away, and from that moment until nearly nightfall teddy had all the business both he and his clerk could attend to. nearly every one had something to say about the accident on the creek, and the young fakir was forced to tell the story over and over again, until he really got tired of repeating the details. when nearly all of the visitors had left the grounds teddy made up his cash account, and the sum total surprised both himself and tim. including the amount paid uncle nathan he had taken in fifty-five dollars and twenty cents. ten per cent. of this was paid to the clerk, and he found himself possessed of the magnificent sum of thirty-one dollars and seventy cents. "at this rate we shall be rich before the end of the week," he said, in a tone of satisfaction. "that's a fact; but it don't seem right for me to take so much," tim replied, as he wrapped the five dollars and a half which had been given him in his handkerchief. "that was the agreement, an' we'll stick to it." "but when you promised ten cents on every dollar neither of us believed trade would be half so good." "you're right; i thought if we got one-third as much business would be booming; but that has nothing to do with our bargain. you've hung right on here, without even stopping for anything to eat, an' are entitled to what you've been paid. everybody says there'll be a bigger crowd to-morrow, an' so we stand a chance to make considerable more. are you going home to-night, or do you count on staying here?" "i've got to let the folks know where i am, for when i left it was allowed i'd be back by sunset. to-morrow i'll come prepared to stay the rest of the week." "there'll be plenty of stages running, an' you can afford to ride both ways after this day's work. i want to send some of this money home to mother, for it ain't safe to carry so much around with me." "am i to take it?" "yes, an' you can tell her all that has happened. ask her to come over thursday, an' see for herself that we're getting rich." twenty-five dollars was tied in a bundle with many wrappings of paper, and tim started off, looking almost afraid at being the custodian of so much wealth. it was necessary teddy should pack up his entire stock until next morning, and this he proceeded to do as soon as he was alone. mr. sweet had given him permission to bring his goods into the museum tent, and his only trouble was how everything could be carried without assistance. before he was ready for departure, however, sam came up, and the question of transportation was settled. "well, how do you feel now?" teddy asked, cheerily, for the knowledge that he had already taken in nearly enough to pay his debts caused him to feel very jolly. "i allers get the worst of everything," sam replied, disconsolately. "you an' dan made a big strike when you tumbled into the water, an' i've had a blowin' up; come mighty near losin' my job into the bargain." "why?" "'cause the boss says that i was careless an' reckless, an' that i couldn't earn enough in a month to pay for the two boats i've smashed." "are they lost entirely?" "no, of course not. we pulled 'em out a little while ago, an' it cost so very much to fix both. the folks in the other boat were as much to blame as me." "they certainly were not keeping any better lookout, and, as a matter of fact, i suppose i'm more at fault than any one else, for if i hadn't sung out about the fakir it wouldn't have happened." "that's what i told the boss; but he's chuck full of foolish talk about the bravery he says you an' dan showed, an' is tryin' to get up what he calls a testimonial for you." "a what?" teddy cried, in surprise. "i heard him say testimonial; but if you know what that means you can go to the head." "i don't, and i hope it won't amount to anything. i've been paid enough for what was done by the boom it gave my business." "of course, you an' dan are bound to have the best end of it." "why didn't you stop an' do the same thing?" "'cause i had sense enough to look out for myself first." "but you know how to swim." "what of that? it's mighty risky catchin' hold of people in the water, an' i don't mean to take any chances. how much have you made to-day?" when teddy told him, the expert in rowing looked decidedly envious. "you've got all that money in one day?" "yes; but i sent the most of it home to mother." "it's funny what luck some folks have, when them as knows the business twice as well don't much more'n earn their salt," sam said, as if to himself, and before he could continue dan arrived. he wore his own clothes, and carried those teddy had left in the boat-house. "these were dry, so i brought 'em up. you needn't carry back the ones you borrowed till to-morrow, so sam's boss says." then dan asked concerning business, and by the time all three had finished discussing this very important matter the knives and canes were packed ready for removal. each boy took a load, carried it to the tent where mr. sweet was figuring up his receipts for the day, and then went to supper, returning half an hour later so tired that there was no desire on the part of either to do anything other than sleep. the proprietor of the museum was in very good spirits. he had taken in one hundred and six dollars and eighty cents, and said, in a tone of satisfaction: "i reckon this fair will pan out all right. trade is bound to be better to-morrow, and thursday is always the biggest of the week. i hear you boys have been distinguishing yourselves. tell me about it." dan related the incident of the day very modestly, interrupted now and then by sam, who was eager to pose as a hero also, and mr. sweet expressed himself as being well satisfied with their behavior. "chasing a thief and getting a whipping in the night, and then saving the lives of three people the next day is record enough for one week, so you'd better not try for any more adventures," he said, with a laugh. now that the incident of the previous night had been spoken of so openly, it was necessary sam's curiosity should be satisfied, and dan was forced to tell the story. while he was doing so, and listening to the oarsman's comments, teddy had an opportunity to see the "barker" and clown who arrived that morning. neither was a very prepossessing-looking man. they were lying on the ground some distance from the boys, as if bent on minding their own business, and there was no real reason for an unfavorable opinion concerning them. but little time was spent in conversation on this evening. every one was thoroughly tired, and each sought for a soft spot on which to pass the night. as before, sam crawled up on the wagon to be out of harm's way when the goat should be unfastened, while dan and teddy lay down in very nearly the same place as before. "i don't fancy we shall hear many secrets between now and morning, no matter how many men come around here to talk," the former said, laughingly. "it won't take me two minutes to fall asleep, and the noise that can awaken me then will have to be very great." teddy's only reply was a yawn, and in even less time than dan had mentioned he was wrapped in slumber. shortly after the proprietor of the exhibition began to make his preparations for retiring, and the clown asked: "how did that row start this afternoon?" "half a dozen of the village toughs tried to get in without paying, and i had to polish one of 'em off," the barker replied. "you must have done it pretty quick, for when i got out there the thing was over," mr. sweet said. "the fellow was more than half-drunk, an' it wasn't a very big job. they threaten to come back and clean the whole show out." "yes, i've heard such threats made before; but never lost much sleep worrying about it." ten minutes later all the human occupants of the tent were enjoying a well-earned rest, and the goat had about concluded it would be a profitless job to prospect for anything more to eat, when the sound of footsteps could have been heard from the outside. had mr. sweet been awake he would have decided that these late visitors were trying to find the flap of the tent, for they walked cautiously around the canvas twice, and then a sharp knife was thrust through the fabric. an instant later sam awoke his companion with a yell that would have done credit to any indian. some one had given him such a blow as sent him from the seat to the ground, and the remainder of the party leaped to their feet only to be confronted by a large party of half-drunken toughs who had come to avenge the insult received during the afternoon. chapter xi. _long jim_. teddy's first thought when he was awakened by sam's yells was that the officers of the law were coming to arrest him for the robbery committed at uncle nathan's store; but in a very few seconds he understood that this was not the case. he and dan had been sleeping some distance from the remainder of the company; therefore, when the hand-to-hand struggle began they were out of it entirely, and owing to the darkness could not be seen by the assailants; but sam's cries served to show the mob where he was, and one after another pounded him when they failed to find any of the other occupants. while one might have counted twenty teddy and dan stood motionless, undecided as to what should be done, while the din caused by the combatants and the screaming boy were almost deafening, and then the latter said: "we've got to take a hand in this row, teddy. mr. sweet has given us the chance to sleep here, and the least we can do is to help as much as possible, for it appears to me that his men are getting the worst of it." a broken tent-peg was lying on the ground near at hand, and dan added, as he seized it: "try to light one of the lanterns so we can see which is an enemy, and then sail in." it seemed to teddy as if he would never be able to follow these instructions. he had plenty of matches; but in his excitement one after another was extinguished until he fancied half an hour must have elapsed before the wick was ignited. the faint glow of light served to show one of the intruders teddy's form, and the latter had but just succeeded in hanging the lantern on the center-pole when it became necessary to defend himself. the drunken bully made a lunge at him, which he managed to avoid by jumping aside, and in another instant he had seized the man by the waist, doing his best to throw him. from this moment teddy knew nothing more of the row than that portion in which he was immediately concerned. he was able to prevent the man from striking by hugging close to his body, and the two swayed here and there in the effort to gain the mastery. now and then they came in contact with the other combatants, one or both receiving a chance blow, but no especial injury was done to either. had the man been sober, teddy must have been overcome in a very short time; but as he was far from being steady on his feet the odds were about even, and the boy succeeded in holding his own until the others had retreated or been so disabled that it was no longer possible for them to continue the assault. fully thirty minutes had elapsed from the time sam first sounded the alarm before the occupants of the tent could count themselves as victors, and then mr. sweet and the clown pulled teddy's adversary away, throwing him bodily out of the tent after administering summary punishment. during all this time the other exhibitors who intended to sleep on the grounds had been gathering around the canvas, but no one cared to risk his precious body by entering until it was certain the battle had been ended. then the tent was filled with sympathizing friends, who endeavored to ascertain the amount of injury done, but were interrupted in the work by the proprietor, who cried, angrily: "clear out of here, every mother's son! you didn't dare to come in when it would have been possible to help us, and there's no need of you now. we were attacked by a crowd of men from the town, who proposed to clean the show out because we wouldn't let them in free, and that's all there is to it." not until the last visitor had unwillingly departed did the little party pay any attention to their wounds, and then the result of the engagement was ascertained. the barker had a broken nose, but it would not prevent him from doing a full share of talking on the following day. the clown's eye looked rather bad, and mr. sweet's cheek had been cut, but these were only trifling mishaps. teddy had come out of the affray comparatively uninjured; dan showed nothing worse than a bruise under the left ear, and while sam appeared to be unscathed, he declared that he had been pounded until every inch of his body felt like jelly. "you squealed fairly well for a fellow who was so badly done up," mr. sweet said, with a laugh, as he proceeded to dress the barker's wounded nose, "and i reckon you'll be all right by morning. light some of the other lanterns so i can see what i'm about, and during the remainder of the night we'll stand guard, for no one can say how soon those scoundrels may attempt to pay us a second visit, although i think they had a full dose this time." how the assailants had fared no one was able to form a very good opinion. the general belief among the occupants of the tent, however, was that they had received such severe punishment that there would be no further attack on this night, at least. when the wounds had been dressed, mr. sweet said, as he took up a position near the flap: "you fellows had better try to go to sleep now. i'll keep awake for a while, and then call some one to relieve me. dan, can't you borrow one of those queer-looking rifles you are exhibiting, and bring it with you to-morrow night?" "i might get the one i use for shooting at a target; but you wouldn't think of trying to kill a man, would you, mr. sweet?" "i could do a good deal toward scaring them, and if a crowd insisted on forcing an entrance, i'd take mighty good care that one would carry away a bullet to remember me by." "i'll bring the rifle," dan replied, and teddy whispered: "when i came here to run a cane-board i didn't count on being obliged to do any fighting." "i don't reckon there'll be much more here. the managers of the fair will see to it that those fellows are put where they can't do any additional mischief, for the exhibitors must be protected, and we shall be safe enough, except something else comes up to make a row." then the sore, tired party lay down in search of slumber once more, and, strange as it may seem after the exciting events, all save the sentinel were soon wrapped again in slumber. each in turn was aroused to do his share of guard duty before morning came; but no enemy appeared, and at sunrise the three boys went across the grounds to the boarding-house, where, as dan said: "the price was twice as big as the breakfast." teddy had his place of business ready for the reception of customers before the first stage-load of visitors arrived, and when tim came he had already taken in nearly a dollar. "what's the news?" he asked, as the clerk appeared, looking radiant and happy at the thought of earning as much money as on the previous day. "your mother was pretty nigh wild when i told her what we took in yesterday, an' says she'll be here sure on thursday. there's no more news of your uncle nathan's goods, an' he's still tryin' to have you arrested; but your mother says not to be afraid, 'cause she has talked with a lawyer, an' don't think there'll be any trouble. i told the folks at home that the old skinflint made you pay three dollars interest on the money what was stole, an' everybody in town will know it before night." tim was forced to stop his story to wait upon a party of young gentlemen who were eager to get dollar canes for five cents, and the booths adjoining teddy's place of business had not yet been opened when he announced that there were four dollars in the money box. "we're bound to have a big day," tim said, confidently. "the band from the run is comin' over this mornin', an' if the city people hear about it you bet they'll jest crowd in to hear the music. there'll be [----] of the boys to see you, but take my advice an' don't let 'em have any rings on credit, for i wouldn't trust the best of the whole lot at fair time. i'm goin' to stay till friday; do you s'pose that man will let me sleep in his tent with you fellers?" teddy promised to inquire, and then advised tim to have a look at the grounds before business began to be rushing, and the clerk was glad to take advantage of the proposition. he started off with the air of one who owned the entire inclosure, and was hardly lost to view amid the fast-gathering throng when teddy was literally dazed by seeing long jim, the very man who had robbed him in waterville, lounging along toward his stand. not until the fakir stood directly in front of the boy did he appear to recognize him, and then he would have turned quickly away but for the latter's cry: "somebody hold that man till i get a constable! he stole my money." realizing that a flight across the grounds with hundreds of men and boys crying "stop thief!" in full pursuit would be disastrous, long jim turned to face his young accuser. "what do you mean by saying such a thing?" he asked, angrily. "if you wasn't so small i'd make you eat the words." "i was big enough for you to steal from, and i want my money." it was only natural that a crowd should gather after such an accusation, and long jim looked around for some means of escape, but, realizing that he could not well get away while so many were near, he stepped close to teddy, as he whispered: "if you say another word i'll smash your face, you young whelp! hold your tongue if you want to leave here alive." "i'll say exactly what's true. give me my money, or i'll find some one to have you arrested!" "the boy is a liar, and, what is more, has just robbed his uncle's store, if what they say over at the run be true," the fakir said, excitedly, as he turned to face the crowd. "i don't want to hurt him; but i won't be insulted by a thief, so the best thing for me to do is to leave." saying this, he walked deliberately away, and the curious ones, who a moment previous had been friendly to teddy, began to sympathize with the man. "don't let him off!" the boy cried, starting to follow, and then remembering that he would be forced to leave his wares at the mercy of the crowd, turned back, while long jim continued straight across the grounds unmolested. "it looks like it was a case of the pot calling the kettle black," an old farmer said, and his immediate circle of friends laughed heartily, while the younger portion of the crowd gazed earnestly at teddy, believing they saw before them a fullfledged burglar. chapter xii. _a discovery._ with feelings of mingled anger, vexation and disappointment, teddy stood silent and motionless for several moments after long jim disappeared, striving to keep the tears from his eyes. it seemed hard enough to be swindled out of fifteen dollars, but to be held up as a thief by the very man who had done him the wrong, and to be stared at as a criminal by the curious, was an aggravation of misfortune. just for one instant he made up his mind to tell the whole story to the bystanders, but before there was time for him to speak he realized that many of them would think he was trying to shield himself by an untruth against just accusations, therefore he remained quiet, not making the slightest effort to influence trade. fortunately he was soon aroused from this very disagreeable frame of mind by a very pleasing incident. the band from the run arrived, and to the young fakir's surprise marched directly to his booth, the leader saying, in a tone sufficiently loud to be heard by every one in the immediate vicinity as the musicians halted about ten feet away: "we have been hired to play on the grounds to-day, teddy, and left home half an hour earlier than the specified time for the sole purpose of giving you a serenade to show that, whatever your uncle may say, the folks at the run are positive there isn't a shadow of truth in his ridiculous story. we know what you are working for, and intend to help you along as much as possible." then the musicians began to play, while, as a matter of course, every one who came up wanted to know why the band was there instead of on the stand built for its especial accommodation, and there were people enough who had heard the leader's remarks to explain matters to the newcomers. the immediate result was that instead of believing him to be a burglar, the same ones who fancied a few moments previous that he looked guilty, were now quite positive he was a victim. tim arrived while the serenade was in progress, and when teddy explained the situation, he exclaimed, gleefully: "well, by jinks! this jest knocks the spots outer everything! trade will hum after this, or i'm a duffer." and the clerk's prediction was verified in a very short time. when the musicians had concluded the concert they laid aside their instruments, and during the next ten minutes every man of them threw rings at the canes or knives so rapidly that both teddy and his assistant had all they could do to wait upon the throng. then, giving the signal for the march to be resumed, the leader said to the young fakir: "don't get discouraged, my boy, no matter what happens. if you have any trouble it can't last long, for you've plenty of friends at the run, and after what happened here yesterday there should be a good many on the grounds." the kind-hearted musicians marched away without giving teddy an opportunity to thank them, and as if to atone for their previously spoken harsh words the bystanders devoted themselves with unusual zest to the task of winning a cane worth a dollar by an outlay of five cents. it was nearly an hour before trade began to grow dull again, and both the boys were quite willing to rest a few moments. "at this rate we stand a chance of getting rich before the fair closes," teddy exclaimed, in a tone of satisfaction. "i wonder what uncle nathan would have said if he'd been here to hear the leader?" "i'll tell you," a disagreeable but familiar sounding voice replied from the rear of the stand where its owner had been concealed by an adjoining booth, and nathan hargreaves stalked into view with a comically tragic air. "things have come to a pretty pass when a man's own relations, an' them as he has set up in business with his own hard-earned money, try to bring scorn and reproach upon him. you are a snake in the grass, teddy hargreaves, an' not content with helpin' rob me, concoct such a disgraceful scene as i have jest witnessed." "what could i have had to do with it?" teddy cried, in surprise. "i didn't know they were going to give me a lift." "of course you did; i ain't blind if i am such a fool as to put you in the way of makin' so much money. there wasn't a man in that band who'd have countenanced the speech the leader made if you hadn't been workin' on their sympathies. but your race won't be much longer. don't think that i've stopped all proceedings, for it may be that you're shoved into jail this very day unless you make a clean breast of the whole thing." "i've got nothing to tell simply because i don't know anything; but i believe the same man who took my fifteen dollars robbed your store. dan and i heard him and another fellow talking, and in trying to find out something for your benefit got knocked down." "what did they say? who are they?" the old man asked, eagerly, his bearing toward teddy changing very suddenly. "tell me! tell your poor, old uncle, who'll be mighty near the poor-house, if he don't get his own again." this appeal touched teddy's heart immediately, but tim said, half to himself, taking good care uncle nathan should hear him, however: "more'n a hundred robberies like that wouldn't make him poor. why, down at the run folks say you'd hardly miss what's been taken." "those who make that kind of talk are only shiftless people with never a dollar of their own, consequently they don't know the value of one," the old man cried, angrily. "it's all very well for a set of loafers who are mad with me because i wouldn't give them credit to say such things. do you suppose i'd spend my time runnin' around the country huntin' for the thieves if i hadn't lost a power of money?" "you'd be willin' to run pretty far if there was a nickel at the end of the road," tim retorted, but before he could say anything more teddy motioned for him to be silent. "are you goin' to tell me who the robbers are?" uncle nathan asked, in a wheedling tone, as he turned once more toward his nephew. "i don't know the men whom i suspect, except by sight, but it's more than possible we may find out enough to warrant their arrest before the fair closes." the old man insisted on knowing at once, and alternately coaxed and threatened, but all to no purpose. teddy positively refused to make a statement until he had more proof, and recognizing the fact that he might hurt his own cause by insisting, uncle nathan said, in a most affectionate tone: "i must go now, teddy, but i'll see you again before night. if you'll do all you can to help find them scoundrels i'll never say that you had anything to do with the crime." "you'd no business to make any such talk, for you knew it was impossible for me to take any hand in it, even if i'd wanted to be a thief." "there's a good deal of circumstantial evidence," the old man said, solemnly, as he turned to leave, "an' it stands you in hand to do all a boy can to clear your own skirts. i'm goin' to give you a chance, an' promise there won't be any arrest made to-day at all events." "there's a good reason why you promise that," tim cried, angrily, as uncle nathan walked away. "you tried mighty hard, but couldn't get a warrant, an' there ain't a justice of the peace between here an' waterville as would grant one without any other evidence than what you can say." "don't make him angry, tim. he's feeling bad about his money, an' you can't blame him for trying to find out who has got it." "i don't blame him for that, but what i'm kickin' about is that he keeps naggin' at you when there's no reason for it." "most likely he thinks there is." "he can't; it's only the wretched old skinflint's way of gettin' even with the world, an' so he picks on a feller what he believes can't strike back." "i wish i could find out who the robbers are, and where the goods have been hidden." "well, i don't. it serves him right to lose 'em, an'---- hello! here comes that feller what helps exhibit the rifles! i wonder what he wants at this time of day, jest when business is beginnin' to be rushin'." dan was evidently in a high state of excitement, for he forced his way through the crowds, regardless of possible injury to himself or others, and did not slacken speed until he stood in front of the cane-board, breathless and panting. "what's up?" teddy asked, in surprise. "the fakir who got your money, an' another man, who i think is the same one we heard talkin' outside the tent, have jest bought a boat from the davis company. sam saw 'em, an' ran over to tell me while the bargain was bein' made. he's watchin' down there till we can get back." "i don't believe it would do any good for me to say another word to long jim. he went past here this mornin', an' i only made a bad matter worse by trying to make him give back what he stole." "we ain't countin' on doin' that, but i believe they're gettin' ready to cart away the goods what were stole from your uncle nathan. perhaps we can foller without bein' seen, an' get on to the whole snap. could you get off for the balance of the day?" and now teddy was quite as excited as dan. "yes, an' so can sam." "are you goin' to help find his goods after all that old duffer has threatened?" tim asked, impatiently. "i'll do what i can," was the decided reply. "do you think you will be able to get along alone to-day?" "i could do it easy enough by hirin' a boy to pick up the rings, but i hate to see you make a fool of yourself, teddy." "you'll think different later. come on, dan. i'll be back as soon as i can, tim," and then the young fakir urged his friend in the direction of the creek. "it won't do to go anywhere near the boat-house," dan said. "sam is up the bank a long piece where the willows hide him. he's keepin' his eye on the craft they bought, so it can't be taken away without his seein' it." by mingling with the crowd it was possible to make their way to the desired spot without being seen, save by those with whom they came into immediate contact, and in a few moments the watcher was joined by his friends. "now i want you fellers to let me manage this case," sam said, pompously. "i know more 'bout detective business than both of you put together, an' if you'd only told me what was up the other night we'd had the whole thing settled." "have you seen the men?" dan asked, impatiently. "lots of times. the old fakir is loafin' around close by the landin', an' the other one must 'a gone off for somethin'. the davis company told me i could take any of the boats, an' the minute the thieves start we'll jump right on their trail." chapter xiii. _amateur detectives._ it was fated that the thrilling work of running down and capturing the thieves should not be begun until after considerable delay. "now, i wonder what he is up to?" dan said, when it was no longer possible to see the supposed burglar. "why is it that you can't let me do this thing?" sam asked, angrily. "if you keep meddlin' we'll never fix matters." "i don't see that i'm interfering," dan replied, in surprise. the three boys watched this one particular boat in silence for ten minutes or more, seeing long jim now and then, and just as they believed he was about to step on board the man walked toward the exhibition buildings, and was soon lost to view amid the throng of people. "you was gettin' ready, too, i could tell that by your eye." "i'll have to give in that you're the smartest feller in this section of the country, sam, an' that's a fact." "of course it is," the amateur detective replied, complacently, thinking dan's sarcasm was really praise. "if i have my own way i can turn up the biggest thief that ever walked on two legs; but you mustn't bother me, or things may go wrong." if the matter had not been so serious to him teddy would have laughed long and often at the dignity and superior knowledge assumed by this fellow, who, since he made his acquaintance, had done nothing more difficult than to get himself into trouble; but, under the circumstances, he was so deeply interested in the outcome of the business that there was no room in his mind for mirth. "dan," he said, "let you and i walk around two or three minutes. we'll stay close by so that sam can give us the signal in case the men show up, and we may find hazelton." "don't tell him what we're doin'," the amateur detective cried, sharply. "why not?" "'cause it's likely he'll want to meddle with our business, an' then my work will be spoiled." "i won't say a word to him until after seeing you again," teddy replied as he led dan away, and added when they were where it would be impossible for sam to hear them: "see here, it's foolish for us to think of trying to follow those men if he's to be allowed to make a fool of himself. with him believing he's the greatest detective in the country, something wrong is sure to happen, an' we may never get another chance of finding out about the burglary." "don't fret about that," dan replied, confidently. "it won't do any harm to let him swell a little now while he's keeping watch; but when the real work begins it won't take long to sit on him." "then there will be a row." "i'll attend to his case; but i don't think there'll be anything for us to do yet awhile. the men are evidently in no hurry to leave, and most likely intend to wait till the crowd begins to go." "then why should all three of us stay on watch?" "we won't. go back to your cane-board, and i'll tell sam to come for you when the burglars put in an appearance. he'll have time to do that, an' while he's gettin' a boat ready you can come for me." "will it be safe to trust him?" "yes, indeed," dan replied, with a laugh. "he's havin' an awful good time thinkin' he's the greatest detective in the world, and couldn't be hired to leave that clump of willows so long as the men keep out of sight." teddy was not so confident, and insisted on going back with dan while the arrangement was made. when the matter was explained sam appeared to be perfectly satisfied. "that's all right," he said, readily. "i can see to this thing alone; but i'll let you fellers know the minute anything happens. don't tell any of the constables what i'm up to, or they'll want to have a finger in the pie." convinced that he would be informed of any change in the situation, teddy returned to the cane-board just in time to aid tim in attending to a rush of customers who were spending their money liberally. "what made you come back?" the clerk asked, in surprise. "i've hired a feller for a quarter to pick up rings, an' am gettin' along first rate." teddy briefly explained the condition of affairs, and then there was little opportunity for conversation until considerably past noon, when trade dropped off very decidedly for a while. in order that he might have a glimpse of the other fakirs and rest himself at the same time, tim was sent to see if sam was yet at his self-selected post of duty, and teddy took advantage of the opportunity to ascertain the amount of his receipts. to his great surprise he found nearly forty dollars in the money-box, and from this he took thirty with which to pay the merchant in waterville who had given him credit for his stock. "it has turned out to be a mighty good venture, even if aunt sarah was so sure i'd make a fool of myself by tryin' it. all the money i make now will be clear profit, and it looks as if i'd be able to help mother quite a bit." [illustration: "they're getting ready to start!" he said, breathlessly.] "well, how is business?" a voice asked, in a cheery tone, and, looking up, teddy saw his sole remaining creditor. "i'm glad you've come," he cried, bundling the thirty dollars up in a piece of paper. "i'd jest counted this out for you, an' when you take it i'll be free from debt." "but i don't want the money," the merchant replied. "i only came around to see if you were successful." "i've already made more than i reckoned on, an' it'll be a favor if you take this, 'cause i don't like to have so much around." then teddy explained the condition of his business affairs, not forgetting to tell of the accusation made against him by his uncle nathan, and the merchant said, as he concluded: "i heard the whole story, my boy, and have already talked with mr. hargreaves, whom i met a few moments ago. i do not think he can do anything to you, because you have made many friends here. the money i will take, as it is not well to keep it where it might be stolen; but can give you no receipt until i get home." "that'll be all right," teddy replied, contentedly; "you trusted me with the goods, an' it would be funny if i couldn't wait for a receipted bill. it's through you that i've had the chance to make so much, an' i want you to know i feel grateful." "i believe that, and am more than pleased to have put you in the way of getting a start in the world. come to see me when the fair closes, and it is possible i may show you an opportunity of learning to be a merchant on a large scale, rather than a fakir whose method of getting a living is very precarious, regardless of the fact that he sometimes makes very great profits." it can be readily understood that teddy accepted the invitation, and then, trade commencing once more, the gentleman walked away, leaving the proprietor of the cane-board with the pleasing consciousness that he was free from debt, and with quite a large amount of money in his mother's keeping. tim returned very shortly after the merchant's departure, and reported that sam was still on duty. "the boat hasn't been moved nor have the men showed up again," he said. "that feller acts as if he thought he was bigger than the president. he told me he could be the greatest detective that ever lived if it wasn't that folks made him show off at rowin' 'cause he had so much style about him. i don't think he's so very wonderful; but, of course, i never saw many out an' out detectives." "and you don't see one when you met him. i'm sure he'll get dan an' me in trouble before this thing is ended." "then why don't you let him go off alone? that's what i'd do with such a chump." "i can't, because----" the sentence was not concluded, for at that moment dan came up at full speed. "they're gettin' ready to start!" he said, breathlessly. "i saw 'em go by the buildin', an' run over to tell sam that i'd fetch you. our boat is a long distance up the creek, an' we'll have to hurry, or run the chance of missing their craft." there was no delay on teddy's part, despite the misgivings he had regarding sam. one parting injunction to tim on the subject of business, and then he followed dan at full speed toward the creek on such a course as would bring them fully a quarter of a mile above the boat-house outside the fair grounds. sam had made everything ready for the journey by the time they arrived, and was so excited that he could no longer speak of his own wonderful powers as a thief-catcher. "one of you fellers had better row while i steer," he said, seating himself in the stern sheets and taking the tiller-ropes. "if they see the way i handle the oars they'll know exactly who's after them, an' then the game'll be up." "don't worry yourself about that," dan replied, calmly. "neither teddy nor i knows anything about a boat, except it may be to steer, so you'll have to hump yourself." sam grumbled considerably about taking so many risks; but he finally moved over to the bow and his companions took their seats aft. "i won't put any style to it, an', perhaps, that'll keep 'em from knowin' i'm on their trail," he said, and immediately began rowing in such a bungling fashion that dan said, sharply: "look here, if you're goin' to pull this boat, do it, or we'll go back. at this rate, you'll have everybody at the fair watching to see what kind of chumps have been allowed to risk their lives. we've got no time to spare, either; for we must get on the other side of the creek where it will be possible to watch the men without getting too near." "i'll take care of that part of the business," sam replied, loftily, and dan immediately put into operation his plan of "sitting" on the amateur detective. "you do your share, and that will be enough. teddy and i propose to take a hand in this ourselves." "then i might as well go back." "you can, if you want to." it so chanced that he had no such desire, and with the air of one whose feelings have been deeply wounded he rowed steadily on, dan steering, until they were where it was possible to have a full view of a long stretch of the creek. [illustration: "there they are!" teddy said.] "there they are!" teddy said, pointing down stream to where a boat was being pulled close to the left bank. "they have stopped, and it looks as if something was being taken on board!" "it is a portion of the goods they stole!" dan cried. "stop rowing, sam, and if nothing happens we'll soon know where the whole lot is to be hidden." chapter xiv. _the rendezvous._ that dan's surmise was correct could be seen a few moments after, while the boys, partially concealed by the overhanging bank, watched the proceedings with but little danger of being discovered. on the shore were a number of packages in a cart, and these the supposed burglars loaded into the boat with the utmost haste. if this lot comprised all that had been taken from uncle nathan his loss must have been greater than he stated, and teddy said, after watching several moments in silence: "i reckon this is only part of what they took; but i'm puzzled to know how it could have been brought so far. the idea of carting goods over here to find a place in which to hide them is a queer one, when all the thieves had to do was slip down the river in a skiff, an' before morning they'd be beyond reach of the officers." it surely was strange that the men should have done so much useless labor, and the only solution to the apparent mystery was offered by sam, who said, with an air of superior wisdom: "they've done it to throw me off the scent. that fakir we saw in waterville must have known who i was." "how does it happen he had the nerve to come here when he knew you counted on showing the people who visited this fair your skill in rowing?" dan asked, with a laugh. "i reckon he didn't think i was tellin' the truth." it was useless to attempt to make sam acquainted with himself. he had such a remarkable idea of his own abilities, despite the scrapes he was constantly getting into, that the most eloquent orator would have been unable to convince him he was anything more than a very egotistical boy, with little save his vanity to recommend him to the notice of the general public. in five minutes the boat at the opposite bank had received as much of a cargo as her owners wished to carry, and then the men began to row leisurely down the river. "now, go slow, sam, and don't turn around to look, or they may suspect we are following them," dan said, warningly. "i'll keep you posted about what they are doing, and you can tell us afterward what ought to have been done. pull moderately, for we don't want to get very near while it is light enough for them to see us." the chase was not a long one. by keeping the boat's head to the bank and moving leisurely as boys who were bent only on pleasure might have done, the pursuers evidently caused no suspicions as to their purpose, and after about a mile had been traversed the burglars turned up a narrow waterway which led to a barn or shed built on the meadows for the storing of marsh hay. there were plenty of ditches near at hand into which the amateur detectives could run their craft unobserved, and as the pursued left the creek dan steered into one of these. here their heads hardly came above the bank, and all three could see the men carrying their cargo to the building. "we've got 'em now," said sam, triumphantly, as the first of the packages was taken on shore, "an' the sooner we nab both the better." "how do you intend to set about such a job?" teddy asked. "go right up an' tell 'em we've been on their track." "and in less than two minutes you would get a worse pounding than the toughs gave you last night." sam appeared to realize the truth of this statement, for he had no further suggestions to offer, and dan said, after some reflection: "i think the best thing we can do will be to go back to the fair. if those fellows find us here the jig will be up; but it isn't likely they've got the whole of their plunder with them, and intend to come here again. we'll talk with some one and find out a good plan, or keep our eyes peeled to learn what they mean to do with the goods. if they propose simply to hide them until there is a chance to get the lot away safely, we shall have the key to the situation an' can take plenty of time deciding what should be done." sam did not again propose to make any attempt at intimidating the men, and teddy thought dan's scheme a wise one. "they'll come here more than once before the week is ended; you know they spoke of moving the stuff when the exhibitors got ready to leave, an' we'd better go back to the grounds before those fellows have finished their work." sam pulled out of the water-course into the creek without a murmur; but when they were on the way back, and he felt at liberty to display his true "style," courage returned. "i knew you fellers wasn't any good on detective work," he said, scornfully. "if i'd had charge of the case we should have them men tied hand an' foot in the bottom of this boat." "how would you have got 'em there?" dan asked. "that's my business. jest because i've let you into this thing there's no reason why i should give all my secrets away, is there?" "not a bit of it, an' you keep them locked up in your heart, for if teddy an' i knew the plans we might get into a bad scrape." "well, what are you goin' to do now?" "nothing until after we have talked with those who know more than we do about such things." sam immediately relapsed into silence. his superior knowledge had been scorned, and he proposed to let his companions understand that he was not pleased with them. by the time the boys reached the bend in the creek they could see the boat in which were long jim and his companion, half a mile behind, and dan said: "those fellows don't know me. when we land you and sam had better keep out of sight, while i try to find out where they go after striking the fair ground." "all right. it's time i helped tim, an' you'll come to the cane-board if there is anything to tell." "so i don't amount to anything, eh?" sam asked, sulkily. "of course you do; but it would be foolish to make a show of yourself to long jim, who would remember you. keep rowing around in the boat as if you were at work, and there'll be no chance for suspicion." by this time the little craft was at the landing stage of the boat-house, and two of the party leaped out, leaving the third feeling that he had been unjustly deprived of a very large portion of his rights. "if them fellers think they're goin' to get the best of me they're makin' a big mistake, an' i'll show 'em so before night. they don't know any more about bein' detectives than a cat; but both will be mightily surprised before mornin', or i'm mistaken." then, instead of rowing around the creek as dan had suggested, sam pulled out into the middle of the stream, looking wondrous wise and determined as he awaited the coming of those whose secret he had partially discovered. meanwhile teddy and dan, without the slightest suspicion of what their friend proposed to do, separated at the landing stage, the former making all haste to reach his cane-board, where he found tim doing a thriving business, and standing near by was hazelton. "where have you been?" the jewelry fakir asked, solicitously. "i've come here two or three times without finding you, and had almost begun to believe old nathan succeeded in getting a warrant." teddy was undecided as to whether he should tell this acquaintance of all he had seen or not; but, after some deliberation, and in view of the fact that he also had been accused of the burglary, concluded to do so. "we've found out where long jim is hiding the stuff he stole from my uncle," he said, and then explained what had been done during the last hour. hazelton was surprised that so much information had been gained; but he was able to cause teddy an equal amount of astonishment. "i don't believe the packages you saw came from the old man's store. i heard, about two hours ago, that a store here in town was robbed last night, and it isn't dead sure, after your uncle's accusations, and what i have done on the fair grounds, that i sha'n't be arrested on suspicion. most likely the goods taken down the creek were stolen here; but i don't understand why those fellows should work so boldly." "probably they think, as one of them said the other night, while so many articles are being carried to and fro." "very likely that may be true, and now comes the question of what shall be done regarding the information you have gained. i stand in a mighty delicate position, and, quite naturally, want to save myself, if possible, for even an arrest when there is little or no proof, ain't to be contemplated calmly." "you ought to know better than i how we should go to work. dan an' i thought there would be plenty of time, for if those fellows were going to skip very soon they wouldn't have taken the trouble to carry the stuff down there, where it could not be gotten away quickly." "i'll think the matter over, teddy, and come back here in a couple of hours," hazelton said, after a moment's thought. "don't tell anyone what you found out until after seeing me again." this conversation had been carried on at the rear of the cane-board, where the customers could not overhear it, and when the jewelry fakir walked toward the exhibition building it was necessary to satisfy tim's curiosity regarding what had been accomplished. "i don't s'pose it's any of my business," the latter said, when teddy concluded the story; "but i wouldn't be afraid to bet all i shall earn this week that you'll have trouble with that feller before the scrape is over. he knows so awful much that somethin' tough is bound to happen." teddy did not think there was any good cause for alarm, more especially since he felt confident dan would keep an eye on the oarsman, and during the next two hours he thought of nothing save earning money, for customers were plenty, and even with the assistance of the boy tim had engaged it was all he and his clerk could do to wait upon those who were anxious to win a cane or knife. now and then some of the other fakirs would visit him; but, as a rule, all were so busy that there was little time for the exchange of compliments, and even the cry of "three rings for five cents, with the chance to get a dollar cane or knife for nothing!" was not needed to stimulate trade. it was two hours from the time of his return when dan came up looking decidedly uneasy, and teddy did not stop to make change for the man who had just patronized him, before he asked, hurriedly: "now, what's up?" "sam is missing." "what do you mean? how can that be?" "he was to row around the creek near the landing; but for the last hour no one has seen him, and, what is more, the boat can't be found. long jim an' his friend haven't come ashore, as near as i can make out, an' it looks to me as if that foolish sam has got into trouble through trying to play detective." chapter xv. _sam's adventures._ in order to explain sam's absence, and one or two other incidents in their regular sequence, it is necessary to go back to the moment when, his friends having landed, the amateur detective was left to his own devices. his first impulse was to report his arrival to the manager of the boat exhibit, and then go about his routine duties, but before this very proper plan could be carried into effect he chanced to see hazelton on the shore. "now, what's he layin' around there for?" sam asked of himself. "i'll bet dan or teddy has given the whole snap away, an' he's come to pull in the burglars. it's a mighty mean trick for them to play after i've worked the case so far that there's nothing to do but nab 'em. he'll get all the praise, an' folks won't know the job was managed by me." the longer sam thought of this apparent ingratitude and treachery on the part of teddy and dan the more angry he grew, and it did not require many moments' thought for him to succeed in convincing himself that he had been very shabbily treated. continuing to talk to himself, or rather at the tiller, on which his eyes were fixed, he added: "folks have said so much about their savin' them women from drownin', when i mighter done the same thing if i'd been willin' to make a fool of myself, that they want to scoop in everything; but i could stop this little game by jest goin' ahead on my own hook. if i sneaked down the creek an' brought back the stuff them men have been hidin' people would begin to know how much i understand about detective work." this appeared in his mind as the most brilliant scheme he had ever conceived, and in a very few seconds sam decided that it should be carried into effect. first, and with no very well-defined idea of why such a course was necessary, he rowed cautiously to and fro past the landing stage, scrutinizing closely every face he saw, and mentally hugging himself because of the excitement which would be caused by his return with the stolen property. then he turned the boat, and began to row down the creek, stopping every few seconds to gaze around in such a mysterious manner that the suspicions of any one who observed him would have been instantly aroused. in this manner, which he believed the only true way for a first-class detective to approach his prey, sam had rowed less than half a mile when he saw long jim and his companion returning. now the time had come when true cunning was necessary, and the amateur detective began to display it by pulling the boat sharply around, heading her for an indentation on the opposite shore. here he ran her bow aground, and lying at full length in the bottom, peered out at the men in the most stealthy manner. they had already taken notice of his erratic movements, and now regarded him intently, but, without checking the headway of their own craft, in a few minutes were beyond sight around the bend. "there," sam said, with a long-drawn breath of relief, as he arose to a sitting posture, "if teddy an' dan had been here them fellers would have tumbled to the whole racket, but i've put 'em off the scent, an' will have plenty of time to do my work." he pulled out from the shore once more, gazed long and earnestly up and down the creek, and then, in the same ridiculous manner as before, continued the journey. the trip which should have consumed no more than an hour even with the most indolent oarsman, was not completed until twice that time had elapsed, and then fully fifteen minutes were spent by this very cautious boy in landing. he pulled his boat up high out of the water, and, in order to conceal her, heaped such a pile of dry grass on top of her that it must have attracted the attention of any one passing, more especially those who were familiar with the creek. this done he went toward the barn after the fashion of an old-time stage villain, halting at the slightest sound, and peering in every direction, fancying himself surrounded by foes. not until he had circled completely around the barn twice did he venture to enter, and then, much to his disappointment, there was nothing to be seen. the building appeared to be absolutely empty, and even his eagle eye failed to discover any traces of recent occupancy. "well, this is mighty funny," he said, with a sigh of disappointment. "them fellers surely brought a lot of stuff in here, but they must have carried it out again." having expended so much labor and time in reaching this place, he did not intend to return until after making a thorough search, however, and to this end he investigated one possible hiding-place after another, pulling up the boards of the rude flooring, and peering into places where nothing larger than a mouse could have been hidden. during this time the burglars were returning with all possible speed. sam's actions, both as he came down the creek, and also while screening himself from view, were so suspicious that, guilty as the men were, they immediately concluded what was very near the truth. long jim recognized the boy as having been with teddy when the bargain for the imaginary cane-board was made, and instead of returning to the fair grounds the two watched, from a point of vantage on the bank, until master sam had landed. his purpose was now evident, and it was necessary the burglars should resort to desperate measures to prevent the loss of their ill-gotten gains as well as to save themselves from imprisonment. when they arrived where it was possible to look into the barn, sam was on his knees scraping away the dirt which appeared to have been recently disturbed, and they heard him say in a tone of exultation: "i've got to it at last, an' now we'll see what teddy an' dan have to say when i flash the whole lot of stuff up with nobody to help me. i reckon----" he did not finish the sentence, for at that moment long jim stepped directly in front of him, as he asked: "did you leave anything here, my son?" "no--i--i--that is--you see----" sam was so frightened that he could not say another word. it seemed as if his tongue was swollen to twice its natural size, while his throat was parched and dry, and to make bad matters worse, he had entirely neglected to invent a plausible excuse for his presence there in case of an interruption. "i asked if you'd left anything here?" long jim repeated, very mildly. "well--well---- you see i jest come down to--to---- i thought, perhaps, i might find something, but it's time i was gettin' back to the fair, 'cause the folks will be needin' me." as he spoke he attempted to back toward the door, but before taking half a dozen steps a cry of fear burst from his lips, for a heavy hand was laid with no gentle force on his shirt collar, and he staggered forward helplessly. "that's an invitation for you to hold on a bit, an' have a little conversation with two gentlemen who are mighty curious to know why you came here," long jim said, grimly. "you're goin' to tell us the whole partic'lars, or there won't be enough left of you to be seen under a microscope." sam made no reply. he was literally dazed with fear, and just at that moment he thought the life of a detective very disagreeable. "come, speak up, an' be quick about it," the man cried, fiercely. "we've got no time to waste on sich cubs as you, an' in about two minutes you'll get worse'n we served out the other night." "that wasn't me follerin' you from the museum tent," sam said, quickly, thinking possibly this fact might work in his favor. "who was it?" "teddy an' dan." "who is dan?" "a feller who works for the stevens arms company up at the fair." "why did they follow us?" "teddy wanted to get back the money he gave you to buy a cane-board with." "if he knows what's wise for him he'll stop any such rackets, or he may get more'n he bargains for." then the second man, who still held firmly to sam's collar, asked, as he shook his prisoner vigorously: "how did you know we had been here?" "us fellers saw you come down in a boat." "so all three are in the secret, eh?" sam's only thought was that he might possibly save his own skin, and he replied in the affirmative, although he must have known that by such answer he was destroying his friends' chances of recovering the goods. "where are the fools now?" long jim asked, angrily. "up at the fair." "what do they intend to do?" "get somebody to arrest you." "then we've got to skip mighty lively, phil," and long jim looked up at his companion. "yes; but if my advice had been follered we wouldn't be in this scrape. you was the only one the cubs knew, an' by keepin' out of sight we mighter finished the work that's been laid out. you're so pig-headed that a yoke of oxen couldn't keep you in hidin'." "there's no use fightin' about it now; for we've got to get a move on us in short order. it won't do to let this boy have a chance to give the alarm." "of course not. lash him up somewhere so he can't make a noise, an' his chums will come before he starves to death." "don't do that!" sam cried, in an agony of terror. "i won't say a word about your catchin' me here, an' i'll do anything you say." "oh, you're a nice plum to make promises, ain't you. it didn't take much persuadin' to make you go back on your friends, an' that's enough to show whether you can be trusted. get the rope out of the boat, phil, an' then we'll make ready for a long jump." phil obeyed, grumbling as he went because his partner had refused to take his advice, thus plunging both of them into danger, and long jim turned his attention to the prisoner once more. "before we leave this part of the country for good i'm goin' to give you somethin' to remember us by so's you won't go 'round stickin' your nose into other people's business agin." "what are you goin' to do?" sam asked, his face growing even paler than before. "give you the worst floggin' a boy ever had. i'd do it now if there wasn't so much work to be got through." sam had sufficient sense to know that all his pleadings for mercy would be in vain, and he held his peace until phil returned with a long coil of rope which had been used as a boat's painter. one of the beams at the end of the barn served as a post to which to lash the prisoner, and here the amateur detective was made fast in such a skillful manner that he could not so much as move his arms. "shall we gag him now?" phil asked, and long jim replied: "no, there's time enough. "he can't make any one hear if he yells his best, an' i've got a little business to settle before he's trussed up for good." chapter xvi. _missing._ when dan informed teddy that sam was missing, and suggested the possibility of the burglars having gotten him in their power, both the boys were decidedly alarmed; but the matter ceased to appear as serious after it had been discussed in all its bearings. "long jim wouldn't have dared to spirit him away when there are so many people around," teddy said, after a long silence, during which he was trying to imagine what sam might have done. "besides, what would be the good of taking him if we were left behind?" "perhaps they count on hauling us in, too." "that isn't to be thought of for a moment. they don't want to burden themselves with a lot of boys when every effort must be made to get the stolen property out of this section of the country before they are discovered." "i'll allow all that sounds reasonable, but where is sam?" "of course i don't know. do you think he would dare to go down the river again after we landed?" "no, indeed; he's too much of a coward for that. if there's been any funny business it was done when the men got back." "then we have no need to worry, for there are hundreds of people on the bank of the creek all the time, an' sam would know enough to yell if anybody tried to steal him." the idea that the amateur detective might be stolen seemed so comical to dan that he gave way to mirth, and what had promised to be a most sorrowful visit speedily became a merry one. "he had permission to remain away from the exhibition building during the rest of the day," teddy finally said, "an' most likely he's goin' to take advantage of it by roaming around the grounds, exercising his detective faculties. he'll turn up at the museum to-night all right, with a big yarn to tell about his supposed adventures." "i reckon you're right; but i did get a little rattled when his boss asked me where he was. i'll come back this way when it's time to go to supper." "wait a minute. i'm mighty hungry now, an' business has been so good that i can afford to treat to sandwiches an' lemonade, if you'll go with me over to the grand stand. i'll bring you back something, tim," he added, as he leaped over the railing. dan said he could remain away half an hour from the rifle exhibit, and teddy was now so easy in mind concerning money matters that he resolved to have thirty minutes of sport. the boys first made a tour of that portion of the grounds where the fakirs were congregated, stopping a moment to see the whip dealer lashing a pine stake to show the quality of his goods, and then watching the "great african dodger," who thrust his woolly head through an aperture in a canvas screen for all those to throw balls at who were inclined to pay the price. then they stopped at the "envelope game," where were spread on a stand a large collection of cheap, gaudy goods, each bearing a printed number, every one supposed to correspond with those contained in a box of envelopes, and this fakir was doing a big business, as was shown by the fact that he could afford to hire a barker, who cried continually at the full strength of his lungs: "come up now, and try your luck! here's where we have all prizes and no blanks! ten cents buys an envelope, with the privilege of drawing for yourself, so there can be no job put up against you, and every number calls for some one of the many valuable articles in the layout. here's a gentleman who spends only ten cents and gets a pair of those beautiful, triple-plated, double-expansion, fine pure metal cuff buttons, worth two dollars at some stores!" "come on!" dan said, impatiently. "that fellow is almost as big a snide as hazelton." "how do you make that out? i can see a lot of things that cost more than a dollar. look at the silver watch, and the revolver." "that may be all very well; but no one except a fellow who is interested in the business gets any of those articles." "you can select any envelope you choose." "that's right; but the ones with the numbers calling for the big prizes are lying flat in the box where nobody can get them. if you should accuse the man of cheating he would turn the whole thing upside down, and then, of course, they could be found. here comes a fellow who i know is cappin' for that fakir. watch how he does it." the apparent stranger approached the stand, and after some talk as to how the game was run, invested ten cents. the man did not open the envelope he drew; but handed it to the fakir, who, pretending to look at the card it contained, shouted: "number fifty-four. the gentleman has drawn that beautiful solid silver watch worth fifty dollars, and i will give him thirty for his bargain." the stranger showed his prize to the crowd that clustered around him, and business was increased wonderfully, for it had apparently been proven that the game was conducted fairly. "now watch him," dan said, as the stranger walked away with his prize ostentatiously displayed, and the two boys followed a short distance off, until they saw him halt behind a booth, where he turned the article won over to a barker who had approached. "that's the way it is done," dan said, "and when we come back you'll see the same watch on the layout." teddy was rapidly being initiated in the tricks of the fakirs, and the more he saw the more firmly was he resolved not to follow the business longer than the present week, although he believed his own game to be an honest one. the cheap jewelry dealer; the man who had been selling the remnants of a stock of knives made by a manufacturer who "had bankrupted himself by putting into them too expensive material;" the fakir with the dolls which were to be knocked down by balls thrown from a certain distance, with a prize of one cigar if the customer could tumble two over, and the peanut-candy dealer were visited in turn, and then the boys were attracted by the sound of hazelton's voice. he was plying his peculiar trade again, and by the appearance of the crowd was meeting with great success. "let's see how he gets out of it this time," teddy suggested, and dan agreed. the fakir had arrived at that point where he was giving away the supposed watches, and the boys listened until they saw his preparations for departure. "what beats me is how he gets clear every time," dan whispered. "i should think after he had swindled four or five hundred, some of them would lay for a chance to get even with him." "he says they do, an' that's why he left his satchel with me." hazelton recognized the boys just as he was telling that nathan hargreaves might possibly act as his agent after the close of the fair, and nodded pleasantly, as he gathered up the reins; but this was one of the occasions when he was not to be allowed to go scot free. two stalwart-looking fellows were standing near the head of the horse, and when the fakir would have driven off they seized the bridle, one of them shouting: "come down with that money! this is the second time i've seen you do us countrymen up to-day, and now you've got to square things." hazelton swung his whip around, striking the speaker full in the face, and causing the horse to plunge and rear, but yet the fellows kept their hold. the whip was pulled from the fakir's hand, and in an instant it appeared as if a riot had begun. those who had been content to keep secret the fact of having been swindled now grew bold as they saw there was a leader in the movement, and more than a hundred leaped forward to seize the representative of the alleged jewelry manufacturers. "he'll be killed!" teddy shouted, and would have attempted to go to the assistance of the man who had been kind to him, despite the fact that he could not have aided him in any way against so many; but for the fact that dan pulled him back, as he shouted: "can't you see that it would be fifty to one if you should go in that crowd? we couldn't help him, and what's the use of gettin' a big lickin' for nothing? besides, what would become of your business if the people here thought you were his partner?" before dan ceased speaking teddy realized how useless would be any effort of his, and he remained passive, trying to get a glimpse of the ill-fated fakir. the numbers who beset him completely hid hazelton from view. the carriage had been overturned by the first desperate rush of the victims, and the horse was clearing a space around himself by the free use of his heels. "they'll commit murder!" teddy cried. "i don't believe it'll be quite as bad as that; but he won't be likely to give away any more lockets while this fair lasts." as a matter of fact, hazelton was not left to fight the battle alone. like every other fakir engaged in that peculiar business, he had several partners whose duty it was to mingle with the crowd for the purpose of intimidating any who might be disposed to make trouble, and these had closed in upon him, while some of the more timid spectators shouted for the constables. [illustration: "run as you never did before, teddy, for if they get hold of us it'll be a bad job all around!"] once teddy caught a glimpse of the unfortunate man; his glossy hat was gone, his clothing torn, and his face covered with blood. "i can see him now!" he cried, "and it looks as if they had about used him up, for----" before he could finish the sentence a stranger rushed toward him, and showing the familiar black satchel in his hand, said hurriedly: "get out of here with that. hazelton will see you some time this evening. don't stop a minute!" before the boy could reply the stranger was forcing his way through the struggling, yelling crowd, in order to aid his partner, and teddy said in dismay: "now we are in a muss. here is all his money, an' if anybody sees us with it we'll have a tough time." "you can't throw it away, an' we must sneak off," dan said, and the expression on his face told how distressed he was that such a responsibility had been thrust upon them. "shall we go back to the stand?" "no, that would never do, for then they would be sure to vent their anger on you. go up to the museum; mr. sweet knows hazelton, an' may be willin' to help him by keeping the satchel till the row is over." these words had been spoken as the boys were trying to make their way through the fringe of spectators which had hemmed them in since the fight began, and after some difficulty they succeeded; but at the same moment one of the combatants, who had received more than his share of punishment, emerged close by their side. he saw hazelton's satchel, and recognized it. "come here, fellows! two little villains are making off with the money! that's what we want!" he at once started in pursuit, as did several others, and dan cried, as he helped carry the burden: "run as you never did before, teddy, for if they get hold of us it'll be a bad job all around!" chapter xvii. _a terrible night._ at just about the same moment when teddy and dan were running with hazelton's money at full speed toward the museum tent, with the chance of escape very much against them, sam was in a decidedly painful frame of mind. after he had been securely tied the two men conversed in low tones for several minutes, and then, as if having arrived at some definite conclusion, began to make preparations for leaving the place. at the same spot where sam had been interrupted while scraping away the dirt they proceeded to dig with a shovel which phil procured from somewhere outside the building, and during this labor the prisoner could hear fragments of the conversation. once long jim ceased his work long enough to say: "when you come to look at the matter quietly it doesn't seem as if we'd got into sich a very bad scrape. you can manage to bring the rest of the stuff down the creek between now an' friday mornin' and i've got a plan for givin' anybody who may come after us a good clue to the boy's disappearance." phil made some remark which sam could not hear, and his companion replied in a louder tone: "it can all be done so's to make folks think we've gone up the creek, an' we've got to lay low for a while, which won't be a hard job while the weather is warm." "but i don't like the idea of totin' that cub with us so long." "i'll take care of him, an' will make him earn his board, or somethin's bound to break." from this time until several packages were unearthed sam could hear nothing; but what had already been said was sufficient to convince him that he was to have a very unpleasant experience, and for at least the hundredth time he fervently wished he had never so much as heard of detective work. after the goods had been brought to light the earth was replaced in the excavation and pounded down carefully. then fully half an hour was spent digging in different places, probably for the purpose of misleading any one who might come there in search of plunder, for phil said in a tone of satisfaction as he ceased the apparently aimless labor: "it'll take at least a day before all of these suspicious looking spots have been investigated, an' in the meanwhile, unless we're chumps, we shall know what's goin' on. i'll take one load to the boat; make sure the coast is clear, an' then the three of us can carry the balance. have the boy ready for a quick move, an' see to it that he can't give an alarm." "i'll knock his head off if he so much as thinks of such a thing," and as phil disappeared with a portion of the plunder long jim began to unfasten sam's bonds, saying as he did so: "we've made up our minds to hold you with us a few days 'cause you're sich jolly company. if you obey orders an' keep your mouth shut there's a chance of gettin' outer this scrape mighty easy; but i'd slit your throat in a jiffy if you tried to give us the slip or made any noise." sam made no reply; but his captor could see very plainly that the boy was nearly paralyzed with fright, and it was safe to infer he would follow the instructions given to the letter. phil returned in a very short time and reported: "the coast is clear. there's not a craft to be seen on the creek, an' we can leave without danger." the rope had been removed from sam's limbs, and long jim proceeded to load him down with bundles until he staggered under the weight. "now, see that you walk a chalk line," the burglar said, fiercely. "foller phil, an' i'll keep behind to make sure there are no tricks played. remember what i promised!" the men could carry the remainder of the goods in one load, and the three went out of the barn hurriedly, sam not daring to so much as lift his eyes from the ground lest long jim's threat should be carried into execution. arriving at the water's edge the boat was loaded, the prisoner ordered to take his place at the oars, and then the final preparations were made. phil uncovered the boat in which sam had come, launched and overturned her. then taking the hat from the unresisting boy's head, threw it far out in the channel, afterward giving the little craft a shove which sent her a long distance from the shore. next the two oars were sent after the hat, and phil said with a laugh: "the current ain't very strong; but with the aid of the wind i reckon that stuff will drift up to the fair grounds before dark." sam's despair was already so great that it did not seem as if it could be increased; but the last vestige of hope fled when he realized that these things had been done in order to make it appear as if he were dead. "teddy and dan won't think of huntin' for me after the boat is found," he thought, "an' these men are sure to kill me before this scrape is over!" the two burglars seated themselves comfortably in the stern-sheets, the packages being placed at the bow to trim the craft properly, and long jim said, sternly: "you've been showin' off your skill as an oarsman for two or three days, an' we want you to do it now. put in your best licks, for it'll be tough if we don't get through the water mighty fast." even sam's worst enemy would have pitied him at this moment. no galley slave chained to his seat could have been more utterly helpless, and he exerted himself to the utmost in order to please those who professed to be so willing to punish or kill. every stroke of the oars took them farther away from the fair grounds, and each puff of wind carried the evidences of the prisoner's death nearer the only ones who might take the trouble to search for him. not until fully an hour had passed did the burglars give any sign of a desire to end the journey, and then long jim said: "we must be six miles from the fair grounds by this time, an' that is as far as you'll want to pull to-night, phil. there should be plenty of good hidin'-places in this bit of woods, an' i think we'd better haul up." "all right. steer her into that ditch over there, an' we'll look around." thus far in his experience as a detective this was the only thing sam had had for which to be thankful. his arms were so tired that it seemed as if he could not have pulled another stroke, and his clothes were literally wet from the perspiration that came from his body. phil went ashore, leaving his companion to watch the almost exhausted prisoner, and in a few moments the former shouted: "load that cub up, an' bring him over here. this is a capital place to locate in for a couple of days." staggering under the heavy burden long jim placed on his shoulders the amateur detective was forced on through the underbrush in advance of his captor until the two arrived at a perfect tangle of cedars. phil returned to the boat for the remainder of the goods, and all the plunder was placed inside the thicket where the foliage was so dense that one might have passed within a few feet of the spot and not had any suspicion men were hidden there. a tiny brook ran past one side of the hiding-place, and sam took advantage of the opportunity to check his raging thirst while the men were laying plans for the future. "i'll go back soon after sunset," phil said, as he lighted his pipe and proceeded to make himself comfortable. "we can leave the boy here to look out for the stuff, an' you'd better come with me up to the barn so's to learn if any one visits the place. i shall be back before morning, an' you can let me know if the coast is clear." "shall you try to finish the job we were talkin' about?" "no; things are so hot jest now that it won't pay to take any more risks than are absolutely necessary. what we want is to get out of this portion of the country as soon as possible." "all right. i'll leave you to manage the rest of the business, an' promise to follow orders." "i think it's about time you said that, jim. if my plans had been carried out in the first place we wouldn't be in sich a muss; but could be havin' the cream of the pickin's at the fair." "well, what's the use of harpin' on that all the time? the thing has been done, an' we've got to make the best of it. do you think it'll be safe to leave this cub here alone while we're away?" "it will be when i get through with him," was the grim reply, and sam, terrified by the vagueness of this remark, more even than he had been by the plain language previously used, cried, piteously: "please don't leave me here alone to-night! i'll pull the boat, an' do everything you say, without so much as yippin'." "them as starts out in the detective business have to take what comes, 'specially when their own foolishness brings it about. you joined our party of your own accord, my son, an' must put up with what we choose to give." sam said nothing more. he was reaping what he had sowed, and decided that matters could not be much worse even if he was caught trying to escape, therefore he resolved to take desperate chances in an effort to give his captors the slip. there was no opportunity to make the attempt, on this night at least, for when phil had finished smoking he proceeded in a very methodical manner to secure the prisoner. sam was ordered to seat himself on the ground, with his back to the trunk of a cedar-tree, and he was fastened skillfully, with his elbows tied back in such a manner that he could not bring his hands together. both feet were bound, and then, with a sudden movement, phil forced the boy's mouth open, shoving into it a short piece of pine wood about an inch and a half in diameter. this was secured in such a manner that the prisoner could not free himself from the uncomfortable bridle, neither would it be possible for him to make the slightest outcry. "now, don't shout for help while we are gone, an' unless the bears eat you up we shall meet again about daybreak," phil said, with a coarse laugh as he and jim went out of the thicket toward the creek. poor sam had never thought of the possibility that there might be bears in this section of the country until the burglar suggested it, and he was so terrified as not to realize it was impossible there could be any dangerous animals in such a thickly-settled portion of the state. therefore, in addition to the danger to be apprehended from his captors, he had constantly before his mind this new cause for fear. the rustling of the leaves, the flight of a bird as it sought a perch for the night, or the soughing of the wind among the branches were to him so many proofs that a violent death would be his before morning. if the beginning of the hours of darkness was so terrible it can well be fancied how he suffered before another day dawned. chapter xviii. _a narrow escape._ neither teddy nor dan had any hope of reaching the museum tent before their pursuers could overtake them, and although both knew what might be the result if they were taken with the jewelry fakir's money and goods in their possession, they did not for a moment think of abandoning the property. the cries of those in the rear attracted the attention of the spectators elsewhere on the grounds, and without waiting to learn the cause of the trouble hundreds of men and boys joined in the chase, all shouting at the full strength of their lungs: "stop thief! stop thief!" the distance to be traversed was nearly a quarter of a mile; but the many turns the boys were forced to make in order to avoid those who were ready to capture them doubled this, and they were yet very far from the goal when a burly, red-faced man jumped in front of them. it seemed as if capture was inevitable; but teddy resorted to the last means of defense, and was successful. letting go his hold of the satchel he lowered his head, leaped forward with full force, striking the officious stranger full in the stomach. the man, not anticipating such an attack at a moment when he almost had his hands upon the supposed thieves, was bowled over like a nine-pin, and, jumping quickly aside, teddy caught hold of the satchel once more. by this time both the boys were so nearly winded that speech was well nigh impossible; but dan managed to gasp admiringly: "you're a dandy, old fellow," and then, with one supreme effort, increased his pace a trifle. it was fortunate that there were no spectators in front of mr. sweet's tent when the boys came in sight of it. the barker was lounging in a chair outside, and on catching a glimpse of the boys recognized them immediately. the crowd in pursuit would have told a duller man than he professed to be that there had been some serious trouble, and, running to meet the boys as if to intercept them, he cried: "circle around the canvas, an' crawl underneath, so's that gang won't see where you've gone!" the fugitives understood the scheme at once, and making a short detour as if to avoid him, dashed under the guy-ropes at one end, gaining the interior of the tent before the pursuers arrived. mr. sweet had just started toward the flap to ascertain the cause of the commotion when the boys entered, and, thinking himself about to be attacked, leaped quickly back as he seized an ironbound stake. "oh, it's you, eh?" he said, on recognizing the intruders. "what's up? are you the thieves they're yellin' for?" teddy was hardly able to speak; but he held up the satchel, as he panted: "hazelton's--they're killin' him--he--wants--this--saved." "yes, i understand it now. jump into the wagon an' get under the stuff there. i'll take the valise. them kind of fakirs are bound to come to grief sooner or later, an' honest people get into a muss tryin' to help 'em. i'd like to see the fair where them kinds of games wasn't allowed; but don't s'pose i ever shall, although it's always promised." while mr. sweet had been grumbling, and at the same time concealing the satchel under the box containing the snakes, the boys were doing their best to hide themselves beneath the litter of ropes and canvas which had been carelessly thrown into the wagon. in the meantime the pursuers came up, discovered the unpleasant fact that the fugitives were no longer in sight, and began to parley with the barker. "i tried to catch 'em," the boys heard the latter say; "but they got around the tent before i had time to find out what the matter was." "they've gone inside!" one of the crowd shouted. "don't let's allow swindlers to get the best of us so easy!" "that's the way to talk!" another cried. "we'll have 'em out if the show has to come down!" at this moment mr. sweet, looking calm and undisturbed, emerged from the flap. "bring out them boys, or down comes your tent!" a man yelled. "i reckon the wisest plan for you to pursue is to wait till i find out what all this means," the proprietor of the museum said loudly, at the same time beckoning the barker and the clown to his side. "it looks to me as if this was the same gang who came here last night tryin' to clean us out, an' warrants for their arrest are in the hands of the constables now. i paid one hundred dollars for the privilege of exhibitin' here, an' that means i'm to have all the protection the managers of this fair and the authorities of the town can give me. i've warned you off; but if you still want to finish up the work of last night, an' the constables don't come in time, there are three of us here who are good for twice that number of your gang, an' when a man gets a tap over the head with one of these he's not in it any longer!" mr. sweet flourished the heavy stake as he spoke, and his employes showed that they were armed in the same manner. "we didn't come to disturb you," one of the crowd said, in a milder tone, as the greater number fell back before the threats made of invoking the aid of the law. "all we want is a valise two boys brought here, for in it is quite a pile of our money." "how did they get it from you?" the proprietor of the museum asked for the purpose of gaining time in the hope the constables would put in an appearance. "we were swindled by a jewelry agent, an' are goin' to get back our own." "oh, you are, eh? well, i haven't got the stuff; but if you allow yourselves to be swindled, will you help matters by turning thieves? you can sue the man who has done you up; but there's a penalty for stealing, as you will find out if you keep on in this way." the less impetuous among the pursuers understood that the showman was speaking only the truth, and, now that they had an opportunity for reflection, began to be ashamed of the part they were playing. one by one walked away without making any further remonstrance, and in a short time only a dozen or so remained in front of the tent. all these were young men, and several had been drinking, therefore the danger was not yet past. "you stand here and brain the first man who attempts to enter," mr. sweet said, as he disappeared inside the tent. then hurrying to where teddy and dan were hidden, he whispered: "it may be possible that in order to avoid a row i shall be obliged to let this gang in. there is no one behind the canvas, and you can slip out readily. go directly back where you belong, an' if anybody accuses you of being the boys who brought away the valise deny it. i'm goin' to make a big bluff about lookin' for constables, an' the minute you hear me talking, move lively." "what about hazelton's money?" teddy asked. "he'll find it here when he dares to come for it." an instant later the fugitives heard him say from the outside: "i propose to call for help in case you very respectable young gentleman should take a notion to break in and steal." "all we ask is that you'll turn out them boys," one of the party replied, angrily, "for, whether it's stealing or not, we're bound to have that fakir's money." "that part of it is nothing to me. there are no boys inside, an' if you want to go in one at a time, so there'll be no chance of gettin' the best of me an' destroyin' my property, i don't think there'll be any objection made." "now's our time before they come?" dan whispered, as he slipped softly down from the wagon, and teddy followed. it was but the work of a moment to raise the canvas and step out. there was absolutely no one in sight. the tent had been erected near the edge of the grounds, and there was nothing in the vicinity to attract the sightseers. "we'll get over the fence, an' come in through the main gate. it's better to pay for admission than to let people suspect we were the ones who have been chased." "go on; i'll stay close at your heels." five minutes later they were walking along the dusty road looking as innocent as possible, and feeling comparatively safe. "do you suppose any one will know us?" teddy asked after they had trudged some distance in silence. "there can't be much danger of that. all the crowd saw were our backs, and, besides, after those fellows cool off they'll be ashamed of themselves. i don't reckon you'll have any trouble; but i may get it hot from the boss because i've been away so long." "i guess there won't be much danger of that; but if anything should happen come to my stand. after what has happened i reckon i can afford to whack up with you on some of the profits, especially since every one says to-morrow is to be such a big day. where do you suppose hazelton is?" "he must have had a chance to get off when the men started for us; but i'll bet he don't look as nice as he did this morning." by this time the boys were at the ticket-office, and, paying the price of admission, they walked into the inclosure without attracting the slightest attention. on the way to his place of business teddy chanced to think of the errand on which they had started out, and he bought a generous supply of sandwiches for dan, tim, and himself. when the two arrived at the cane-board business was at its height, and the clerk and his assistant were having quite as much as they could do to attend to the customers. this saved teddy the necessity of entering into any explanation while strangers were near, and he immediately went to work, not having an idle moment until nearly nightfall, when the greater portion of the visitors had departed. "where did you and dan go that you staid away so long?" tim asked as he and teddy began to pack up the stock of canes and knives. "oh, it's a long story; i'll tell you all about it while we are eating supper," teddy replied, with a significant look in the direction of the assistant. tim understood that there was some secret regarding the matter, and he at once proceeded to get rid of a possible eavesdropper by saying to the assistant: "here's the money i promised. there's no need of your stayin' any longer." "shall i come to work in the morning?" tim looked toward his employer, and the latter said: "yes, of course, if it is pleasant weather. everybody says there'll be a bigger crowd than ever, an' i reckon we shall have work enough for all hands." the boy had but just taken his departure when dan approached, looking very mournful. "have you been bounced?" teddy cried, excitedly. "not a bit of it; but look here," and dan held up a straw hat. "that's poor sam's! his boat has been found bottom up, an' this, with one of the oars, was fished out of the creek a few moments ago. while we were talking rough about him the poor boy was drowning!" chapter xix. _the arrest._ teddy was dazed by the tidings and apparent proof of sam's death. without being able to explain why, it seemed as if the amateur detective was not the sort of a boy who might be expected to depart this life suddenly, and the news saddened him wonderfully. "just think," he said, "the poor fellow wouldn't try to save the women because of the danger of approaching a drowning person, and in such a short time he himself is at the bottom of the creek." "if he has got any folks some word ought to be sent to them." "i never heard him say whether he had or not. will any one search for the body?" "the man who represents the davis company says he will have men out in the morning, if it is possible to hire any; if not, there will be plenty wanting a job by saturday, and he can then get all he wants. it's bound to be a long search, for there's no telling where the boat capsized." nothing save sam's untimely fate was spoken of during the time they were packing up the goods and carrying them to the tent, and then mr. sweet, after having been told the sad news, said, without commenting upon it: "you boys had better go to supper now, an' get back before dark, for there's no knowin' but that some of those fellows who called on me may be waiting to take their revenge out on you." "how did you get rid of them?" dan asked. "that part of it was as easy as rollin' off a log, after you boys were out of sight. i let 'em in one at a time, an' the chumps never tumbled to the fact that you had gone under the canvas. they came to the conclusion you must have climbed over the fence, an' we didn't take the trouble to show them the mistake. it was a close shave, though. at one time, when i was talkin' so loud about stealing, i thought we'd have the toughest kind of a row." "is the money all right?" "it's jest where i left it, an' won't be touched till he comes to claim it, unless you boys want to take charge of the property." "indeed we don't," teddy replied, quickly. "i've had all i want of such caretaking." "then go to supper, an' hurry back." the boys waited only long enough to stow their goods in the wagon, and then mr. sweet's advice was acted upon. as a matter of course tim wanted to know what the proprietor of the museum had been talking about, and as they were walking across the grounds teddy told the whole story, concluding by saying: "it was a little the worst scrape i ever got into; but after the money had been placed in our hands, and the man who left it went off, we couldn't do different from what we did." "that hazelton had no business to get you into such a row," tim replied, indignantly. "why didn't he hang on to the stuff, an' take his lickin' like a man?" "i don't think he knew it was to be given to us. the fellow who did it had seen him leave the satchel with us once, most likely, an' when there was danger of being robbed, believed we could look out for it again. it's the last time such a thing will happen, for i'm going to tell hazelton that i don't want to be mixed up in his business." at this point dan changed the subject of conversation by speculating upon the way in which sam met his death, and this topic was such a mournful one that nothing else was thought of until the party returned to the tent once more. then came the question of how much money had been taken in during the day, and after figuring up the amount he had spent, teddy reckoned the cash on hand, announcing the result as follows: "countin' what i paid out, we've taken sixty-one dollars an' seventy cents since morning. it don't seem reasonable, but a feller has to believe it after seein' the money." "you'll have a much better trade to-morrow, if it is fair, and you're not recognized as one of the boys who helped to get hazelton's money away," mr. sweet said, cheerily. "i predict that the receipts will figure up hard on to a hundred dollars." teddy gasped like a person who is suddenly submerged in cold water at the thought of earning so much, and he realized that if such should be the case he would be able to assist his mother very materially. "i'll pay you, tim, before i get so dazzled as to forget it," he said, with a laugh, and the clerk felt almost as rich as his employer when he received six dollars and seventeen cents for a day's labor which came very near being sport. "i only wish the fair held on for six months," he said gleefully. "it seems too bad that there are only two days more, for saturday never counts." "you can go to the holtown fair, and try it for yourself. i'll give you what stock we have left on hand." "then i'll do it," tim replied, emphatically, and straightway he began to speculate as to the enormous amount of money he would earn. teddy tied his money in as compact a package as possible, intending to give it to his mother when she should arrive on the morrow, and mr. sweet had advised that all hands "turn in" early, when the flap was raised, admitting a man who appeared to be covered with adhesive plaster and bandages. not until the newcomer had approached within the circle of light cast by the lantern did the occupants of the tent recognize him as the jewelry fakir, and teddy cried in surprise: "why, mr. hazelton! we didn't expect to see you to-night!" "did you think i was dead?" "it looked as if you would be killed for a certainty, and you did get pretty well done up." "yes; as the reports of the prize fights put it, 'i'm badly disfigured, but still in the ring.' was the money taken away all right?" "mr. sweet has hidden it." "and how did you come out of the scrape?" "if it hadn't been for the folks here we should have fared about the same as you did." "i'm sorry, my boy, that you were dragged into the matter, and it wouldn't have happened if i'd understood what kelly was going to do. he knew you could be trusted, and so turned it over; but it was a mean situation to put you in." "it wasn't pleasant for any of us," mr. sweet said; "but you can thank the boys for hanging on to the bag as if it had been their own. most fellows of their age would have dropped it long before reaching here. how did you get off?" "when the cry was raised that the money had gone the greater portion of the crowd started in pursuit, an' my partners and i managed to hold our own until a couple of constables came up. they took charge of the team, and gave us a chance to slip through the gates." "what are you going to do now? try it to-morrow?" "with this face? well, i should say not. there is a fellow here who has bought my right to the privilege, and i shall leave peach bottom early in the morning." "that's about the best thing you can do, and i'd advise that you don't spend much time out of doors until then." "i'm not intending to. it was necessary to come here, and, unless you object, i'll stay a while so's they will have time to sober up a bit." "you're welcome to what we've got, even if i don't like your way of doing business." "i want to straighten matters with the boys, and if they----" hazelton did not finish the sentence, for at that moment the canvas flap was pushed aside and a man entered with an unmistakable air of authority. "hold on there, friend," mr. sweet shouted. "we don't allow visitors at this time of night." "i understand that, but reckon you won't make any very big kick when i tell you that i'm one of the deputy sheriffs of this county, and have come to serve a warrant." "on whom?" "frank hazelton, who claims to be an agent for a firm of jewelry manufacturers. i believe you're the man," he added, approaching the disfigured fakir. "you've got that part of it straight enough, but what am i to be arrested for?" "you are suspected of being concerned in the burglary which was committed in this town last night." hazelton did not express nearly as much surprise as the boys, who were really dazed by the announcement. "so hargreaves has finally succeeded," the fakir said half to himself, and the officer replied, quickly: "this has nothing to do with old nathan's affair, although it does look as if the two burglaries were committed by the same person." hazelton remained silent several seconds, during which time the sheriff waited patiently for him to say he was ready to go, and then he asked: "can i speak to one of these boys in private. it has nothing to do with the charge, but i want him to aid me in getting a good lawyer." "i am sorry to say i must hear all that is talked about, however trifling it may be." "well, i don't suppose it can make much difference," and without rising from his seat, hazelton continued, "teddy, you believe i had nothing to do with this thing?" "i can tell what i heard those----" "don't tell anything yet a while; at least, not now. i want you to do this for me: after the fair closes go to that merchant who was so kind to you, and explain to him the whole affair, including your suspicions. ask him to direct you to the best attorney in the county; get all the money from mr. sweet that may be needed, and pay the lawyer's fee. send him to me as soon afterward as possible. it is nothing more serious than lying in jail a few days, and that won't be such a great hardship, now i've got this face on me." "shall i----" "there is no need of saying anything more," hazelton interrupted, fearing the boy was about to speak of the money the proprietor of the museum had hidden. "the merchant will understand and advise if you tell him everything--that is, i think he will; but in case he refuses, talk with some one else whom you can trust." as he finished speaking the fakir arose to his feet, motioned to the officer, and walked directly out of the tent without so much as bidding the others goodby. no one spoke until after he had been absent several minutes, and then teddy asked, with a long-drawn sigh: "do you think he will come out all right, mr. sweet?" "that's hard to say, for i don't know how much proof they may have against him. it's his business that has done a great deal toward inducing a magistrate to issue the warrant, for once a man shows himself to be a swindler, anything else can readily be believed of him." "but what about his money?" dan asked. "that is to be handed over to teddy." "what have i got to do with it?" the boy asked, in amazement. "he told us that as plainly as he dared to talk before the officer, and we'll count it out, after which his stock in trade shall be buried, for i want nothing to do with it." chapter xx. _a proposition._ teddy had the most decided objections to taking charge of hazelton's money, and for several reasons. in the first place he did not want to have the responsibility, and again, the fact of its being in his possession seemed to make him a partner in the business. mr. sweet was determined, however. he insisted that hazelton had stated this as plainly as was possible under the circumstances, and, despite the boy's protests, immediately began the transfer. "it shall be done in such a way that he can't accuse you of having taken any," the proprietor said, as he pulled the satchel from its hiding-place and broke the lock open with a hatchet. "we'll count it in the presence of all hands, and each one shall give teddy a written statement of how much was found." an exclamation of surprise burst from tim's lips as the receptacle was spread out on the ground, for it appeared to be literally crammed with money. mr. sweet separated the silver from the bank notes, spreading both on the ground where they could be seen by every person present, and then he counted them slowly, taking care that the spectators were following his every movement. "i make it three hundred an' forty-eight dollars," he announced. "if there's anybody here who ain't sure that's right, say so now." each member of the party had seen the amount counted, and agreed with the result as declared by mr. sweet, who forthwith wrote the following: we, the undersigned, have seen a valise belonging to frank hazelton broken open, and certify that three hundred and forty-eight dollars, the only money found therein, was handed by jacob sweet to edward hargreaves in conformance with the orders, as we understood them, from the said frank hazelton. "now i want every one to sign that," mr. sweet said, as he handed his lead-pencil first to the barker, "and then teddy and i will have some proof of the amount." it required quite a while for all to conform with the wishes of the proprietor of the museum, owing to the fact that several of the party were far from being skillful penmen, but the task was finally accomplished, and as the money was handed to teddy, the latter asked, ruefully: "what shall i do with it? i'm afraid of losing so much." "that's a risk hazelton is bound to take. fasten it in your clothes somehow, an' be sure you don't get into any row where it can be stolen." by the aid of many pins, and with the assistance of both dan and tim, teddy finally succeeded in disposing of the money about his person in such a way that it was not an unusual burden, and then mr. sweet insisted that all hands should try to get some rest in order to be fresh for the supposedly enormous amount of work to be done on the following day. teddy lay down on the ground with the others, but it was many hours before his eyes were closed in slumber. sam's untimely death, the guardianship of so much money, and his own business affairs all served to keep his eyes open until nearly midnight, when he fell into a sleep so troubled by frightful dreams that it was far from being restful. it seemed as if he had but just lost consciousness when mr. sweet aroused him with the information that the "big" day of the fair was breaking. "turn out an' get your breakfast before sunrise, for on this morning the early bird will pick up many a penny while the lazy ones are yet in bed, an' fakirs must make hay when the sun shines." teddy was on his feet in an instant, and half an hour later, having broken his fast, he was at the booth with his clerk and dan, the latter volunteering his assistance until the exhibition buildings should be opened. the proprietor of the museum had advised him well; the receipts of the cane and knife boards were nearly five dollars before more than half of the booths were in condition for trade, because the trains were running unusually early in order to accommodate the crowds, and when dan felt obliged to leave, business was so good that the proprietor, clerk, and assistant were all working industriously. "if i can get off i'll see you about noon," dan said, as he walked away, and teddy replied: "be sure to come, for mother will be here, and i want you to meet her." from that time until nine o'clock the crowd increased in numbers, and as teddy said during a lull in business, "it seemed as if the grounds were so full that no more could get in." when mrs. hargreaves arrived her son could pay little attention to her, but he proposed that she should amuse herself by looking at the different exhibits until nearly noon, when he stated that he would take an hour off, no matter how great a rush of customers might be around his booth. "i earned sixty dollars yesterday, an' before night i'll have a hundred more, so there's little doubt that this week's work as a fakir will enable me to pay all you owe on the house," he whispered, triumphantly, and his mother walked away, hardly daring to believe what teddy had told her. during the next hour it seemed as if a steady stream of money was flowing into the box, and teddy was feeling confident that mr. sweet's prediction would prove to be correct, when the one especial man he wanted to see came up with a folded paper in his hand. it was the merchant from waterville, and he said, as he handed the document to the boy: "here is the receipted bill, and i am more than glad to see you doing so well." "can i talk with you for five minutes?" teddy asked, hardly noticing the paper as he put it in his pocket. "as long as you want to. what is the matter? running out of stock?" "oh, no, your clerk made such a good selection for me that i've got all i shall need. this is something more important." then teddy hurriedly told the merchant how and where he had first met hazelton; explained fully what the latter's business was; of the accusations made by uncle nathan; what he and dan had heard and seen, and concluded by repeating the request made by the fakir as he was led away to jail. "are you willing to do anything for him?" the boy asked, as his story was finished. "i can't say it is a matter which appeals very strongly to my sympathies, because of the swindles he perpetrated, but if it is an unjust accusation something should be done to help him. the one lawyer above all others who can be of assistance came over with me this morning. i will see him, and later in the day you shall have a call from us." "before you go i wish you would take this money," teddy said, earnestly. "it is too large an amount for me to carry around, and it will be safe with you." the merchant consented to take charge of hazelton's ill-gotten gains, and teddy felt decidedly relieved when the cash was in another's keeping, and he had nothing of more value than an acknowledgment of the same to look after. "in this matter i shall recognize no other order than yours," the merchant said when the transaction was concluded, "and if the fakir should succeed in regaining his liberty he must come to you for the necessary document. "i don't care how it is fixed so long as the money is not in my hands," teddy replied, in a tone of satisfaction, and then he was called upon to attend to another rush of customers, every one of whom was eager to be waited upon first. another hour passed, and it was more evident than before that mr. sweet had been correct when he stated the sum which should be taken in at the cane-board. teddy, having breakfasted early, was so hungry that he was on the point of going out to buy a supply of sandwiches, when another visitor arrived. this was no less a personage than uncle nathan, and he greeted his nephew with the utmost cordiality, as he said: "it looks to me as if you were makin' a power of money here, teddy. i had no idea these triflin' games would so attract the people." glad to be on pleasant terms with the old man once more, teddy stated that they had been at work very hard since the first train arrived, and concluded by saying: "i took over sixty dollars yesterday, and mr. sweet says it'll come near to a hundred to-day." "sixty dollars!" the old man cried. "are you telling me the truth, teddy hargreaves?" "of course i am, an' i've got the money in my pocket to prove it." "why, at this rate you'll soon be a rich man, for you don't seem to lose much of the stock." "we buy a good many canes or knives back. when a man puts a ring over one that he don't want we take it in, and give him five more chances. in that way there is very little goes out compared to the amount of money received." uncle nathan looked around at the players for a moment, and then in a very confidential tone he whispered: "see here, teddy, don't you want a partner? i'll pay for the stock you bought, an'----" "i've already done that out of yesterday's receipts," teddy cried. "all the bills are settled, an' what comes in now is clear profit." "but suppose i stood here an' called up the people i know, don't you think it would make business better?" "and if it should, do you think we could attend to more customers? every minute i talk with you is so much money lost, for the other fellers can't pick up rings an' make change fast enough." "does that mean you don't want to go into business with me?" the old man asked, angrily. "no; but it means that there would be no reason for doing such a thing. i've got no debts, an' there are more customers than can be attended to on so small a board. if you'd made the proposition last monday it would have been different, but now you can't expect me, after taking all the risk, to divide after the work has been done." "who lent you the money to start, teddy hargreaves?" uncle nathan cried, his face growing purple with rage. "you did." "and how have you repaid such generosity? how----" "i gave you three dollars for the use of fifteen two days," was the prompt reply. "but how have you repaid me for remaining inactive after my money was stolen?" "that was something which did not concern me, therefore i had nothing to repay." "it has a great deal to do with you, as shall be shown before this day is ended, unless you consent to take me as an equal partner in this enterprise. your friend in crime has been arrested, and i can swear that he turned over to you his ill-gotten gains. one word from me at this time and you will be in the same prison." the fact of his having been threatened before made teddy bold, and he said, quietly: "i won't pay you for holding your tongue, uncle nathan, so do whatever you choose." "i will inform the authorities of all i have learned this morning, and we shall see what the result will be," the old man cried, in a fury, as he walked away, and despite the bold bearing he had assumed teddy firmly believed that if the magistrate who issued the warrant for hazelton's arrest should know he was in possession of the fakir's money, he would be brought before a bar of justice to explain matters. chapter xxi. with the burglars. it is well to look in upon sam during his enforced vigil of wednesday night. for at least two hours after the burglars had departed he thought of nothing save that he would soon be killed, and, perhaps, devoured by wild animals. then the pain in his jaw and limbs became so great, owing to the tightly bound cords and his inability to move, that his sufferings overcame the fear to a certain extent, and he had not even the poor consolation of being able to give vent to an audible groan. notwithstanding the mental and bodily torture he did sleep occasionally during the night, which appeared to be of twenty-four hours' duration, and never had he heard a sweeter sound than when his captors approached, the hum of their voices reaching him before the noise of their footsteps. the burglars were laden with packages of what appeared to be merchandise, and by the faint light of the coming day sam could see that they looked heated and tired. "well, how's our detective?" long jim asked, with a laugh, as he threw himself on the ground by the boy's side. "has he decided to arrest his victims, or will he give them a little show of leaving the country?" as a matter of course sam could not make any reply; but the expression in his eyes must have told of the suffering which he was forced to endure, for phil said, as he began to untie the rope holding the gag in place: "there's no need of keepin' him trussed up any longer, an' i reckon it'll be a relief to have a chance to use his tongue once more." even when he was free the prisoner was unable to do more than roll upon his side. his limbs were so stiff and cramped that he had no power over them, and he could not have risen to his feet just at that moment if his life had depended upon it. jim seemed to think all this was very comical, for he laughed loudly at the prisoner's helplessness, and suggested that if he intended to follow the business of a detective to practice remaining in one position in order to avoid such a complete collapse when fortune should again be so unkind to him as she had been in this particular case. when the burglar's mirth finally ceased the two men lighted their pipes, and proceeded to enjoy a season of repose after so much fatiguing work, while sam was left to recover as best he might. fully half an hour elapsed before he succeeded in crawling to the brook where he quenched his thirst, and then his one desire was for sleep. stretched out on the ground within a few feet of his captors the blissful unconsciousness of slumber came upon him, and the sun was high in the heavens before he awoke. long jim was seated on the turf, his back against a tree, and a quantity of food spread out in front of him; but phil was not in sight. "well, it strikes me you've been takin' things mighty comfortable," the man said, with a grunt. "don't give yourself so far over to a life of pleasure as to forget that i promised to give you the greatest floggin' of your life before we part, for then you won't be so much surprised when it comes." the sight of the food caused sam to realize how very hungry he was, and, regardless of the subject introduced by jim, he asked, timidly: "can't i have somethin' to eat?" "i don't think you can, my son. in the first place you haven't earned it, an' then, again, my partner an' i may need all the grub we've got on hand." then, as if reconsidering his determination, the man selected two small crackers, tossing them to sam as he cut a slice of boiled ham for himself. "that's more'n you deserve," he said, as the prisoner began to devour them eagerly; "so don't count on gettin' another bite to-day." sam literally devoured the food, and then went once more to the brook to wash down the dry repast. it seemed as if the crackers increased rather than satisfied his hunger, and he watched jim eagerly as the latter finished a generous meal of meat, cheese, and hard-boiled eggs. the burglar lighted his pipe, and paid no attention to the hungry boy, who now had ample time for reflection. he remembered that this was the important day of the fair, and pictured to himself teddy and dan at their work enjoying themselves at the same time they were making money. then he thought of what he might be doing if the detective fever had not taken so firm a hold upon him, and, despite all efforts to prevent it, the tears coursed down his cheeks, plowing wide furrows in the dirt with which his face was encrusted. this painful revery was not prolonged. shortly before noon phil came into the hiding-place, his face wearing an expression of entire satisfaction. "i reckon we needn't be afraid any one will be here lookin' for us now our detective has been drowned," he exclaimed. "what's up?" jim asked. "hazelton, the fakir, has been arrested for the burglary at peach bottom, an' men are draggin' the creek to find the body of the boy who worked for the davis boat company." sam actually shuddered at the thought that people were looking for his corpse, and it gave him an "uncanny" feeling, this idea that he was numbered with the dead. "when was the arrest made?" jim asked. "last night. old nathan from the run says the fakir turned over a lot of money to the boy who was goin' to buy your cane-board, an' it looks very much as if he would be locked up with the man whom people believe is his partner." "nothin' said about what the cubs saw at the barn?" "not a word." "then we can count on havin' the balance of this week in which to leave the country." "as much as that, if not more. another load will get the stuff together; but i've been thinkin' we'd better bury it here, an' not try to move a thing for a month or two." "in that case we'd be obliged to take that specimen along," and jim pointed with a contemptuous gesture toward sam. "it wouldn't do to let go of him while there was a chance of his givin' the game away." "i'll 'tend to that part of it, an' guarantee he won't be in condition to make us much trouble," phil said so confidently that sam began to shake as with an ague fit, for it seemed positive to him this burglar had decided upon his murder. "if things were so comfortable like why don't you try to make a dollar, for i reckon there's a big crowd at the fair?" "the grounds are packed; but it ain't exactly safe to do much business," and phil told of the assault upon hazelton. "the whole boilin' of 'em now think everybody's tryin' to work some swindle," he added, "an' the consequence is that it would go hard with any feller who should slip up. we've done enough for one week, an' i'd rather not take chances till this stuff is off our hands." "do you count on goin' back agin to-day?" "what's the use?" "i only asked, for you're managin' this whole thing now." "my idea was to sneak up alone to-night; take on the balance of the stuff, an' then lay low till saturday evenin', when we'll make the big break." "it's goin' to be mighty dull business sittin' here with nothin' to do," jim replied, in a tone of complaint. "i don't see how we can fix it much quicker, unless we go to-morrow, while there are so many around." it was evident jim did not relish the idea of leaving everything to his companion, and the latter so understood the expression on his friend's face, for he said, angrily: "you're cookin' up some foolish scheme now, an' in spite of all i can do to prevent it we'll probably succeed in gettin' nabbed before matters are arranged as they should be." "oh, you're too smart, that's what ails you. take all the soft snaps, an' leave me here to suck my thumbs without even the chance of movin' around." "if you think it's sich a snap to row up there an' back, why don't you try your hand." "that's jest what i'm willin' to do. anything's better'n stayin' here, an' i'd like you to have a taste of it." sam, who was expecting each moment to see the thieves come to blows, understood at once that this arrangement did not please phil; but he made no further objection than to say: "if you wasn't so blamed careless i'd like to have you do a share of the hard work; but it's ten to one you'll contrive to let everybody know you are there." "i may not be so all-fired smart as you think you are, but i ain't quite a fool. why, i've managed bigger things than this when you was around beggin' for something' to eat, 'cause you was too chicken-hearted to do this kind of work." "you'd better not say too much; i've stuck by you when worse men would have a' given you the cold shake, an' don't intend to take any guff, especially since i've had sich hard work to get us out of the scrape you jumped into." "i shall talk, an' if you don't want to listen, there are plenty of places to lay off in outside of this." then the two thieves glared at each other several moments in silence, and finally phil said, with a mirthless laugh: "we won't fight till this job is finished. go an' get the balance of the stuff, an' we'll make a break whenever you are ready; but after one pull up an' back there'll be somebody besides me who'll think it hard work." then, in order to heal the breach which had opened between them, phil produced a suspicious looking black bottle from his pocket, and handed it without comment to his partner. "why didn't you bring this out before, an' then, perhaps, the business would 'a' looked different?" jim growled, as he drank long and deep; "but it won't make any difference about my goin' up the creek." "that's all right; i'm satisfied." as the two men began to drink a great hope sprang up in sam's heart that they would become so stupefied by the liquor that he might make his escape. they had not thought it necessary to replace the bonds which had cost him so much suffering, and at the first signs of unconsciousness he resolved to make one dash for liberty, either by taking to the boat, or attempting to make his way toward the fair grounds on that side of the creek. there was no such good fortune in store for the prisoner, however. the men drank themselves into the most friendly humor, and then the supply of liquor was exhausted. after advising jim not to start until sunset, phil lay down to sleep, and sam thought it wise to feign slumber also, lest the wakeful burglar should take it into his head to administer the promised flogging in order to pass the time more agreeably. chapter xxii. _a disaster._ teddy was decidedly uncomfortable in mind after uncle nathan departed. by a combination of circumstances which could not well have been avoided, he had been made to appear as a confederate of hazelton, and if all the facts concerning his relations with the fakir should become known public opinion would he against him. he did not allow these forebodings to interfere with business, however. customers were plenty; the nickels were coming in as rapidly as he could make change, and tim had no hesitancy in saying that mr. sweet had set their receipts of one day considerably too low. "we've done twice as much as we did yesterday at this time, an' i'm countin' on gettin' twelve or fifteen dollars as my share of this day's work." "it looks as though you wouldn't be disappointed, and that's a fact. i wish i knew where we could get a few more canes, for we've lost quite a good many this morning." "there's no time to go to waterville; but we can shorten the board by putting the uprights closer together, an' that'll make the layout look all right. here comes your mother, an' if you want to go off with her i'll promise to keep things goin' here." that was exactly what teddy did want to do. he felt that it was necessary she should know the true condition of affairs, and he could not talk with her confidentially near the cane-board, therefore when she came up he proposed that they walk toward the grand stand, where the waterville band was doing its best to put in the shade the performances of the musicians from the run. "you are looking worried, teddy," mrs. hargreaves said, as they moved away in the proposed direction. "what is the matter? isn't business as good as you expected?" "it is a great deal better; but uncle nathan has been here again, and this time i'm afraid it is in his power to do me some harm." then teddy told his mother all that had happened, explaining in detail the suspicions which might be aroused against him, and she was quite as disturbed as he when the recital was finished. "i will talk with him myself," she said, after some thought. "don't do anything of the kind, for then he will be worse than ever, thinking he can frighten me into giving half of all i have made, and that i won't do, no matter how many warrants he gets out." "but teddy, don't you think----" mrs. hargreaves was interrupted by a cry from a half-intoxicated man who halted directly in front of the young fakir, and shouted to some of his companions in the rear: "here he is! this is the sneak who helped take that jewelry swindler's money away. i saw him then, an' can swear to his face." as a matter of course the tone as well as the words was sufficient to attract a crowd in this place where the throng was so dense that one could only make his way from one portion of the grounds to the other with the greatest difficulty, and for a moment, while teddy stood unable to decide what should be said or done, every person looked at him threateningly. "his partner has been arrested, an' we'll serve him in the same way," the man continued, as he advanced toward the boy. "why do you want to talk to me like that?" teddy cried, looking around in vain for a friend. "there are plenty of people here who know me, for i live down at the run, an' never swindled anybody." "that's a lie!" the man replied, fiercely, seizing the boy by the collar. "it's the truth!" mrs. hargreaves cried. "i'm his mother, and we have lived at the run ever since he was born. deacon jones is our neighbor, and he can answer for the truth of it." [illustration: "i tell you to let go of him. he is an acquaintance"] "i'll see whether he can or not," and the bully was about to drag teddy away, aided by his half-intoxicated friend, when a familiar voice from the outskirts of the crowd cried: "hold on there! what are you about?" "i've caught the feller what sneaked away the jewelry swindler's money, an' am goin' to put him with his partner." "you are going to take your hand off his collar this instant, or get yourself into trouble," and the merchant from waterville forced his way through the throng until he stood by teddy's side. "is that you, mr. reaves?" the bully asked, in surprise. "well, you don't want to interfere in this business, for the boy is a bad one all the way through. he was deep enough to get the best of us yesterday; but he won't be so lucky now." "i tell you to let go of him. he is an acquaintance of mine whom i would trust a good deal sooner than some whom i see now." "but you are makin' a big mistake, mr. reaves, for i saw him makin' off with the valise where our money had been put." it was evident the bully had considerable respect for the merchant, for he released his hold on teddy; but was determined that the boy's alleged character should be made known to all in the vicinity. "i happen to know all about that affair," mr. reaves replied, as he led teddy and his mother out of the throng, "and if you want the full particulars of the affair come to my store when you are more sober than now." a very large number of those present were acquainted with the merchant, and for the majority his statement was sufficient to absolve teddy of wrongdoing; but a few, among whom were the intoxicated party and his friends, vowed to sift the matter more thoroughly before the fair came to an end. mrs. hargreaves was terribly excited, and at once insisted that teddy should go home with her immediately, regardless of how much money he was making; but mr. reaves said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if such incidents were of everyday occurrence: "it would be foolish for him to do that, more especially since it would be a tacit acknowledgment of guilt, and, besides, his business here is too valuable to be abandoned simply because a drunken rowdy chooses to make trouble. i was on my way to see him; i have found a lawyer who will under-take hazelton's case, and he can at the same time give teddy some good advice." then the merchant introduced mr. harvey as the most prominent attorney in the county, and, offering mrs. hargreaves his arm, added: "we will go toward the cane-board, and give them an opportunity to talk. "there is a great deal to be said which cannot interest us, and when they are done we shall be readily found." the widow could do no less than comply, and as soon as they were comparatively alone the lawyer said to teddy: "now, i want you to begin and tell me the whole story from the time your money was stolen until this minute. don't omit any particulars because you may chance to think they are not important; but give every detail, and thus i shall be made acquainted with your own case as well as that of hazelton." teddy obeyed this command to the letter. he dwelt upon the most minute transaction or trifling movement at sufficient length to give the listener a clear idea of all that had happened, and laid bare his own business affairs, even to the extent of making the lawyer acquainted with the amount of receipts each day. "i don't suppose it makes any difference what i think," he said, in conclusion; "but i am almost certain mr. hazelton did not have anything to do with the robbery, and even if i had suspected him, that which dan and i heard while we were in the museum tent would have convinced me that the men whom we saw on the creek are the thieves." "i believe as you do, my boy, and will send a man to the barn you speak of this very night, although so much time has now elapsed that i have no hope of finding anything criminating. however, regardless of what may happen, i believe we can show that the fakir was not the guilty party, and, to guard against a possible attack by your uncle, it will be necessary to know exactly where we can get bail in case you should be arrested." "then he can take me to jail?" teddy asked, with quivering lips. "if he proves what he claims to know there is no question that he will be able to cause your arrest; but whether he can send you to prison is an entirely different matter. i would now like to have a talk with mr. reaves, and shall see you before i leave the grounds. do not be frightened; but continue your business as usual, and in a few moments i will give you full particulars as to what must be done in the event anything happens." teddy understood this to be an intimation that the interview was at an end, and he started toward the cane-board, the lawyer asking as he followed him: "how shall i find your friend dan?" "go down to the exhibit of the j. stevens arms and tool company in that yellow-roofed building, and you will see him showing model pocket rifles. i will go with you if you think there is any chance of missing him." "i can find him without difficulty. do not leave your place of business until after i have seen you again." by this time they had arrived at the cane-board, where mrs. hargreaves, looking decidedly relieved in mind, was talking with mr. reaves. the lawyer invited the merchant to accompany him, and as the two walked away mrs. hargreaves said: "after talking with mr. reaves i will take back what i proposed regarding taking you home. it is not possible that anything but the right shall conquer in a case like this, and i believe you will come out all right, as a boy should who has always been as obedient and loving as you. it is time for me to be going now; but i will come back again in the morning." "then take this money with you, for i don't want any more in my pockets than is absolutely necessary," and teddy counted out the contents of the box which served him as a "safe." there was but little time for any lengthy leave-taking. the customers were plenty; tim and his assistant had been working several hours without cessation, and teddy felt that it was his duty to relieve them. "you can trust mr. reaves, whatever happens," his mother said, as she kissed him goodby, "and i shall be back to-morrow to learn if you are all right." "don't worry about me," teddy replied, cheerily. "uncle nathan can't have everything his own way, and he will soon discover that fact." it seemed to teddy that his mother had but just left him, when a party of young men who had been talking in an apparently friendly manner directly in front of his place of business, suddenly began to quarrel, and before he was aware of what had happened his booth was overturned, and a fierce battle being waged upon the ground which he fancied belonged temporarily to him because of the money paid to the managers of the fair as rent. canes, knives, rings, and timbers were thrown violently about, and, while trying to save the property, teddy and his clerk received several severe blows intended for some of the combatants. chapter xxiii. _a second arrest._ when the fight began teddy's first thought was that it had been prearranged by some one who wanted to do him an injury without taking the chances of being arrested on a charge of malicious mischief. tim believed it to be a scheme for robbing the money box, and while the combatants were struggling close around him he emptied the contents into his trousers pockets, regardless of the chance blows received meanwhile. that both were wrong in their conjectures could be told later, as the fight assumed the proportions of a small riot, and the battle ground was soon shifted to an open space in front of the exhibition buildings. it was nothing more than a causeless row such as is often witnessed at fairs where intoxicating beverages are sold, and which start from comparatively nothing, illustrating the proverb: "see what a great fire a little spark can kindle." "this is goin' to knock our hundred dollars in the head," tim said, ruefully, as he began to gather up the scattered stock when the combatants had surged to and fro until they were some distance from the wrecked cane-board. "it'll take an hour to straighten things out, an' all that time will be the same as lost." "it might be worse," teddy replied, philosophically, "and, besides, we shouldn't be able to do any business while that row is going on. if you hadn't thought of the money it might have been lost, for there were so many close around me that i couldn't get at the box." "oh, if you want to pick somethin' good out of the trouble, i'll help. this will give us a chance to shorten the board so the stock won't look quite so small." the young fakirs were ready for business in considerably less time than they had fancied would be the case. nearly every one on the grounds was attracted by the riot, and among those who came to the scene of the conflict was dan. instead of watching the struggling, yelling throng, he helped teddy and tim restore the booth to order, and with such aid as the assistant could give the work was done very quickly. before the spectators had quieted down sufficiently to turn their attention to sport once more everything was ready for business, and when the constables had taken the ringleaders in the fight away, money began once more to roll into teddy's coffers. before dan returned to his own work he heard of all that had occurred since morning, and his comments on uncle nathan's behavior were more forcible than polite. "he's an old fool what oughter be rode on a rail till he can't see, an' i'm goin' over to the run before i start for home jest to give the duffer a piece of my mind." "i don't believe that would do either you or him any good," teddy replied, laughingly. "i don't know what effect it'll have on him; but i'll feel a mighty sight better. he shows himself to be the worst swindler on the grounds when he tries to scare you into givin' him half you've made, for that's what his talk means." "if he don't do any worse than threaten i won't say a word; but he's so mad there's no knowin' what'll happen." "the lawyer will see that you pull through all right; but if trouble should come, be sure to send for me. i'll manage to get off somehow." with this assurance dan hurried back to the exhibition buildings, and teddy was free to assist tim in waiting upon the customers. during the remainder of the afternoon the young fakirs had quite as much as they could attend to, and then, just as trade had so fallen off that tim could wait upon the customers alone with the aid of the assistant, teddy received a call from mr. harvey, the lawyer. "come here behind the booth where we can talk without being overheard," he said, peremptorily, and the boy obeyed at once, asking before the attorney had time to speak: "do you know if uncle nathan is goin' to do anything?" "he is certainly trying very hard, and in case he should succeed in getting a warrant, you will demand of the officer who serves it to be taken directly to deacon jones. mr. reaves and i have just had a talk with him, and in our absence he will render such assistance as you may require." "that sounds as if you believed uncle nathan would be able to do as he threatened." "it is well to be prepared for any emergency, since no man can say exactly what may happen. during the night two constables will go to the barn on the marshes where you saw the burglars carry some of the goods, although i do not think any good is liable to result from the visit, for the men have probably been frightened away by this time. enough may be found, however, to prove the truth of your story, and that will be sufficient to give the thick-headed authorities an inkling that their judgment as to who the burglars are is not infallible." "have you seen mr. hazelton yet?" "no; but i shall call on him before going home. the best thing which could happen now for all concerned would be the arrest of the man you call long jim, and to that end both you and dan must keep a sharp lookout, for it is barely possible he may be bold enough to come on the grounds again." "but what could we do in case we did see him?" "follow him quietly until you meet a constable, and then insist that he be arrested for swindling you out of fifteen dollars. there is not sufficient proof to connect him with the robbery here or at the run; but i will take care that he is held long enough as a common swindler to enable us to sift the other matter. let me see, you said dan was with you at the time of the transaction in waterville?" "no; it was poor sam, and now that he is dead i'm the only one who saw long jim there. do you know if they have found sam's body?" "i think not; men have been dragging the creek all day, and the probabilities now are that some time will elapse before it can be recovered. i want you to be very careful during the remainder of to-day and to-night. go to the tent where you sleep before dark, and do not venture outside under any provocation, no matter what message may be brought." "what do you mean?" teddy asked, in surprise. "nothing particular; i am only taking precautions, that is all. i shall be here to-morrow, and will see you then." the lawyer turned to go, and had just passed out from behind the end of the booth when teddy seized his arm, pulling him back very suddenly. "there's long jim now!" he whispered, excitedly. "see! that man over there by the striking machine!" it was indeed the burglar whose partner had warned him against visiting the fair, or even showing himself in the vicinity during the daytime. it could be plainly seen that he was decidedly under the influence of liquor, and he swaggered to and fro as if in his drunken brain was the idea that no one would dare cause him trouble. "are you certain there is no mistake?" the lawyer asked, as he watched the man. "i'd be able to recognize him anywhere, no matter how he was dressed, an' so would dan, for sam an' me pointed him out two or three times." "then the hardest portion of our work is finished. i shall have him arrested on the charge of swindling you, and can arrange it without the formality of first getting a warrant. it is now more necessary than ever that you should remain where i can find you readily at any hour of the day or night." "except when i go for supper, i'll be here or in the tent," teddy replied, and then there was no further opportunity for conversation. long jim had started leisurely, and on anything rather than a straight course, toward the grand stand, and mr. harvey followed so near that he could have placed his hand on the burglar's shoulder. teddy watched until the two were lost to view amid the throng, and then said to himself, with a sigh: "i'll bet the lawyer can't find a constable, an' that long jim gets clear somehow. but what i don't understand is how he dares to come here." he would have run down to tell dan of the startling news had it not been for mr. harvey's injunction to remain in the places designated, and he was so nervous that only with the greatest difficulty could he wait upon an impatient customer. an hour passed, and nothing had been heard from either the lawyer or the burglar. the visitors remained later on this day than usual; but the tardy ones were departing, and it was with a decided sense of relief that teddy began to pack up his stock for the night. dan arrived before the work was finished, and his excitement was great when he learned of what had happened. "can't we go somewhere to find out if the man was arrested?" he asked, eagerly. "i promised to be on hand in case the lawyer should want me." "then we'll get the stuff to the tent, go to supper, an' afterward i'll snoop 'round to hear the news." all hands worked rapidly, and in ten minutes the three boys were at the boarding-house, eating as if each moment were of the utmost importance, when they overheard a conversation between two men at the next table which caused them no slight degree of relief and pleasure: "who was that drunken fellow constable ford lugged off this evening?" one of the men asked, and the other replied: "a man who swindled a boy over at waterville out of fifteen dollars." "i didn't see any boy in the crowd." "he wasn't there. lawyer harvey recognized the fellow, and insisted on his arrest, sayin' that the 'squire already knew about the case." "i thought at first it might be some one who had been robbing the stores around here." "oh, the burglar has been caught already, an' laid in jail since yesterday." "but he was only arrested on suspicion." "there'll be proof enough to convict him, i reckon, an' if there isn't he ought to be sent to jail for six months because of what he has done on the grounds." then the conversation was changed to a subject in which the boys had no interest, and dan whispered to teddy: "that settles long jim, an' now if your lawyer is as smart as he appears to be it won't take long to show that hazelton didn't have anything to do with the burglar tryin' to get me in jail," teddy replied, with a sigh. "of course it will. things are turning out all right after all, an' if poor sam hadn't been drowned we'd have a reg'lar celebration to-night." chapter xxiv. _a third arrest._ when the boys returned to the museum tent from supper they had a long and interesting story to tell mr. sweet; but to their surprise, after the recital was concluded, he said calmly: "i knew all of that except about the burglar's arrest." "why, how did you hear it?" dan asked. "the lawyer an' the merchant have been over here twice since noon, pumpin' me about hazelton, an' tryin' to find out how you boys have behaved yourselves." "why did they want to know anything about us?" teddy asked, in surprise. "so's to make sure your stories were straight. when men like them take hold of a thing they don't want to run any chances of bein' fooled. what has been done about sam?" dan could best answer this question, and he replied: "the body hasn't been found; but i heard the manager of the davis boat company's exhibit say that he should keep men at the work of draggin' the creek till the work was finished. i can't get through my head how he happened to capsize the craft, for she didn't seem to be cranky." "that is something none of us will ever know," mr. sweet replied, solemnly, and then, as if to change the mournful subject, he asked: "how did business pan out to-day, teddy?" "i'll count up. we must have come pretty near to what you predicted; but we would have done a great deal better if it hadn't been for the big row. that made us lose at least an hour, to say nothin' of havin' six canes broken just when we needed every one in order to make a good show." then teddy and tim emptied the contents of their pockets on a piece of canvas, and the other occupants of the tent waited patiently for the result to be announced. "it's ninety-four dollars and forty-five cents," the former said, after counting the money twice as if doubtful of the first result. "that's a big sum of money, but there's no chance of a mistake." "you can figure that the row cost you six dollars," mr. sweet replied, puffing vigorously at his pipe. "i haven't been 'tendin' out on fairs these eight years without bein' able to name the amount of such a business as yours." "we'd have had twenty-five more but for that row," tim said, decidedly. "you're wrong there, my boy," and the proprietor of the museum wore an air of one who "knows it all." "that is about as much as two boys can take in, an' you don't want to kick, for i've seen lots of fakirs come on to a fair ground with a better cane-board than yours an' not get expenses. be thankful for what you've earned, an' hope that you can pay expenses to-morrow, for there won't be any too much money floatin' around after such a business as we've had to-day." "i'm more than satisfied," teddy replied, as he set aside the amount due tim, and the latter appeared to be more than contented with having earned nine dollars and forty-four cents so easily. "you can suck your thumbs from now out," the barker said, philosophically, "for the backbone of trade has been broken, an' the peach bottom fair is already numbered with the things of the past." "don't you think we'll do anything more?" teddy asked. "oh, yes, there'll be a little to pick up until to-morrow night, but it won't amount to anything near like what has already been done, although it'll be clear profit." "since i am more than satisfied, there's no chance of being disappointed," teddy replied, and at that moment the head of a stranger appeared between the flaps of canvas. "is there a boy named teddy here?" the newcomer asked. "well, what do you want of him?" and mr. sweet sprang to his feet as if anticipating trouble. "nothing more than what hazelton wanted me to say," was the reply, as the stranger entered, evidently thinking his search was at an end. "and what is that?" the proprietor of the museum asked, motioning teddy to remain silent. "there's no need of all this secrecy with me, for i'm hazelton's partner in everything except the give-away game," the stranger said, with a laugh. "it appears a man has been arrested by a party whom this boy teddy knows, and i'm to say that he is to come to jail very early to-morrow morning." even now mr. sweet's suspicions were not allayed, and he asked, cautiously: "could you tell me what he's wanted for?" "lawyer harvey will be there, and is going to talk with him where hazelton can hear what is said." "is that all?" "everything; and if you see the boy, can i depend on your repeating the message?" "under the circumstances there can be no harm in taking every precaution," the proprietor of the museum replied, "and if your errand is finished, i may as well say that this is the boy teddy whom hazelton sent you to see." "that's all right; there was no need of pointing him out; but since you have done so, i simply want to ask if he can spare the time to do as hazelton and the lawyer wish?" "of course i can," and now teddy spoke for himself. "say that if nothing happens i'll be there." "have you heard whether your uncle has succeeded in getting a warrant?" the stranger asked. "no; but mr. harvey seemed to think he might be able to do so, and i don't want to make any promises that can't be carried out." "then i'll count on your being there, but since leaving the jail i've heard enough to warrant my advising you to remain under cover to-night." "why?" "those fellows who started the fight when you got away with the money are swearing vengeance. i don't think it's likely they'll attack the tent, for, owing to the representations made by the lawyer, there'll be a big force of constables on duty to-night; but if you should venture outside the grounds it might be impossible to keep any engagement in the future." "i wasn't thinkin' of leaving here," teddy replied; but the mere fact that he ought not do so made him feel very uncomfortable. "i couldn't be in any worse fix if i had committed some big crime," he said, bitterly, "and it is tough to feel like a criminal when a fellow is only trying to earn honest money." "it isn't the rule that honest people fare the best," the stranger replied, with a laugh; "but i hope you'll come out on the top of the heap. at all events, my business here is finished and i'll go." the folds of canvas dropped behind him, and mr. sweet said, musingly: "it beats all how you boys have succeeded in getting yourselves mixed up in this affair. if i didn't know all the circumstances i'd say there must be some fire where there is so much smoke." "the smoke isn't of our makin', an' teddy's uncle can be blamed for the most of it," dan said, angrily. "i only wish he was here to know my opinion of him." "are you talkin' about me?" uncle nathan asked, as he pushed aside the canvas and entered without so much as asking permission. "that's exactly what i was doing," dan replied, without any show of fear, "an' if you've been sneakin' 'round to listen, there's no need of my tellin' over ag'in jest what i think of a man who tries to frighten an honest boy into givin' up half of what he has made." "an honest boy?" the old man repeated, with a sneer, and teddy whispered to his friend: "don't say anything to make him angry, for i'll only get the worst of it." "of course you will," uncle nathan replied, having overheard the words. "when an ungrateful wretch like you conspires to rob the hand that has fed him he must expect to get the worst of it." "i never took from you the value of a cent," teddy said, stoutly, and dan cried as he sprang to his feet: "if there has been any attempt at robbery, you're the guilty one, for you've tried to steal half the money he made by threatening to have him arrested if he didn't divide his profits." "that was only a business proposition," the old man replied, not in the least abashed, "and he has aided others in stealing from me." "what do you want here?" mr. sweet cried, angrily. "this is my tent; i have paid for the privilege of putting it upon these grounds, and have the right to prevent such old hypocrites as you from entering without paying an admission." "look out that you do not come within reach of the law," uncle nathan replied, threateningly, stepping back quickly, as if expecting an attack. "i am here armed with the right to take this boy, and shall exercise it despite all that may be said. come in, mr. officer." in response to this call a constable entered, and teddy's heart sank within him, for he understood that the long-deferred arrest was about to be made. "there is your prisoner," the old man said, vindictively, as he pointed to the boy, "and the sooner you take him to jail where he belongs the sooner we shall be rid of a viper." [illustration: as the constable approached him, teddy said, "i demand to be first taken to deacon jones!"] teddy's grief and fear were so great that he could not speak, and even dan appeared to have been made dumb by this show of authority; but mr. sweet was somewhat accustomed to such scenes, and he demanded: "show me the warrant. i do not propose to let any one be taken out of my tent by such an old reprobate as that until i am satisfied it is done under the sanction of the law." "convince yourself," uncle nathan replied, as the constable held out a folded document. "that will show under what authority we act." sweet read it carefully, and handed it to the officer as he said to the old man: "this shows that the constable has the right to take teddy to prison; but as certain as there will be a sun in the sky to-morrow so certain will i aid him in making you suffer for doing this thing. you know he had nothing to do with the burglary committed at your store, and have only had this issued in the hope of defrauding him of what he has earned honestly." "talk is cheap," uncle nathan said, impatiently. "officer, take your prisoner away unless you count on stayin' here all night." the short parley between the proprietor of the museum and the accuser gave teddy time to think of what the lawyer had said, and he added, as the constable approached him: "i demand to be first carried to deacon jones'." "now what kind of a bee have you got in your bonnet?" the old man cried, displaying both surprise and fear. "i say you are to go to jail, an' that settles it." "if he wants to see the deacon i'm bound to take him there," the constable said. "who's been makin' sich foolish talk to you?" uncle nathan screamed. "lawyer harvey told me what the law was, an' i don't intend to get into any fuss by deprivin' a prisoner of his rights," was the stolid reply. chapter xxv. on bail. when uncle nathan learned that the celebrated lawyer had made preparations for this move on his part he was literally beside himself with rage, and vowed that the warrant should be served and the prisoner taken to jail immediately, or he would see to it that the constable was deprived of his commission without delay. "i've served the warrant," the man said, quietly, "an' now the prisoner is in my custody. you have no more to say what shall be done with him than that goat, so shut your mouth." "i'll shut yours so close it won't be opened again for a month!" the old man screamed. "do as i tell you, or take the consequences." "and i'm goin' to give you the same advice," mr. sweet cried, as he advanced toward uncle nathan threateningly. "now the boy has been arrested, you are an intruder here, an' i'll give you thirty seconds in which to get out; after that we'll make an example of such a reprobate." "i'll go when i get ready, an' not a minute before. lay a hand on me an' i'll have a warrant for you." "if you can get it, well and good. i now order you out for the last time. in thirty seconds i'll guarantee you won't be in condition to walk." while their employer had been speaking the barker and the clown silently ranged themselves by his side, ready for any commands which might be given, and the infuriated old man had sufficient sense left to let him understand it would be unsafe to linger. "i'll serve you out before this thing is ended," he cried, shaking his fist in impotent rage as he went toward the flap, and dan, who could control himself no longer, replied: "you'd better begin on me, for i'm goin' to tell this thing to everybody who comes to the fair to-morrow, an' from what i've heard it wouldn't take much coaxin' to get the band from the run up here, so's i could sing it. you're havin' a good time now; but there'll be a different side to the matter to-morrow." mr. sweet had followed uncle nathan so closely, literally turning him out, that he could not reply while inside the canvas; but once in the open air, he made threats that would have frightened any one who did not know the motive by which they had been inspired. meanwhile the constable appeared disposed to take matters in the most comfortable manner. he asked teddy why he wished to see deacon jones, and the boy said: "i don't know; but mr. harvey told me that if anything happened to-night i was to see the deacon." "then we'll go there. are you ready?" teddy thought of his money, and, fearing lest it might be taken from him, asked if he could hand something to mr. sweet. "i think not," was the undecided reply. "the deacon will know, an' whatever he says i'll stand by." "don't bother about anything just now," the proprietor of the museum said. "we'll all go with you, an' there'll be plenty of time to make necessary arrangements before you're taken to jail." although the lawyer had assured him he could be involved in no serious trouble, the mere fact that he was under arrest sufficed to make teddy wretched, and like one under sentence of death, he prepared to accompany the constable. dan and tim intended to join the party, as was shown by their remaining very close to the prisoner, and only the barker and the clown were left to care for the tent. uncle nathan was met on the outside, and he immediately began to insist that the boy be taken to jail at once; but the officer paid no attention to his ravings. "if you don't hold your tongue i'll knock the whole top of your head off," mr. sweet whispered, brandishing his fists in the most threatening manner, and the old man cried, excitedly: "mr. officer, i call upon you to bear witness that this man is threatening my life, and insist that you protect me from insult." "i've nothing to do with you," the constable replied, with a laugh. "the warrant has been served, an' all you've got to do is hold your horses till the case is called up in court." "wait till i get home once more, an' then we'll see that he's got a good deal to do with the case," tim cried. "i'll spend every minute from then for a week tellin' the folks that he only did this to make teddy give up half of what he made, an' it'll be a pretty poor kind of a chump who'll do any more tradin' at his store." uncle nathan stepped toward the boy who had spoken so boldly as if he would inflict the direst punishment then and there; but he probably realized that this would prejudice his case, and contented himself by saying: "we'll see whether the people at the run will believe a couple of boys who have been in league with burglars, for you mustn't forget, tim jones, that i have proof you helped teddy to carry away the burglar's money." "if it'll do you any good i'll own up to the fact now," the boy replied. "it can't be so bad to do that as it is to arrest your own nephew because he won't give you half his money." "don't say anything more," teddy whispered to his friend. "it's only makin' matters worse, an' he's got the upper hand of us all jest now." "i don't know whether he has or not," the valiant tim replied; "but at the same time it'll do him a world of good to let him hear the truth." at this point uncle nathan appeared to understand that he was not coming out victor in this battle of tongues, and he wisely held his peace, saying not another word until the little party arrived at the home of deacon jones. the manager of the fair was resting after a particularly hard day's work. more than one of the citizens of peach bottom had openly said he was responsible for the riot by allowing liquor to be sold on the grounds, and his greeting of the visitors was not calculated to assure the frightened teddy. "well, what do you want?" he cried, roughly, as they entered his library. "if it's anything concerning the fair i won't open my mouth. a man can't be driven to death with work and then disturbed at all hours of the night, simply to give the fools in this town a chance to make trouble." "all i know about it is that i arrested this boy, and he insisted on being brought to you, saying it was lawyer harvey's advice," the constable began, and the angry deacon immediately began to appear interested. "is this your nephew, nathan?" he asked of the old man, who now had a smirk of confidence on his face. "i'm sorry he is, deacon, an' after i set him up in business he goes ag'in me by givin' information to burglars, who rob me." "and you have had him arrested?" "i felt obliged to in the interest of society." "that's a lie," mr. sweet interrupted, angrily. "he tried to make the boy pay him half he earned on the fair grounds, and has done this thing only because teddy refused." "we won't go into the details of the case, because i am not a magistrate," the deacon replied, with a majestic wave of the hand. "mr. officer, tell the 'squire that i am prepared to go bail to any amount, and ask if the business can't be conducted here, for i'm too tired to go out of doors unless it is absolutely necessary." "what?" the old man screamed. "will you answer for that little villain's appearance at court?" "that's what i said, nathan. this affair is none of my business other than i have stated; but i must say you are goin' a leetle too far, not only in my opinion, but in that of others, an' it may prove a costly job for somebody before it's finished." the old man was literally speechless. he could not understand why the deacon should have turned against him so suddenly, and the last words made him decidedly uneasy. he was not to be silenced without a struggle, however. after the first surprise had died away he said, with a comical assumption of dignity: "i will see whether i'm to be browbeaten in this manner. the 'squire does not dare to release the boy on bail, and i shall tell him so." with these words he left the house hurriedly, and the constable said to the deacon: "if you will write a line to the 'squire, saying that you're ready to go bail, i do not think there will be any necessity of troubling you again to-night." this suggestion was immediately acted upon, and the weary manager of the fair penned the following words: i am ready to enter security to any amount for the appearance at court of edward hargreaves, and if you should not consider my bond sufficient, i am empowered to say that john reaves, of waterville, will add his name, therefore there can be no good reason for committing him to jail, since we are both responsible for the prisoner until the bond can be executed. a. jones. having received this the constable departed with the prisoner and his friends, and once on the outside he said, confidently: "the matter is settled, no matter how much old nathan may rave. both mr. reaves an' the deacon have got the 'squire by the nose, and he must dance to their fiddlin'." that this assertion was correct teddy realized a few moments later when he was ushered into the 'squire's dining-room, and the latter, without paying the slightest attention to the prisoner, said to the officer: "i have just heard that you served the warrant i issued, and then took the boy to deacon jones' house. is that correct?" "straight as a string, 'squire. lawyer harvey told him if anything happened to go there, an' i thought he had a right to look up bail before being lugged off to jail. here's what the deacon's got to say about it." the 'squire took the paper which the officer held out, and after reading it, said benignly: "you were quite correct in doing what you did, mr. constable. this is quite sufficient guarantee that he will be produced when wanted, and you may let him go. give me the papers, and i will indorse them." after this formality had been gone through with the constable said to mr. sweet: "that settles the matter so far as teddy is concerned, and with such men as the deacon, mr. reaves, and lawyer harvey to back him, i don't believe old nathan will make any too much out of this job." "you are free to go where you please," the 'squire added, and the young fakir with his friends left the house, wondering very much at the amount of influence which, unsolicited, had been exerted in teddy's behalf. as for the boy himself, he was far from feeling comfortable in mind. unless the burglary could be brought home to long jim it did not seem possible that hazelton could be set free, and this last was absolutely necessary in order to establish his own innocence. it was a great consolation for him to be with such good friends, however, and each in turn tried to cheer him, but without success until mr. sweet said: "there's no question of your getting out of the scrape with flying colors, and to celebrate i'm goin' to give a regular dinner party to every decent fakir on the grounds. come over, boys, an' help me get ready. business has been so good to-day that i can afford to indulge in a little extravagance." chapter xxvi. _the fakirs' party._ the idea of a party in the museum tent, where there would be no guests save fakirs, struck teddy as being very comical, and he laughed heartily despite the fact that he was still virtually a prisoner in the meshes of the law; but at the same time he did not think mr. sweet was really in earnest when he made the proposition. it was not many moments, however, before he understood that the party was to be given in the most elaborate manner possible. on arriving at the tent mr. sweet sent the bouncer out with invitations to such of the fakirs as remained on the grounds all night, or lived in the immediate vicinity, and at the same time the clown started for the town in order to purchase refreshments. "now, you boys are to take right hold an' help the best you know how," the proprietor of the museum said as he pulled off his coat and vest preparatory to making ready for the feast. "if them as comes want to sit down it must be on the ground, owing to the lack of chairs, therefore it don't make much difference if the table is a trifle high." [illustration: "we have only one knife," said mr. sweet, to the amusement of the boys, "and it must serve for all hands."] to the surprise of the boys he proceeded to convert the wagon into a "festal board" by first pulling it into the center of the tent, and then removing the sides. over the floor of this newspapers were spread, and two plates, three forks, one knife, and four tin dippers were placed on the impromptu cloth. "the provisions will be cut ready for eating," mr. sweet explained, "so one knife must serve for all hands, and it won't hurt any of the crowd if they're obliged to take turns using the dippers." the clown returned before the guests began to assemble. he brought cold sausage, sliced ham, cold fried potatoes, sweet crackers, cake, pie, and a quantity of lemons and sugar. contrary to his expectations, mr. sweet did not think this assortment sufficient for the kind of a dinner he proposed to give, and the messenger was forced to return in search of cheese, pickled pig's feet, sardines, and milk for the coffee. matters were in a decided state of confusion when the first of the guests arrived. mr. sweet, not troubled by the absence of dishes, had placed the various articles on the wagon-table in the brown paper coverings as they had been received, and it was upon his skill as a maker of coffee that he based his reputation as a host. therefore everything was neglected for this one important thing, and the proprietor was standing over the oil stove with a look of grave responsibility on his face when the owner of the envelope game and his assistant arrived. "the boys will take care of you," he said, hurriedly, bending over the huge pot to inhale the odor, in order to know exactly how the berries were adapting themselves to the infusion, and, much to his surprise, teddy found himself the one especial feature of the party. all on the ground had evidently heard of his arrest, for each new arrival asked concerning the events of the evening, and, what was more to the purpose, so far as he was concerned, all seemed to think his troubles were only temporary. "you'll come out of it all right," the manager of the largest sandwich booth said, confidently, as he entered with his hat on one side of his head and a cigar held in his mouth at an angle of forty-five degrees. "i heard of your uncle last year, when he tried to make trouble for a friend of mine in the spittoon game, an' you can bet your bottom dollar that the people here are not going to take much stock in what he says." "it seems they did, so far as to issue a warrant for my arrest," teddy replied, with a mirthless smile. "but that won't amount to anything. i hear you have got john reaves as a friend, an' he comes pretty near runnin' things to suit himself in peach bottom. he helped my friend out of the scrape your uncle put him into, an' folks say there's no love lost between him an' nathan hargreaves." "i want to get out of my trouble simply on the ground that i am not guilty," teddy replied. "if i am charged with aiding burglars, there's precious little consolation in being set free simply because people do not like the man who made the charge." "nobody believes you guilty, and for the matter of that i'm certain hazelton had nothing to do with the job. his game ain't exactly square; but he don't go around breaking into stores." teddy was on the point of telling that long jim had been arrested because of the burglaries committed; but he remembered in time that this fact was as yet a secret, and remained silent. the man who leased the only "great african dodger" was the next to arrive, and he also seemed to think it necessary to condole with the young fakir in his troubles, as did the remainder of the guests, and by the time all were assembled teddy began to think his experience was only such as every other person in the tent had undergone at some time in his career. "you see this is the way the matter stands," the whip man said, confidentially, while mr. sweet was bending all his energies to mixing the lemonade. "people think fakirs are the worst class of men in the world, whereas, if the matter was sifted right down, they'd find the class as a whole was honest because they couldn't afford to be otherwise. i'm not talking now about those who run strong games, like hazelton; but ourselves who do a legitimate business. you've got canes an' knives to sell, while i deal in whips; now all we want is a fair show to dispose of our goods, an' we know everything must be done on the square, or there's bound to be trouble sooner or later, consequently we keep straight, an' take all the abuse which those who have come to swindle the folks deserve. why, what, i ask you, would the managers of these fairs do if they couldn't get us to come up with our money for privileges? they couldn't pay expenses, an' that's the whole amount of the story. they run after us, an' yet when we come there's the same old howl about swindlers." the man talked until he was literally forced to stop for lack of breath, and teddy had not so much as spoken; but proved a good listener, which was all his condoler appeared to expect of him. when the clown returned with the last installment of eatables there was nothing to prevent the assembled crowd from partaking of mr. sweet's hospitality. the coffee was done to a turn; the lemonade was neither too sour nor too sweet, and the proprietor of the museum summoned his guests to the feast by saying: "now turn to an' fill yourselves up. it ain't often i do this sort of thing; but somehow or other i've got a reg'lar admiration for our cane-board fakir, an' after comin' out as he has to-night it seems only right we should kinder spread ourselves. there's no liquor in the tent, which is as it should be, for i'm a temperance man, an' them as wants it can make hogs of themselves somewhere else. take hold hearty, an' remember that this layout is in honor of them as did a good turn to the whole gang by savin' the lives of the women what would likely have drowned if there hadn't been any fakirs in the country." this was an unusually long speech for the proprietor of the museum, and when it was ended he set an example to his guests by attacking the eatables as if he had not indulged in a square meal since the fair was opened. each person present imitated him, and tim whispered to teddy, when his mouth was so full of cake that it was only with the greatest difficulty his words could be understood: "this is what i call a great snap, an' when i've been fakin' at the fairs long enough to get some money ahead i'll give fellers like us a good chance to fill up, the same as mr. sweet has done." dan was equally enthusiastic. in all his experience, which extended over two years at the very least, he declared that he had never seen so much done for a boy, and concluded by saying: "there's no question, teddy, but that you're a big gun here, an' i'll advise you to keep right on in this business." "i've had enough of it," was the reply. "such times as these are very nice; but think of what may happen when i'm brought up for trial. who knows but uncle nathan can succeed in makin' folks think i'm guilty of helpin' the burglars, an' then what'll be the consequences?" "i know he can't do anything of the kind, an' that's enough," was the confident reply; but yet it failed to satisfy the boy who had been bound over to appear at court. the entire party appeared to be having the jolliest kind of a jolly time; but ever before teddy's mental vision came the picture of himself in prison, and even the fact that long jim had been arrested failed to render him confident as to the final result. again and again was he called upon to reply as one after another wished him good luck in the case, and the amount of lemonade which was consumed on each occasion caused the clown to make a third visit to the town in order to purchase the wherewithal to satisfy the demands of the guests. it was nearly midnight when the last of the revelers departed and the boys were called upon to help set the interior of the tent to rights. "it hasn't been sich a bad time after all," mr. sweet said, musingly, as teddy and dan aided him in wheeling the wagon into place. "a man can remember an evening like this with pleasure, when liquor has been kept out of the bill of fare, an' who shall say that we're not better off than if our legs were so tangled as to make walking an impossibility?" the barker's red nose was slightly elevated, much as if its owner could explain why spirits were superior to lemon-juice and water; but mr. sweet's question remained unanswered, and the party set about making the final preparations for the night. "poor sam ain't here to be troubled by the goat, so we can set him loose," the proprietor of the museum said as he unfastened the rope from the neck of his pet. "he'll have a great time pickin' up odds an' ends between now an' daylight, an' then feel so lazy that it'll be hard work to make him do his tricks." "do you suppose uncle nathan will be around in the morning?" teddy asked as he lay down by the side of dan and tim. "not a bit of it; he got sich a dose to-night that i don't count on seem' him ag'in till this fair is ended, an' then i'm going to take a trip over to the run for the express purpose of givin' him a piece of my mind." "but suppose he should come, what shall i say?" "pay no attention to the old fool, an' above all, don't let him trap you into talking. mr. harvey will be here to-morrow, an' he can post you better than ever i could." "don't fuss about the thing at all," dan replied, philosophically. "there's plenty here who know you hadn't anything to do with the burglaries, an' he won't have as much as a friend by the time the trial is ended." "dan comes pretty nigh being right," mr. sweet added, "an' now i want all hands to go to sleep, for there's one more day of this fair, an' we need to be somewhere near fresh, because to-morrow the dollars won't tumble without a good deal of coaxing. good-night." chapter xxvii. _in hiding._ that the incidents may be related as nearly as possible in the order of their occurrence it is time to return to the spot where the burglars are in hiding. it will be remembered that we last saw sam after phil had fallen asleep, and he was feigning unconsciousness lest long jim, having nothing else to do, should take it into his ugly head to administer the promised flogging. although sam's eyes were apparently closed, he took good care to keep strict watch on the burglar; but for what seemed a very long time he saw nothing to cause any apprehensions, and was just on the point of going to sleep in reality when jim asked, as he gave the boy a vicious kick on the side: "where's the grub?" "i don't know. you put it away after finishing your dinner." "oh, i remember now," and the burglar, still considerably more than half stupefied by the amount of liquor he had drunk, arose to his feet so unsteadily that it seemed as if only the lightest touch would be necessary to send him headlong. after a short search the man found that which he wanted, and proceeded to make a hearty meal, regardless of the hungry glances which the boy bestowed upon him. "don't think i'm goin' to give you any," he said, with a leer, as he concluded the repast, "you're lucky to be alive, an' that's enough for sich a duffer. i'll put this stuff back, an' you'll have every bone in your body broken if you so much as smell of it." sam made no reply. he had already learned that there are very many times when silence is indeed "golden." "i've made up my mind to see what can be done at the fair," jim said, as he lighted his pipe with great deliberation. "phil thinks he's the only smart man in the world, an' it's time to show him what a mistake he's been makin' all his life. why don't you say something?" he cried, angrily, as sam continued silent. "i don't know what you want me to say. if you're goin' that settles it; i sha'n't be any better off." "you can stake your life on that, for while i'm a gentleman an' behave myself as such, phil is a reg'lar brute, an' will make things mighty uncomfortable for a sneak like you." sam thought, but was very careful not to say, that it was hardly possible for a boy to have a worse master than the alleged gentleman in front of him, and the burglar continued, as he arose to his feet: "i want to leave without wakin' phil, but you must do it as soon as i push off from the shore, for we don't intend to give you a chance of slipping away. i shall watch mighty close, an' if he isn't on his feet before i'm a dozen yards out into the creek you'll get a reminder from this," and the man ostentatiously displayed a revolver. "i don't count on runnin' off," sam, replied, thoroughly frightened by the threat. "i can stay here till you get ready to let me go, because i've got to, an' i'm not sich a fool as to git into any worse scrape." "now you're talkin' somethin' like sense, an' if you keep on in this way i'll see to it that you don't have any harder time than a detective oughter expect; phil will be on his ear when he knows i've gone, an' you must tell me all he says. remember that if he isn't on his feet before i've got beyond range, i'll use your head for a target." with this threat the burglar staggered out of the thicket, and sam began to speculate as to whether he should make one supreme effort to escape before his other captor awakened. a second glance at the weapon decided him in the negative, however, and he meekly stepped to the edge of the woods in order to obey the instructions given. despite jim's apparent intoxication he watched the boy closely, still holding the revolver ready for use, and after pushing the boat into the stream he cried: "now go ahead, an' let me see him in about two minutes, or i'll fill you full of bullets." if sam had been a brave boy he would have made a dash for liberty at this moment; but he was in nearly every sense of the word a coward, and obeyed the order literally. "who's there?" phil asked, angrily, as the boy shook him vigorously. "jim told me to make you get up, or he'd shoot," sam replied, meekly. "make me get up? what time is it?" "i don't know; but it doesn't seem to be more than three o'clock." "where's jim?" "jest startin' for the fair grounds, an' if you don't show yourself pretty soon he's sure to shoot me." "there wouldn't be any particular harm in that, for you deserve it; but it can't be possible the fool is goin' to show himself in daylight when more than one is lookin' for him." "that's what he said," and sam, fearing lest the half-drunken burglar would begin his pistol practice, seated himself behind the largest tree that might protect him from the bullets. now that phil was awake, he did not lose any further time in talking, but ran out to where he could command a view of the creek, and once more sam had an opportunity for escape which he did not dare to embrace. "come back here, an' don't make a fool of yourself," jim's partner cried, angrily, as he saw the man pulling leisurely from the bank. "what's crawlin' on you? don't i know my business?" "not if you count on goin' up there before dark." "that's jest what i intend to do, so don't screech so much." "come back, i tell you, or it'll be all up for both of us!" "i've been in this business long enough to know it," was the reply, as jim continued to row, increasing each instant the distance between himself and the shore. "now, don't spoil a good thing," phil said, pleadingly, and, understanding that this conversation might be continued for a short time, sam plucked up sufficient courage to make an attack upon the provisions. he took from the general store a large piece of cheese, some crackers and as much meat as he believed would suffice to make a hearty meal, after which he hid the lot near the tree behind which he was hiding. then he crept back to his former position, and listened to the conversation between his captors. phil alternately coaxed and threatened his partner; but all to no purpose, as could be told by the tones of the latter's voice while he pulled up stream, and the baffled burglar returned to the camping place absolutely furious with rage. "this comes of my bein' so foolish as to bring that fool liquor," he said half to himself. "it's mighty lucky he didn't know i had more than one bottle." then he took from one of his pockets a second flask, refreshing himself with a portion of the contents before asking: "what did he say to you?" "nothin' except that he was goin' up to the fair," sam replied, timidly. "but what made him tell you to waken me?" "i s'pose that was so i couldn't have a chance to run away." "what else did he say?" "that i was to tell him jest how you took his leavin'." "well, if he's lucky enough to get back, tell him i said he was the biggest fool that ever walked on two legs. them chums of your'n are sure to spot him, an' it's ten to one he's pinched before sunset." sam did not understand what the man meant by the term "pinched," but under the circumstances he hardly thought it safe to inquire, and the angry burglar continued: "we'll make ready to get out of this if he isn't back by daylight, an' while there's nothin' else to do you'd better put that stuff under ground, for there's no knowin' now when we'll be able to take it away." the spade was near at hand ready for use, and while phil alternately smoked and drank from the bottle, sam set about burying the plunder. this man was quite as hard a taskmaster as the one who had just departed, and the boy was forced to work as he had probably never done before, until sufficient of an excavation had been made to conceal the goods. under the direction of the burglar sam covered the different packages with earth; did his best to hide all traces of his work, and when it was so dark that he could no longer see to move about was allowed to rest. during this time phil had been drinking and smoking, with the result that he could hardly speak plainly when the task was accomplished, and so intoxicated did he appear to be that sam thought it safe to eat the food he had concealed. "keep on talkin' so's i'll know where you are, or on goes the ropes an' gag again," phil cried, and the boy obeyed, repeating over and over the same words in order to satisfy his suspicious captor. after eating a hearty meal, sam succeeded in mustering sufficient courage to admit of his thinking about attempting to escape. from the manner in which the burglar spoke he knew it could not be very much longer before the man would be so completely under the influence of liquor as to render him helpless, and he said to himself: "if i could get the rope around his hands an' legs i'd soon be out of this place." "what's that you are saying?" phil cried, angrily. "nothin'; i was only doin' as you told me, talkin' so's you'd know where i was." "i'll save all that trouble," and the man lurched to his feet as he picked up the rope. "please don't tie me ag'in," sam pleaded. "i won't try to git away." "i'll go bail that you don't after i'm through with you. put out your hands." phil was yet capable of mischief, even though his brain was clouded, and sam did not dare to disobey. he suffered himself to be tied without making any remonstrance, and as the burglar staggered to his former resting place, the boy tested the bonds. previously he had been lashed in such a manner that it was impossible to move hand or foot, but now he soon realized that he could do both, and the happy thought came that he might free himself with but little difficulty if a favorable opportunity for escape should present itself. "now you're fixed," phil said, half to himself, "an' i may as well take things comfortable till we're certain that that fool of a jim is settled." "are you goin' to leave here to-night?" sam asked, more for the purpose of learning how far the man was on the road to intoxication than for information. "if he ain't here by twelve o'clock we'll know the jig is up, an' skip so's to be out of the way before any one can come sneakin' around for the stuff." "then if jim isn't back by that time, an' he keeps on drinkin', i'll take all the chances," sam said to himself, and from that instant he strained every nerve to learn how nearly the burglar had succeeded in making a worse brute of himself than nature intended. chapter xxviii. _a failure._ tired though teddy was, a long time elapsed after the conclusion of the fakirs' feast before he could close his eyes in slumber. now that the excitement of the party had died away, the fact that he was a prisoner, suffered to remain outside the prison only because men of wealth were willing to guarantee he would respond to the call of the court, came into his mind even more vividly than at the time of the arrest, and despite all the words of cheer which had been spoken he really began to believe uncle nathan could show plausible proof of his guilt. under almost any other circumstances he would have speculated upon what should be done with the large amount of money he had already earned, and rejoiced at the thought that he could supply his mother with what she might need for the present, at all events. the profits of the cane and knife boards were hardly thought of on this night while the one painful fact stood before him so prominently and menacingly. his companions had been asleep many hours before slumber visited his eyelids, and so heavy was his heart even while in dreamland that he awoke with the first dawn of day, and aroused the others to the last day's work they would be called upon to do at the peach bottom fair during the present season. "why is it that you have turned out so early?" mr. sweet asked, in a sleepy tone, rising to his feet as the only effectual method of driving the drowsiness from his eyelids. "i sha'n't feel much like sleeping till i know how the case is coming out," teddy replied, sadly. "there is no need to worry with such friends as you have got. put it right out of your mind until business closes to-night, for there's a big pile of work to be done if you expect to make much money." "i wish i could," teddy said, with a long-drawn sigh as he aroused tim and dan. half an hour later the three boys were eating what it was believed would be their last meal in the very unsatisfactory boarding-house, and teddy's place of business was the first opened on that morning. there were no more early visitors; but the fakirs who had been present at the feast on the evening previous gathered around, all appearing very eager to spend money, and trade was as lively as it had been on any other morning. the crowd bought rings and threw them recklessly until each man had spent considerably more than a dollar, when teddy suddenly realized that this sudden passion for canes only arose from a desire to aid him. then he said, decidedly: "there's no need of you fellows doin' this. i know you want to see me out of the scrape; but i've made a lot of money already, an' don't want to take yours." "you can't have too much, my boy," one of them said with a laugh, "and we want to see you go away with a pile. trade has been boomin' for all hands, an' it would be kinder rough if we couldn't have a little fun now the fair is the same as over." this did not satisfy teddy, and he continued to expostulate against the generosity; but all to no purpose. the fakirs played until a sufficient number of visitors had arrived to warrant their opening the other booths, and then tim and teddy were left alone, dan having started for the exhibition building some time previous. until ten o'clock there was no more than work enough to keep one boy moderately busy, and teddy experienced a deep sense of relief as mr. harvey came up to the stand with a cheery "good morning." "i hear that your uncle nathan succeeded in carrying out his threat," the visitor said, as if speaking about what was a very trifling matter. "yes, sir; an' do you think he can send me to prison?" "not a bit of it. you are under bail, and i venture to predict that he will not carry it to court, for he has sufficient sense to know it may prove a very expensive job. we sent our men to the barn on the marshes last night." "what did you find?" teddy asked, eagerly. "more than i expected. there were no goods in the building, but some have evidently been buried there, and this fact, together with the evidence that boats have been drawn up on the shore recently, proves your story as to what was seen when you boys followed the two men to be correct." "the other fellow has run away, i suppose." "i think he is yet in the immediate vicinity, otherwise jim would be willing to talk." "have you seen him since he was arrested?" "i have just come from the jail. i told him of the evidence we already had to connect him with the burglary, and that we should push him hard in the interest of you and hazelton. he understands that there is an opportunity to turn state's witness, but he absolutely refuses to speak on any subject. therefore i fancy his partner has not yet got away." "then there has been no good done in arresting him," teddy said, mournfully. "that is where you are making a mistake. i have prepared an affidavit for you and dan to swear to, and shall endeavor to have a warrant issued at once charging him with burglary, so he can't give us the slip in case he gets clear in the matter of swindling." "do you want dan an' i now?" "yes; go after him. i will only keep you ten or fifteen minutes." teddy turned to go toward the exhibition buildings, but halted an instant to ask: "have you seen my uncle this morning?" "no, but i shall do so later in the day, and after we have a little conversation i do not think he will be so eager to see you in prison." the lawyer's confident manner had very much to do with taking the load of sorrow from teddy's mind, and he looked almost cheerful as he asked of the manager of the stevens exhibit that dan be allowed to accompany him, explaining the reason for making the request. "of course he can go," the gentleman replied, readily. "trade won't be so good to-day but that he can be spared as well as not, and even if it was rushing, he should have permission to leave." when the boys were at the cane-board once more mr. harvey hurried them away to the magistrate's office, and there a long document was read, which described in detail all they had seen on the day when sam first gave an exhibition of his skill as a detective. they marveled not a little that the lawyer should have remembered so well every trifling incident. nothing, however apparently unimportant, had escaped him, and, as dan said: "it is written down better than if he had really been with us." this document was sworn to and signed by both, after which mr. harvey told them that they might return to work, adding as he turned to teddy: "the man who has been arrested on your complaint will have a hearing to-morrow, and it is absolutely necessary you should be at this office as early as nine o'clock. i don't know whether dan will be allowed to tell what he has heard sam say regarding the matter, but he had better come with you." "i'll be on hand," the young fakir replied. "do you know when i'm to be tried?" "that case won't come up for some time in view of the evidence your lawyer is collecting," the 'squire said. "don't worry about it, for i think the real burglars will soon be caught." "an' does mr. hazelton have to stay in jail all the time?" "there is no other way out of it, since he hasn't got friends who can go bail for him." teddy wanted very much to ask permission to see the prisoner, but inasmuch as he was accused of being equally guilty with the fakir it hardly seemed just the proper thing to make the request, and he left the office, followed by dan, who said, as they gained the open air: "you ain't goin' to have half so much trouble as you think, teddy. anybody can see that even the 'squire is on your side, although he did issue the warrant, an' the proof must be mighty strong to make any of 'em believe you did anything against the old miser. but this keeps us here on the grounds another day, doesn't it?" "yes, an' if mr. sweet packs up his tent to-night, we'll have to hunt for a place to sleep in the village." "that don't worry me very much. i've made a good week's work out of the fair, an' can afford to spend a little money." "i shall pay all the bills, of course," teddy replied, quickly. "it wouldn't be any more'n right because you are goin' to stay to help me." dan was quite positive he would pay his own bills, and his companion equally certain he should not; but there was little chance for discussion, since they had arrived opposite the grand stand by this time, and were hailed by deacon jones, who looked as if he considered himself the one important personage on the grounds as he said: "i want both of you boys to be here at exactly two o'clock. don't fail to come, no matter how much business you may have on hand." "what's the matter?" teddy asked, immediately thinking some new trouble threatened him. "there will be plenty of time for explanation after you get here," was the mysterious reply, and then the deacon signified that the interview was at an end by turning to speak with some gentlemen who had been watching the boys closely. "what do you suppose is up now?" teddy asked with a sigh, and dan replied, mournfully: "i'm sure i don't know," but in his own mind he was convinced that the deacon intended to surrender the boy whose surety he had appeared willing to become on the evening previous. teddy was so disturbed by dismal forebodings that dan was very careful to hide his suspicions, since it could do only harm to discuss them, and the two parted, feeling as if uncle nathan had outwitted mr. harvey. on retuning to his place of business teddy did not have the heart to wait upon the customers, and after telling tim what had been said to him, he added: "i can't work; it's no use to try. there must have been something new come up, an' i won't be able to show that i'm innocent of robbing the store." dan could give him no consolation, for he also felt that matters were approaching a dangerous crisis, and he simply said: "loaf around, old fellow, an' i'll look out for the work here. try to put it out of your mind, for things won't be made better by worryin' over 'em." just at this moment teddy's mother arrived. she had heard all the particulars concerning the arrest and subsequent release, therefore began at once to sympathize with her son. "then you know what the deacon is goin' to do?" teddy asked. this was something of which mrs. hargreaves was ignorant, but upon being told, appeared even more distressed than her son, thus increasing instead of lightening his troubles. chapter xxix. _the testimonial._ it was impossible for teddy to follow tim's advice to "loaf around." his heart was so full of sorrow that his greatest desire was to go where those who might believe he had been a partner of the burglars could not see him; but since that was impossible, if he intended to obey the deacon's injunctions and present himself at the grand stand at the specified time, the next best thing was to remain behind the booth where his mother tried her best to cheer him. "it can't be possible that anything to your disadvantage has occurred, teddy," she said as she held his hand for mutual sympathy. "mr. reaves would have sent me word at once if that had happened." "perhaps he doesn't know about it. uncle nathan may have been talking with the deacon again, an' turned him against me." "i don't believe it would be possible for him to do such a thing. his reputation is not so good that people could put faith in all he says, more especially in regard to this case." "then if he didn't do it some one else has, an' that makes it all the worse," teddy replied, as he tried to force back the tears. at this moment the sorrowing ones were startled by hearing the voice of the man whom they had every reason to call their enemy, and an instant later uncle nathan stood before them. "well," he said in what sounded more like a snarl than anything else, "you see the old skinflint did jest what he promised, an' he'll see to it that the deacon don't stay on your bail very long unless i get my rights." "what do you mean by your rights?" mrs. hargreaves asked. "i lent this ungrateful boy the money to start him in a business where he's made more in a week than i ever could in a year. then he helped people to rob me, an' after all that i made what any man must call a fair offer. see how much i've lost by him, an' then think of my offerin' to straighten everything out by goin' in as his partner." "why didn't you do this before the fair opened?" "i couldn't tell how it would turn out," the old man began, and then realizing that he was admitting something to his discredit, he added, quickly, "i mean i hadn't lost my money then, an' never suspected how he would wrong me." it seemed as if these last words drove teddy to desperation, and he no longer-remembered the respect due to age. "look here," he cried, angrily, rising, and standing directly in front of uncle nathan, "if you believe i'm a burglar, you can't want to be my partner. it was only after the fact of my having made considerable money was known that you offered any trade. if the venture had been a losing one you are the last person who would have taken hold of it. now i'm under arrest on a charge made by you, who know i am innocent, an' we'll put an end to all this talk. don't come where my mother and i am; do the very worst you can, an' some day i'll have my innings." "you threaten, eh?" "that's exactly what i'm doing. i have leased this piece of ground until to-morrow, and warn you that it'll be mighty uncomfortable if you show your nose here again. go now an' go quick!" "that's right, teddy," tim shouted in a tone of delight from the opposite side of the booth. "give it to him hot, an' i'll do my share. if you don't want to tackle the job till after the trial, say the word an' i'll sail in, for it gives me a pain to see him around." teddy made no reply to this generous offer; but uncle nathan stepped back very quickly as if fearing an immediate attack. "you won't be so bold to-morrow," he snarled, shaking his fist in impotent rage, and then he disappeared from view amid the crowd that had begun to gather. both teddy and his clerk thought it very singular that business should be so good on this day, when the majority of the other fakirs were comparatively idle, and also in view of what had been said against the proprietor of the cane-board. yet the people gathered around by scores, all intent on patronizing the boys, and at the same time embracing every opportunity to display their good will. teddy and his mother remained partially screened from the gaze of the curious until nearly two o'clock, when dan, looking decidedly troubled, arrived. "i suppose we've got to go to the grand stand an' find out what the deacon wants," he said, mournfully. "my boss told me that we must be there on time, an' we might as well start." "i want to have it over as soon as possible," teddy replied. "nothin' that comes can be any worse than waitin' here thinkin' of what may happen." the two boys walked either side of mrs. hargreaves as they went to meet the deacon, and it seemed very much as if the majority of the people present knew what was about to occur, for the sad-visaged party was followed by crowds of the visitors as they walked steadily onward. it was exactly two o'clock when they arrived at the stairway leading to the grand stand, and there they were met by the leader of the band from the run, who said with a mysterious manner as he opened a gate leading to the track in front of the judges' stand: "you are to come this way." "where's the deacon?" teddy asked. "waiting for you." without further explanation the musician led the three to a spot where all could see them, and to the intense surprise of the sorrowful-looking party, the throng assembled on the benches greeted them with the most hearty applause. "you are to come with me, mrs. hargreaves," the conductor said, as he escorted her to one of the front seats, and teddy and dan stood as if stupefied, gazing in dismay at the sea of faces in front of them. before the boys had sufficiently recovered from their bewilderment to be able to speculate upon what was to happen deacon jones came down the steps until he reached a place where all could see him and there began a speech which caused at least two of that assemblage to gaze at him in open-mouthed astonishment. the manager of the fair did not intend to neglect any opportunity of making himself conspicuous, and he delivered an eloquent address, looking first at the boys and then at the audience, which cannot be given here because of lack of space. he first explained to the spectators that teddy had taken upon himself the business of fakir simply that he might aid his widowed mother. then he detailed the loss of the fifteen dollars, and finally broached the one important matter, that of the scene on the creek, when the three women were rescued from drowning. by this time the cheeks of teddy and dan were flaming red, and if he had been charging them with the most atrocious crimes they could not have looked more guilty or uncomfortable. "as you all know," he said, in conclusion, "we have met here to see bravery and a spirit of self-sacrifice rewarded. on behalf of the ladies whose lives were saved by these little heroes i am about to present edward hargreaves and daniel summers with one hundred dollars each. in addition to that amount the managers of the fair and several gentlemen who do not care to have their names made public, have made up a purse of one hundred and eighty dollars to be divided equally between them. it is most gratifying to me that i have been selected as the instrument through whom this testimonial is presented, and in behalf of my brother officers as well as myself i will state that these brave boys have the freedom of the grounds whenever the peach bottom fair is open." as he concluded, the deacon walked with a majestic bearing down to the bewildered boys, presented each with a well-filled pocketbook and then waved his hand as a signal for the band, every member of which did his best to make the music heard above the rounds of applause intended for the blushing fakirs. in the meantime the people came down from the benches to congratulate the life-savers, and for fully an hour the two were forced to remain there listening to words of praise which they felt were not warranted by their exploit on the creek. among the most welcome of these enthusiastic visitors was jacob sweet, and he said, heartily: "i heard of this little performance jest in time to get here before that long-winded speech was begun; but what pleases me the most is that i was ahead of the whole gang, an' started our little blow-out when it wasn't known you had so many friends. i'll see you to-night, of course, an' i must go now, for the bouncer has been around tellin' that you've been sleepin' in my tent, an' i count on a good payin' crowd this afternoon." it was considerably past three o'clock when the boys and mrs. hargreaves returned to the cane-board, looking very much different than when they left it, and tim cried as they came up: "i've heard all about it, an' what i want to know is, where was old nathan while that speechifyin' was goin' on?" "i saw him when we first arrived," mrs. hargreaves replied, "but he left a few moments later, although i have no doubt that he remained where he could hear all that was said without being seen." "that's where he was wise. it wouldn't be very pleasant for him to show himself now, 'cause everybody is down on him after what the deacon said." dan was obliged to return to his duties, and he whispered to teddy before leaving: "i tell you what it is, old feller, this has been a reg'lar puddin' for us, an' i'd give a good deal to see another jest like it." "you're all right, but i expect after this uncle nathan will be so mad he'll make me a pile of trouble." "don't worry about that; his claws are cut now. i'll be back in time to go to supper." when he departed teddy had an opportunity to say a few words to his mother before she returned home on the stage, which was advertised to leave at four o'clock, and while he did this all thought of being under arrest was put far from his mind because of the joy at what he was now able to perform. "never mind what happens to me," he whispered. "i've now got nearly money enough to pay off all we owe, an' it has been earned honestly, too, although i believe they paid a big price for what dan an' i did on the creek." "i'm thinking more of the praise you earned than the money, teddy. it was very sweet to hear the deacon say so much to you before all those people." "then both of us will be awfully jolly to-night, an' to-morrow i'll be home, an' bring dan with me." "invite him to stay just as long as he wishes, and i will have a nice supper ready when the last stage arrives." teddy gave his mother nearly all the money he had, including the "testimonial," and as she walked away he said to tim: "i'm willin' to be arrested, an' put into jail a good many days for the sake of being able to help her as i can do now." chapter xxx. _the trial._ it was only natural that both teddy and dan should feel highly elated after this public expression of admiration which culminated in the presentation of the purse, but they immediately returned to attend to their several duties when the ceremonies were finished. dan went back to the exhibition as if he had done nothing worth remembering, and in less than half an hour from the time the deacon concluded his flowery speech it would have required a very ardent student of humanity to discover that anything out of the natural course of events had taken place. at the cane-board teddy waited upon his customers as before, and without the slightest sign of having been honored by the magnates of the fair, while dan fired at the target as if he had been a boy with no other claim upon the public's attention than his ability to hit a mark. yet it must be confessed that both experienced a very pleasing sense of having satisfied the public, and each, in his own peculiar way, knew he had risen a little above the average boy. there can be no question that any one placed in the same position must have felt gratified by the many expressions of friendship and good-will with which these two were literally overwhelmed, and it would have been more than could be expected of human nature had they remained unmoved under the extravagant flattery which was showered upon them immediately after the close of deacon jones' speech. although there was not quite as much money flowing into the box as on the day previous, teddy was more than pleased with the receipts, because every penny seemed to express just such an amount of good-will. until nearly nightfall he remained at the booth, answering questions upon the same subject till it seemed to have been worn threadbare, and then, however great his desire to earn money, he felt a positive sense of relief that his connection with the peach bottom fair had finally come to an end. "this is the last time you an' i will pack up the stuff," he said to tim as they put into condition for removal the cane and knife boards. "i promised to give you all that was left, and you're more than welcome to it." "but you surely don't mean to give me the whole lot," tim cried in surprise. "that's exactly what i'm going to do, and i sincerely hope when you make a stand you'll meet with the same good friends i have here." "i can't take these things unless you'll allow me to pay something toward what they cost." "look here, tim," teddy said, earnestly, "you have shown yourself to be a friend of mine, an' every cent that has come in here you've accounted for. now, whatever may happen, i'm through bein' a fakir; but if you want to follow the business, i can only hope you'll come out all right. we'll carry this to mr. sweet's tent, an' i'll only be so much the better pleased, and in case you don't, i'm bound to help you in every way. besides, i promised to pay a certain percentage on the profits; that is yet to be settled." "it never will be," tim replied in the most decided tone. "if i take these goods i've got more than a fair share, an' won't listen to anything else." "very well, we'll leave it that way. you now own everything, an' i owe you lots of good-will." on this basis the remnants of the two boards were packed up for removal, and when they were about to take the goods to mr. sweet's tent dan arrived. "how much business did you do to-day?" he asked. teddy delayed sufficiently long to count the receipts, and then replied: "forty-one dollars and fifteen cents. that gives tim four-eleven, an' i get more than would have been the case but for the testimonial this afternoon. the folks crowded around to see me, rather than to get the canes, an' so business has picked up better than any one expected." "it don't make any difference how the money came in so long as you have got it," dan replied, philosophically, "an' now the question is what are we to do for supper, since we paid our bill at the boarding-house this afternoon?" "have you got any idea?" "of course, or else i wouldn't have asked the question. let's invite mr. sweet, the bouncer, and the clown to some restaurant down town, an' try to give them as good a time as we had last night." this proposition met with teddy's approval, and the party was made up as he suggested, the cost being divided between the two boys who had been the recipients of the public testimonial. not until a late hour in the evening did these festivities come to an end, and then the party retired to the museum tent, where they remained undisturbed until the present season of the peach bottom fair had come to an end. it was an unusually late hour for fakirs to arise when mr. sweet awakened the boys as he said: "turn out now, lads, an' get your stuff ready for removal. i'm sorry to part company, but we can't stay here forever, an' the museum must be forty miles the other side of waterville by monday morning." dan had completed and been paid for his work with the stevens company, therefore he had nothing to do; teddy no longer claimed any interest in the canes and knives left over from the week's work; consequently he was free to go where he pleased, and tim had his goods in such a condition that they could be removed at any moment, which prevented him from feeling any anxiety regarding the future. thus it was that all three of the boys were at liberty to assist the proprietor of the museum, and this they did with a will until the arrival of lawyer harvey caused them to think of what had almost been forgotten in the bustle and confusion of breaking camp. "we are due at the 'squire's office at nine o'clock, and it is time you boys were getting over that way," he said, briskly; "our case won't come up to-day, but it has been decided to give hazelton a hearing, and i am very much afraid he's going to get the worst of it." "what do you mean?" teddy asked, anxiously. "well, you see i have not been able to get any information in addition to what you boys furnished, and there seems little doubt that the 'squire must perforce bind him over for trial. the fact that he has deliberately swindled so many people will work against him, and we can do very little to save him." "what will be the result of his being bound over?" teddy asked. "he must remain in jail, unless he can get bail, until next fall." "but that in itself will be a terrible punishment." "true; yet it cannot be avoided. if he had worked honestly the case would be different; but now he will be fortunate even to get out in the fall." "yet uncle nathan says i am equally guilty." "we can easily show you had nothing to do with the robbery, and that is our only care this morning." "what about long jim?" "he remains silent, refusing to answer the simplest questions, and unless he speaks hazelton must be bound over; the 'squire can pursue no other course." believing as they did that hazelton was innocent of the charge upon which he had been arrested, both teddy and dan felt it was a great hardship for the fakir to remain so long in prison; but since it was beyond their power to give him any relief, neither expressed an opinion other than has been recorded. mr. harvey had come for them to accompany him to the squire's office, and since there was nothing to detain them they set out, after first bidding mr. sweet a cordial 'goodby, for he had announced his intention of leaving peach bottom on the noon train. "i shall see one or both of you at some time in the future," he said, with considerable feeling, "an' there'll be no complaint to make if i never fall in with worse boys." the bouncer and the clown also had something to say in the form of an adieu, and when the boys left the proprietor of the alleged wonderful museum it was like parting with an old friend, for he had shown himself to be a "very present help in time of trouble." tim did not propose to start for the run until his companions had concluded their business; his goods were packed ready for removal, and there was nothing better for him to do than accompany them to the court-room where it seemed as if all they might say would result only in a long term of imprisonment for hazelton before he could be tried on the baseless charge brought against him, simply because of the disreputable business in which he was engaged. mr. harvey had little or nothing to say during the walk to the 'squire's office, and arriving there the jewelry fakir was seen looking thoroughly despondent. "can i speak with him?" teddy asked the lawyer. "what do you want to say?" "nothing in particular, except to tell him how bad i feel because we could do nothing to clear him." "very well; but do not talk long, for it may prejudice your own case. the people whom he has swindled are here to see that some form of punishment is meted out to him, and it can do you no good to be seen acting as a consoler." this possibility troubled teddy very little since he was confident of his own innocence, and he approached the prisoner as he said: "i wish i could do something, mr. hazelton, to prove you as innocent as i believe you to be." "there's no need of that, my boy. i've put you in a hole already, and you've done more for me than some others who call themselves friends." "i know it was long jim who committed the burglary; but how can it be proven now?" "there was only one way, and that was to catch the real thieves with their plunder. mr. harvey tells me his attempt was a failure, an' it wouldn't surprise me if i was not only remanded for trial, but received a sentence for something of which i am absolutely innocent. i don't profess to be very good, my boy, as you may understand after seeing me work on the fair grounds; but i never yet descended to do such things as i am charged with now." "i am certain of that," and teddy pressed the prisoner's hand in token of friendship, "and only wish it was possible to aid you." "you have already done more than my partners did," was the grateful reply, and then further conversation was prevented as the 'squire called the assembly to order. it was not a regular court of law; but one would have thought it the most dignified judicial body in the country had he seen the air with which the 'squire took his seat at the head of the long table as he called the case. "that settles hazelton," dan whispered as teddy left the prisoner and rejoined his friends. "somebody has got to suffer in order to make the law come out square, an' he's the feller what'll have to stand the brunt of everything." chapter xxxi. _an arrival._ lawyer harvey did not neglect anything which might work to the advantage of his client; but in the face of the evidence his efforts appeared to be in vain. uncle nathan, who arrived just as the case was called, swore to the fact that hazelton had been in his store on the sunday afternoon prior to the robbery, and that he had told the prisoner of his keeping large amounts of money in the building, because of the difficulty and expense of sending the cash to the waterville bank. he also testified that hazelton seemed unusually interested in everything pertaining to the store, and asked many questions relative to his (the witness') habits, such as the time when business usually began, how late he remained in the building at night, as well as several other things which now seemed as if the information had been sought simply for the purpose of knowing when would be the safest time to commit the crime. "how much did you lose?" mr. harvey asked. "i don't know for certain; but i stand willin' to give fifty dollars if the goods can be recovered, an' if my nephew would tell all he knows----" "that will do, mr. hargreaves," the lawyer said, sharply. "teddy is not under examination, and until he is we do not care to hear your opinion concerning him." "i reckon i can tell what i want to, can't i, 'squire?" "you must confine yourself to this particular case. as to whether there is sufficient evidence to bind the prisoner over does not concern the charge against your nephew, at least not to the extent of your telling what you think." "i thought, perhaps, if he heard me say i'd give fifty dollars to know where the goods were, an' knew i'd swear to it, he might confess, for he has shown himself to be powerful fond of a dollar." "that appears to be a peculiarity of some of his relatives," mr. harvey said, dryly, and at this remark the spectators laughed heartily, while the old man growled: "i didn't come here to be told that i was a miser; but it seems even men who call themselves gentlemen think sich things are all right." "if you have no other evidence to give we will not detain you," the lawyer said, sharply; and as uncle nathan returned to his chair near the door the proprietor of the hotel at the run was called upon to testify. what he said was in favor of the prisoner rather than otherwise. he swore to the fact that the prisoner spent the night on which the burglary was committed at his house; that he pretended to retire at an early hour, and started for peach bottom on the first stage. under mr. harvey's skillful cross-examination the landlord admitted that unless a man got out of the window he could not have left the house without the knowledge of the watchman, who kept the keys and remained in the office all night. it was also shown that hazelton brought and carried away with him, so far as was known at the hotel, nothing but a small traveling satchel. then several people from the run were called to prove that the fakir was really in the town on this particular sunday, and the driver of the stage testified that the prisoner rode with him the entire distance to peach bottom. the landlord of the hotel where hazelton boarded during the fair week, or so much of it as he was at liberty, swore to the fact that the prisoner had never brought any quantity of baggage to his house, and appeared to be very regular in his habits. so far as he (the landlord) knew, the fakir remained in his room nearly all the time, except while on the exhibition grounds. this ended the testimony, and mr. harvey argued that there was really no evidence to connect the prisoner with the crime. "that he conducted a game which could hardly be called honest is admitted," he said; "but it has nothing to do with the case. prejudice should not be allowed to take the place of facts, and i insist that my client be released." "i reckon there's sufficient ground for suspicion," the 'squire replied, "an' i don't see any other way out of it. a jury must decide, an' i shall hold him in the sum of three thousand----" at this moment the dignity of the court received a severe shock, as a most unseemly disturbance suddenly occurred at the door, and the 'squire paused to learn who was so bold as to disturb the representative of the law at the very instant when he was delivering an opinion. "it's nobody but a boy," uncle nathan replied as he held the door firmly closed, while the would-be visitor kicked so vigorously as to threaten the destruction of the panels. "bring him in here, an' we'll see whether such a row can be kicked up in a court of law with impunity." "better let me throw him into the street," uncle nathan snarled. "mr. constable, bring that boy before me," the 'squire said, sternly, and an instant later, to the consternation of all those who had seen him, the boy who was supposed to have been drowned two days before entered, looking decidedly the worse for having existed so long without water and soap. "why, it's sam, an' he ain't dead!" teddy cried as he rose to his feet. "of course i ain't; but it wouldn't been many days before i turned into a corpse if i hadn't got away from them thieves," the amateur detective replied. "who are you, an' what do you want here?" the 'squire asked, sternly, as he rapped on the table for the spectators to remain silent. "why, i'm sam balderston, the feller who come to the fair to work for the davis boat an' oar company of detroit, an' if what long jim told me was true, folks have been tryin' to find me in the creek." "this is the boy who was reported to have been drowned on the day when those lads," here the lawyer pointed to teddy and dan, "claim to have seen two men carrying goods into an old barn on the marshes. i fancy he can give us information relative to the true burglars." "you bet i can," and now that he was the central figure in the scene, all sam's old assurance returned. "if you mean the fellers what broke into teddy's uncle's store, i can flash one of them up. the other come to the fair an' didn't get back, so phil thought he was arrested." "who do you mean by the other fellow?" mr. harvey asked. "why, long jim, the same man what swindled teddy out of his fifteen dollars at waterville." "have you been with him since your disappearance?" "most of the time he hung around, an' then ag'in phil was there." "who is phil?" "long jim's partner. they've got a slat of stuff what has been stole 'round here, an' i know where all of it is." "tell the 'squire the whole story." this was sam's opportunity, and, in order to cover himself with glory, he slaughtered the truth in the most shocking manner. "well," he said, in a consequential way, "when dan an' me an' teddy saw the thieves carryin' stuff down to that old barn i wanted to rush in an' arrest both; but the other fellows was scared an' come ashore to talk with hazelton so's he'd tell 'em what to do. then i jes' made up my mind to carry on the job myself, an' went back." "where?" the 'squire asked. "to the barn to get the stuff. while i was diggin' it up the men come back, an' the minute they saw who was on their trail they got frightened." "and who was on their trail?" the 'squire interrupted. "why, me, of course. they rushed in, an' i had the awfullest row; but it was two to one, an' so i got the worst of it. they had to work mighty hard before gettin' me tired, an' then all the stuff was dug up an' put in the boat. my craft was upset an' sent adrift, so's to make it look as if i was dead, an' we went down the creek six or seven miles, where we hid in the woods. phil came back here after more goods what had been stolen, an' they was goin' to skip the country, when there was a big row, an' long jim allowed he'd come to the fair once more. phil was mad, an' got pretty drunk, an' after that i had my innings. i turned to an' lashed him up same's i'd been; but we had an' awful fight. it takes more'n one man to git away with me." "where is this fellow now?" the 'squire interrupted again. "down the creek, tied up so's he can't hardly breathe, an' he must be pretty near sober by this time." "if he was very drunk i do not understand how he could have fought so hard." "well, he did; but i got the best of him, an' what's more, i know where all the stuff that's been stolen is hid." "mr. constable, bring into court the prisoner who is charged with swindling, and let us see if this extraordinary boy can identify him," the 'squire said, with an unusual amount of dignity. "if it's long jim, you bet i can," sam said, as he turned toward the spectators that they might have a good opportunity of seeing such a wonderful detective as he claimed to be. teddy and dan could hardly control their impatience to speak privately with sam. as a matter of course, they understood that he was embellishing the story, and both were eager to make him tell the exact truth. just at that moment, however, sam had no time to spend on ordinary boys. he had come out of a bad scrape with apparently flying colors, and intended to enjoy his triumph to the utmost before sinking back to his rightful plane. the jail was near at hand, and sam had not exhibited himself as much as he desired when long jim was brought in. on seeing the boy the burglar gave a start of surprise, and allowed the incriminating question to escape his lips: "has phil been pinched, too?" "i took care of that business, an' we'll bring him in some time to-day. say, what about that awful lickin' you was goin' to give me?" "i'll cut your throat before this job is finished," was the angry reply, and there was no longer any necessity of asking sam if he recognized the prisoner. "you say you can show us the stolen goods, and the other burglar is where the officers can get him?" mr. harvey asked. "that's just what i can do," sam replied, proudly. "then you will have earned fifty dollars, for mr. hargreaves has promised, even sworn, that he will pay that amount for the return of his property," mr. harvey continued. "he might as well give me the money now, for i'm ready to turn the stuff up, an' when there's more big detective work to be done, come to me." "i don't know about payin' any reward till i'm certain the little villain isn't one of the thieves himself, an' is doin' this to swindle me," uncle nathan cried, quickly. "he shall have the reward if the story is true," the 'squire replied. "you can't go back on what you've sworn to, an' must pay up. mr. constable, get two or three men an' go with this boy. don't lose sight of him for a minute until he has given all the information in his power." chapter xxxii. _in conclusion._ sam was led away before either teddy or dan could speak privately with him; but they went at once to congratulate hazelton on his apparently happy escape, and, in response to mr. harvey's request, the 'squire said: "the prisoner can remain here, or in your custody, until the party returns. if the boy has told the truth there is nothing for me to do but discharge him, and i am really glad that he has come out so fortunately." "don't think i'll ever forget what you've done for me," hazelton whispered to teddy. "but it isn't me at all. sam seems to have fixed everything." "i've got an idea that i know pretty near the truth of the whole story, never mind how he tells it. at all events, we've no reason to complain, for if the goods and the other burglar are found, we are out of our trouble. your uncle's charges can't hold after that." it was, as teddy now realized for the first time, a happy conclusion to the troubles of both, and his heart was lighter than it had been at any time since the accusation was made. there was no question that those who had gone with sam would be absent several hours, and the little party in the court-room had more time at their disposal than could well be occupied by the discussion of their affairs. after the different phases of the case had been gone over in detail, hazelton asked teddy: "how did you come out at the fair?" "i haven't figured up; but i know i've made a good deal, an' it must be almost enough, countin' the money deacon jones gave us, to pay the debt on the place." until this moment teddy had had so much on his mind that the principal cause of his turning fakir was absent from his mind; but now, with nothing better to do, he began to count up the week's work, announcing the result a few moments later by saying: "i took in two hundred an' fifty-two dollars an' fifty cents during the week. out of that must come the money i lost at waterville, what i paid uncle nathan, the privilege, the money i paid mr. reaves for the stock, tim's wages, an' my board. that leaves one hundred an' forty-five dollars an' ninety-eight cents. with what came in from the testimonial i'll have enough to pay off the debt on the house, an' pretty near eight dollars for myself, which is what i call a big week's work." "i'm glad you have made it," hazelton replied, heartily. "there is a little matter between you an' i which yet remains to be settled, and when that has been done you should be considerably better off." "i don't want you to do a thing," teddy said, quickly. "so many people have helped me since the fair opened that it seems as if i was nothing more or less than a beggar." "you come very far from deserving that title," the fakir replied, and then the entrance of mr. reaves interrupted the conversation. after talking with the lawyer, the merchant said to teddy: "i am more than pleased to learn that you will be freed from all your troubles in a short time. next week i shall be in need of a clerk, and if you wish to take the situation it shall be left open until you are ready to go to work. the wages are six dollars a week for the first year, with an increase as soon as you can earn it, and i will really be pleased to have you in my employ." "i'd like to come," teddy replied; "but it don't seem just right to leave mother." "there is no necessity of doing so. you can ride back and forth on the stage, unless your mother should decide, as i think she will eventually, to make her home in waterville." "if she approves of the plan i'll come to work next week." "make it two weeks, so that there'll be plenty of time to arrange matters, and i will expect you," the merchant replied in a tone which showed that he was more than satisfied with the arrangement. "i only came over to see if you needed any assistance; but mr. harvey says you'll soon be free from the charge your uncle made, therefore i will go back at once." about an hour after the merchant departed sam and the constables returned with phil and the stolen goods. the amateur detective was in the best possible spirits, and now that the burglar had been apprehended through his assistance the boy felt absolutely certain he was the greatest detective in the country. as a matter of course, there was nothing the 'squire could do save discharge hazelton from custody, and after mr. harvey had given his word that he would take care sam should appear when wanted as a witness, the boy rejoined his friends, saying as he did so: "if you fellers had done as i wanted you'd be way up now, the same as i am. of course, i don't blame you for being afraid; but when you go out on such work the only way is to hold on." "i wonder how long you'd have held on if the men hadn't made you stay with them?" dan asked. "who told you that?" sam said. "if i staid, it was because i knowed it wouldn't be long until i got the upper hand of the gang, an i've done it." before the party separated, and while uncle nathan was identifying the goods which had been stolen from him, mr. harvey insisted that the reward should be paid, and although it was very much like drawing a tooth, the old man was finally induced to make his word good. "it's a pile of money, but i earned it," sam said, as he tucked uncle nathan's grudgingly bestowed cash in his trousers pocket. "there ain't many 'round this part of the country who could have done what i did, an' it's only right detectives should be well paid." then, with many protestations of friendship, the lawyer started for home, after returning to hazelton the money which teddy had given mr. reaves for safekeeping, and the fakir said as he walked out of the court-room with the four boys: "now, i want you to come with me, until my business is settled, and then i'll shake the dust of peach bottom from my feet in the shortest possible time." not understanding what he meant, the boys accompanied him to the nearest jewelry store, and there he bought two silver watches, which he presented to teddy and dan, as he said: "these are only to remind you that i am grateful for what has been done. it isn't much of a present; but it will suffice to show i'm not ungrateful. some time in the future i may meet you again, and then the full debt shall be paid if i'm solid enough to do it." he was gone almost before the astonished boys could thank him, and with his departure this story should properly be concluded, since teddy has made his last appearance as a fakir. a few more words, and "the end" shall be written. sam, still believing himself especially designed for a detective, is yet displaying his "style" as an oarsman in the employ of the davis boat and oar company, and he believes he has guessed the weight of the yacht which is so soon to be given away. dan accepted an offer from mr. reaves last week, and he and teddy are learning the same business, both looking forward to the time when they shall own a store equally as large. uncle nathan is still at the run, but his trade has decreased very materially, and hazelton has not been seen since the day he left peach bottom; but it is quite possible that when the fair opens this season all the fakirs may again meet the country boy who made such a successful venture at the country fair. [the end.] [illustration: state st. kilby st.] charles e. brown & co.'s publications, boston. ridpath's united states. cloth . sheep . half morocco . size of volumes - / Ã� - / inches. [illustration: the united states a history john clark ridpath l.l.d.] _fac-simile volume reduced._ for sale by all booksellers or sent upon receipt of price by the publishers. charles e. brown & co.'s publications boston. hall's ireland, vols. in . cloth . sheep . half morocco . size of volumes / Ã� / inches. [illustration: ireland its history scenery and people] _fac-simile volume reduced._ for sale by all booksellers or sent upon receipt of price by the publishers. charles e. brown & co.'s publications, boston. miss parloa's cook book. cloth, silver and black side and back . size of volumes - / Ã� - / inches. [illustration: miss parloa's cook book] _fac-simile volume reduced._ for sale by all booksellers or sent upon receipt of price by the publishers. * * * * * transcriber's note: [----] denotes a word missing in the original text. [illustration: the girl gasped as renine (arsene lupin) drew forth the mysterious telescope.] the eight strokes of the clock by maurice le blanc author's note these adventures were told to me in the old days by arsène lupin, as though they had happened to a friend of his, named prince rénine. as for me, considering the way in which they were conducted, the actions, the behaviour and the very character of the hero, i find it very difficult not to identify the two friends as one and the same person. arsène lupin is gifted with a powerful imagination and is quite capable of attributing to himself adventures which are not his at all and of disowning those which are really his. the reader will judge for himself. m. l. contents i on the top of the tower ii the water bottle iii the case of jean louis iv the tell-tale film v thÉrÈse and germaine vi the lady with the hatchet vii footprints in the snow viii at the sign of mercury i on the top of the tower hortense daniel pushed her window ajar and whispered: "are you there, rossigny?" "i am here," replied a voice from the shrubbery at the front of the house. leaning forward, she saw a rather fat man looking up at her out of a gross red face with its cheeks and chin set in unpleasantly fair whiskers. "well?" he asked. "well, i had a great argument with my uncle and aunt last night. they absolutely refuse to sign the document of which my lawyer sent them the draft, or to restore the dowry squandered by my husband." "but your uncle is responsible by the terms of the marriage-settlement." "no matter. he refuses." "well, what do you propose to do?" "are you still determined to run away with me?" she asked, with a laugh. "more so than ever." "your intentions are strictly honourable, remember!" "just as you please. you know that i am madly in love with you." "unfortunately i am not madly in love with you!" "then what made you choose me?" "chance. i was bored. i was growing tired of my humdrum existence. so i'm ready to run risks.... here's my luggage: catch!" she let down from the window a couple of large leather kit-bags. rossigny caught them in his arms. "the die is cast," she whispered. "go and wait for me with your car at the if cross-roads. i shall come on horseback." "hang it, i can't run off with your horse!" "he will go home by himself." "capital!... oh, by the way...." "what is it?" "who is this prince rénine, who's been here the last three days and whom nobody seems to know?" "i don't know much about him. my uncle met him at a friend's shoot and asked him here to stay." "you seem to have made a great impression on him. you went for a long ride with him yesterday. he's a man i don't care for." "in two hours i shall have left the house in your company. the scandal will cool him off.... well, we've talked long enough. we have no time to lose." for a few minutes she stood watching the fat man bending under the weight of her traps as he moved away in the shelter of an empty avenue. then she closed the window. outside, in the park, the huntsmen's horns were sounding the reveille. the hounds burst into frantic baying. it was the opening day of the hunt that morning at the château de la marèze, where, every year, in the first week in september, the comte d'aigleroche, a mighty hunter before the lord, and his countess were accustomed to invite a few personal friends and the neighbouring landowners. hortense slowly finished dressing, put on a riding-habit, which revealed the lines of her supple figure, and a wide-brimmed felt hat, which encircled her lovely face and auburn hair, and sat down to her writing-desk, at which she wrote to her uncle, m. d'aigleroche, a farewell letter to be delivered to him that evening. it was a difficult letter to word; and, after beginning it several times, she ended by giving up the idea. "i will write to him later," she said to herself, "when his anger has cooled down." and she went downstairs to the dining-room. enormous logs were blazing in the hearth of the lofty room. the walls were hung with trophies of rifles and shotguns. the guests were flocking in from every side, shaking hands with the comte d'aigleroche, one of those typical country squires, heavily and powerfully built, who lives only for hunting and shooting. he was standing before the fire, with a large glass of old brandy in his hand, drinking the health of each new arrival. hortense kissed him absently: "what, uncle! you who are usually so sober!" "pooh!" he said. "a man may surely indulge himself a little once a year!..." "aunt will give you a scolding!" "your aunt has one of her sick headaches and is not coming down. besides," he added, gruffly, "it is not her business ... and still less is it yours, my dear child." prince rénine came up to hortense. he was a young man, very smartly dressed, with a narrow and rather pale face, whose eyes held by turns the gentlest and the harshest, the most friendly and the most satirical expression. he bowed to her, kissed her hand and said: "may i remind you of your kind promise, dear madame?" "my promise?" "yes, we agreed that we should repeat our delightful excursion of yesterday and try to go over that old boarded-up place the look of which made us so curious. it seems to be known as the domaine de halingre." she answered a little curtly: "i'm extremely sorry, monsieur, but it would be rather far and i'm feeling a little done up. i shall go for a canter in the park and come indoors again." there was a pause. then serge rénine said, smiling, with his eyes fixed on hers and in a voice which she alone could hear: "i am sure that you'll keep your promise and that you'll let me come with you. it would be better." "for whom? for you, you mean?" "for you, too, i assure you." she coloured slightly, but did not reply, shook hands with a few people around her and left the room. a groom was holding the horse at the foot of the steps. she mounted and set off towards the woods beyond the park. it was a cool, still morning. through the leaves, which barely quivered, the sky showed crystalline blue. hortense rode at a walk down winding avenues which in half an hour brought her to a country-side of ravines and bluffs intersected by the high-road. she stopped. there was not a sound. rossigny must have stopped his engine and concealed the car in the thickets around the if cross-roads. she was five hundred yards at most from that circular space. after hesitating for a few seconds, she dismounted, tied her horse carelessly, so that he could release himself by the least effort and return to the house, shrouded her face in the long brown veil that hung over her shoulders and walked on. as she expected, she saw rossigny directly she reached the first turn in the road. he ran up to her and drew her into the coppice! "quick, quick! oh, i was so afraid that you would be late ... or even change your mind! and here you are! it seems too good to be true!" she smiled: "you appear to be quite happy to do an idiotic thing!" "i should think i _am_ happy! and so will you be, i swear you will! your life will be one long fairy-tale. you shall have every luxury, and all the money you can wish for." "i want neither money nor luxuries." "what then?" "happiness." "you can safely leave your happiness to me." she replied, jestingly: "i rather doubt the quality of the happiness which you would give me." "wait! you'll see! you'll see!" they had reached the motor. rossigny, still stammering expressions of delight, started the engine. hortense stepped in and wrapped herself in a wide cloak. the car followed the narrow, grassy path which led back to the cross-roads and rossigny was accelerating the speed, when he was suddenly forced to pull up. a shot had rung out from the neighbouring wood, on the right. the car was swerving from side to side. "a front tire burst," shouted rossigny, leaping to the ground. "not a bit of it!" cried hortense. "somebody fired!" "impossible, my dear! don't be so absurd!" at that moment, two slight shocks were felt and two more reports were heard, one after the other, some way off and still in the wood. rossigny snarled: "the back tires burst now ... both of them.... but who, in the devil's name, can the ruffian be?... just let me get hold of him, that's all!..." he clambered up the road-side slope. there was no one there. moreover, the leaves of the coppice blocked the view. "damn it! damn it!" he swore. "you were right: somebody was firing at the car! oh, this is a bit thick! we shall be held up for hours! three tires to mend!... but what are you doing, dear girl?" hortense herself had alighted from the car. she ran to him, greatly excited: "i'm going." "but why?" "i want to know. some one fired. i want to know who it was." "don't let us separate, please!" "do you think i'm going to wait here for you for hours?" "what about your running away?... all our plans ...?" "we'll discuss that to-morrow. go back to the house. take back my things with you.... and good-bye for the present." she hurried, left him, had the good luck to find her horse and set off at a gallop in a direction leading away from la marèze. there was not the least doubt in her mind that the three shots had been fired by prince rénine. "it was he," she muttered, angrily, "it was he. no one else would be capable of such behaviour." besides, he had warned her, in his smiling, masterful way, that he would expect her. she was weeping with rage and humiliation. at that moment, had she found herself face to face with prince rénine, she could have struck him with her riding-whip. before her was the rugged and picturesque stretch of country which lies between the orne and the sarthe, above alençon, and which is known as little switzerland. steep hills compelled her frequently to moderate her pace, the more so as she had to cover some six miles before reaching her destination. but, though the speed at which she rode became less headlong, though her physical effort gradually slackened, she nevertheless persisted in her indignation against prince rénine. she bore him a grudge not only for the unspeakable action of which he had been guilty, but also for his behaviour to her during the last three days, his persistent attentions, his assurance, his air of excessive politeness. she was nearly there. in the bottom of a valley, an old park-wall, full of cracks and covered with moss and weeds, revealed the ball-turret of a château and a few windows with closed shutters. this was the domaine de halingre. she followed the wall and turned a corner. in the middle of the crescent-shaped space before which lay the entrance-gates, serge rénine stood waiting beside his horse. she sprang to the ground, and, as he stepped forward, hat in hand, thanking her for coming, she cried: "one word, monsieur, to begin with. something quite inexplicable happened just now. three shots were fired at a motor-car in which i was sitting. did you fire those shots?" "yes." she seemed dumbfounded: "then you confess it?" "you have asked a question, madame, and i have answered it." "but how dared you? what gave you the right?" "i was not exercising a right, madame; i was performing a duty!" "indeed! and what duty, pray?" "the duty of protecting you against a man who is trying to profit by your troubles." "i forbid you to speak like that. i am responsible for my own actions, and i decided upon them in perfect liberty." "madame, i overheard your conversation with m. rossigny this morning and it did not appear to me that you were accompanying him with a light heart. i admit the ruthlessness and bad taste of my interference and i apologise for it humbly; but i risked being taken for a ruffian in order to give you a few hours for reflection." "i have reflected fully, monsieur. when i have once made up my mind to a thing, i do not change it." "yes, madame, you do, sometimes. if not, why are you here instead of there?" hortense was confused for a moment. all her anger had subsided. she looked at rénine with the surprise which one experiences when confronted with certain persons who are unlike their fellows, more capable of performing unusual actions, more generous and disinterested. she realised perfectly that he was acting without any ulterior motive or calculation, that he was, as he had said, merely fulfilling his duty as a gentleman to a woman who has taken the wrong turning. speaking very gently, he said: "i know very little about you, madame, but enough to make me wish to be of use to you. you are twenty-six years old and have lost both your parents. seven years ago, you became the wife of the comte d'aigleroche's nephew by marriage, who proved to be of unsound mind, half insane indeed, and had to be confined. this made it impossible for you to obtain a divorce and compelled you, since your dowry had been squandered, to live with your uncle and at his expense. it's a depressing environment. the count and countess do not agree. years ago, the count was deserted by his first wife, who ran away with the countess' first husband. the abandoned husband and wife decided out of spite to unite their fortunes, but found nothing but disappointment and ill-will in this second marriage. and you suffer the consequences. they lead a monotonous, narrow, lonely life for eleven months or more out of the year. one day, you met m. rossigny, who fell in love with you and suggested an elopement. you did not care for him. but you were bored, your youth was being wasted, you longed for the unexpected, for adventure ... in a word, you accepted with the very definite intention of keeping your admirer at arm's length, but also with the rather ingenuous hope that the scandal would force your uncle's hand and make him account for his trusteeship and assure you of an independent existence. that is how you stand. at present you have to choose between placing yourself in m. rossigny's hands ... or trusting yourself to me." she raised her eyes to his. what did he mean? what was the purport of this offer which he made so seriously, like a friend who asks nothing but to prove his devotion? after a moment's silence, he took the two horses by the bridle and tied them up. then he examined the heavy gates, each of which was strengthened by two planks nailed cross-wise. an electoral poster, dated twenty years earlier, showed that no one had entered the domain since that time. rénine tore up one of the iron posts which supported a railing that ran round the crescent and used it as a lever. the rotten planks gave way. one of them uncovered the lock, which he attacked with a big knife, containing a number of blades and implements. a minute later, the gate opened on a waste of bracken which led up to a long, dilapidated building, with a turret at each corner and a sort of a belvedere, built on a taller tower, in the middle. the prince turned to hortense: "you are in no hurry," he said. "you will form your decision this evening; and, if m. rossigny succeeds in persuading you for the second time, i give you my word of honour that i shall not cross your path. until then, grant me the privilege of your company. we made up our minds yesterday to inspect the château. let us do so. will you? it is as good a way as any of passing the time and i have a notion that it will not be uninteresting." he had a way of talking which compelled obedience. he seemed to be commanding and entreating at the same time. hortense did not even seek to shake off the enervation into which her will was slowly sinking. she followed him to a half-demolished flight of steps at the top of which was a door likewise strengthened by planks nailed in the form of a cross. rénine went to work in the same way as before. they entered a spacious hall paved with white and black flagstones, furnished with old sideboards and choir-stalls and adorned with a carved escutcheon which displayed the remains of armorial bearings, representing an eagle standing on a block of stone, all half-hidden behind a veil of cobwebs which hung down over a pair of folding-doors. "the door of the drawing-room, evidently," said rénine. he found this more difficult to open; and it was only by repeatedly charging it with his shoulder that he was able to move one of the doors. hortense had not spoken a word. she watched not without surprise this series of forcible entries, which were accomplished with a really masterly skill. he guessed her thoughts and, turning round, said in a serious voice: "it's child's-play to me. i was a locksmith once." she seized his arm and whispered: "listen!" "to what?" he asked. she increased the pressure of her hand, to demand silence. the next moment, he murmured: "it's really very strange." "listen, listen!" hortense repeated, in bewilderment. "can it be possible?" they heard, not far from where they were standing, a sharp sound, the sound of a light tap recurring at regular intervals; and they had only to listen attentively to recognise the ticking of a clock. yes, it was this and nothing else that broke the profound silence of the dark room; it was indeed the deliberate ticking, rhythmical as the beat of a metronome, produced by a heavy brass pendulum. that was it! and nothing could be more impressive than the measured pulsation of this trivial mechanism, which by some miracle, some inexplicable phenomenon, had continued to live in the heart of the dead château. "and yet," stammered hortense, without daring to raise her voice, "no one has entered the house?" "no one." "and it is quite impossible for that clock to have kept going for twenty years without being wound up?" "quite impossible." "then ...?" serge rénine opened the three windows and threw back the shutters. he and hortense were in a drawing-room, as he had thought; and the room showed not the least sign of disorder. the chairs were in their places. not a piece of furniture was missing. the people who had lived there and who had made it the most individual room in their house had gone away leaving everything just as it was, the books which they used to read, the knick-knacks on the tables and consoles. rénine examined the old grandfather's clock, contained in its tall carved case which showed the disk of the pendulum through an oval pane of glass. he opened the door of the clock. the weights hanging from the cords were at their lowest point. at that moment there was a click. the clock struck eight with a serious note which hortense was never to forget. "how extraordinary!" she said. "extraordinary indeed," said he, "for the works are exceedingly simple and would hardly keep going for a week." "and do you see nothing out of the common?" "no, nothing ... or, at least...." he stooped and, from the back of the case, drew a metal tube which was concealed by the weights. holding it up to the light: "a telescope," he said, thoughtfully. "why did they hide it?... and they left it drawn out to its full length.... that's odd.... what does it mean?" the clock, as is sometimes usual, began to strike a second time, sounding eight strokes. rénine closed the case and continued his inspection without putting his telescope down. a wide arch led from the drawing-room to a smaller apartment, a sort of smoking-room. this also was furnished, but contained a glass case for guns of which the rack was empty. hanging on a panel near by was a calendar with the date of the th of september. "oh," cried hortense, in astonishment, "the same date as to-day!... they tore off the leaves until the th of september.... and this is the anniversary! what an astonishing coincidence!" "astonishing," he echoed. "it's the anniversary of their departure ... twenty years ago to-day." "you must admit," she said, "that all this is incomprehensible. "yes, of course ... but, all the same ... perhaps not." "have you any idea?" he waited a few seconds before replying: "what puzzles me is this telescope hidden, dropped in that corner, at the last moment. i wonder what it was used for.... from the ground-floor windows you see nothing but the trees in the garden ... and the same, i expect, from all the windows.... we are in a valley, without the least open horizon.... to use the telescope, one would have to go up to the top of the house.... shall we go up?" she did not hesitate. the mystery surrounding the whole adventure excited her curiosity so keenly that she could think of nothing but accompanying rénine and assisting him in his investigations. they went upstairs accordingly, and, on the second floor, came to a landing where they found the spiral staircase leading to the belvedere. at the top of this was a platform in the open air, but surrounded by a parapet over six feet high. "there must have been battlements which have been filled in since," observed prince rénine. "look here, there were loop-holes at one time. they may have been blocked." "in any case," she said, "the telescope was of no use up here either and we may as well go down again." "i don't agree," he said. "logic tells us that there must have been some gap through which the country could be seen and this was the spot where the telescope was used." he hoisted himself by his wrists to the top of the parapet and then saw that this point of vantage commanded the whole of the valley, including the park, with its tall trees marking the horizon; and, beyond, a depression in a wood surmounting a hill, at a distance of some seven or eight hundred yards, stood another tower, squat and in ruins, covered with ivy from top to bottom. rénine resumed his inspection. he seemed to consider that the key to the problem lay in the use to which the telescope was put and that the problem would be solved if only they could discover this use. he studied the loop-holes one after the other. one of them, or rather the place which it had occupied, attracted his attention above the rest. in the middle of the layer of plaster, which had served to block it, there was a hollow filled with earth in which plants had grown. he pulled out the plants and removed the earth, thus clearing the mouth of a hole some five inches in diameter, which completely penetrated the wall. on bending forward, rénine perceived that this deep and narrow opening inevitably carried the eye, above the dense tops of the trees and through the depression in the hill, to the ivy-clad tower. at the bottom of this channel, in a sort of groove which ran through it like a gutter, the telescope fitted so exactly that it was quite impossible to shift it, however little, either to the right or to the left. rénine, after wiping the outside of the lenses, while taking care not to disturb the lie of the instrument by a hair's breadth, put his eye to the small end. he remained for thirty or forty seconds, gazing attentively and silently. then he drew himself up and said, in a husky voice: "it's terrible ... it's really terrible." "what is?" she asked, anxiously. "look." she bent down but the image was not clear to her and the telescope had to be focussed to suit her sight. the next moment she shuddered and said: "it's two scarecrows, isn't it, both stuck up on the top? but why?" "look again," he said. "look more carefully under the hats ... the faces...." "oh!" she cried, turning faint with horror, "how awful!" the field of the telescope, like the circular picture shown by a magic lantern, presented this spectacle: the platform of a broken tower, the walls of which were higher in the more distant part and formed as it were a back-drop, over which surged waves of ivy. in front, amid a cluster of bushes, were two human beings, a man and a woman, leaning back against a heap of fallen stones. but the words man and woman could hardly be applied to these two forms, these two sinister puppets, which, it is true, wore clothes and hats--or rather shreds of clothes and remnants of hats--but had lost their eyes, their cheeks, their chins, every particle of flesh, until they were actually and positively nothing more than two skeletons. "two skeletons," stammered hortense. "two skeletons with clothes on. who carried them up there?" "nobody." "but still...." "that man and that woman must have died at the top of the tower, years and years ago ... and their flesh rotted under their clothes and the ravens ate them." "but it's hideous, hideous!" cried hortense, pale as death, her face drawn with horror. * * * * * half an hour later, hortense daniel and rénine left the château de halingre. before their departure, they had gone as far as the ivy-grown tower, the remains of an old donjon-keep more than half demolished. the inside was empty. there seemed to have been a way of climbing to the top, at a comparatively recent period, by means of wooden stairs and ladders which now lay broken and scattered over the ground. the tower backed against the wall which marked the end of the park. a curious fact, which surprised hortense, was that prince rénine had neglected to pursue a more minute enquiry, as though the matter had lost all interest for him. he did not even speak of it any longer; and, in the inn at which they stopped and took a light meal in the nearest village, it was she who asked the landlord about the abandoned château. but she learnt nothing from him, for the man was new to the district and could give her no particulars. he did not even know the name of the owner. they turned their horses' heads towards la marèze. again and again hortense recalled the squalid sight which had met their eyes. but rénine, who was in a lively mood and full of attentions to his companion, seemed utterly indifferent to those questions. "but, after all," she exclaimed, impatiently, "we can't leave the matter there! it calls for a solution." "as you say," he replied, "a solution is called for. m. rossigny has to know where he stands and you have to decide what to do about him." she shrugged her shoulders: "he's of no importance for the moment. the thing to-day...." "is what?" "is to know what those two dead bodies are." "still, rossigny...." "rossigny can wait. but i can't. you have shown me a mystery which is now the only thing that matters. what do you intend to do?" "to do?" "yes. there are two bodies.... you'll inform the police, i suppose." "gracious goodness!" he exclaimed, laughing. "what for?" "well, there's a riddle that has to be cleared up at all costs, a terrible tragedy." "we don't need any one to do that." "what! do you mean to say that you understand it?" "almost as plainly as though i had read it in a book, told in full detail, with explanatory illustrations. it's all so simple!" she looked at him askance, wondering if he was making fun of her. but he seemed quite serious. "well?" she asked, quivering with curiosity. the light was beginning to wane. they had trotted at a good pace; and the hunt was returning as they neared la marèze. "well," he said, "we shall get the rest of our information from people living round about ... from your uncle, for instance; and you will see how logically all the facts fit in. when you hold the first link of a chain, you are bound, whether you like it or not, to reach the last. it's the greatest fun in the world." once in the house, they separated. on going to her room, hortense found her luggage and a furious letter from rossigny in which he bade her good-bye and announced his departure. then rénine knocked at her door: "your uncle is in the library," he said. "will you go down with me? i've sent word that i am coming." she went with him. he added: "one word more. this morning, when i thwarted your plans and begged you to trust me, i naturally undertook an obligation towards you which i mean to fulfill without delay. i want to give you a positive proof of this." she laughed: "the only obligation which you took upon yourself was to satisfy my curiosity." "it shall be satisfied," he assured her, gravely, "and more fully than you can possibly imagine." m. d'aigleroche was alone. he was smoking his pipe and drinking sherry. he offered a glass to rénine, who refused. "well, hortense!" he said, in a rather thick voice. "you know that it's pretty dull here, except in these september days. you must make the most of them. have you had a pleasant ride with rénine?" "that's just what i wanted to talk about, my dear sir," interrupted the prince. "you must excuse me, but i have to go to the station in ten minutes, to meet a friend of my wife's." "oh, ten minutes will be ample!" "just the time to smoke a cigarette?" "no longer." he took a cigarette from the case which m. d'aigleroche handed to him, lit it and said: "i must tell you that our ride happened to take us to an old domain which you are sure to know, the domaine de halingre." "certainly i know it. but it has been closed, boarded up for twenty-five years or so. you weren't able to get in, i suppose?" "yes, we were." "really? was it interesting?" "extremely. we discovered the strangest things." "what things?" asked the count, looking at his watch. rénine described what they had seen: "on a tower some way from the house there were two dead bodies, two skeletons rather ... a man and a woman still wearing the clothes which they had on when they were murdered." "come, come, now! murdered?" "yes; and that is what we have come to trouble you about. the tragedy must date back to some twenty years ago. was nothing known of it at the time?" "certainly not," declared the count. "i never heard of any such crime or disappearance." "oh, really!" said rénine, looking a little disappointed. "i hoped to obtain a few particulars." "i'm sorry." "in that case, i apologise." he consulted hortense with a glance and moved towards the door. but on second thought: "could you not at least, my dear sir, bring me into touch with some persons in the neighbourhood, some members of your family, who might know more about it?" "of my family? and why?" "because the domaine de halingre used to belong and no doubt still belongs to the d'aigleroches. the arms are an eagle on a heap of stones, on a rock. this at once suggested the connection." this time the count appeared surprised. he pushed back his decanter and his glass of sherry and said: "what's this you're telling me? i had no idea that we had any such neighbours." rénine shook his head and smiled: "i should be more inclined to believe, sir, that you were not very eager to admit any relationship between yourself ... and the unknown owner of the property." "then he's not a respectable man?" "the man, to put it plainly, is a murderer." "what do you mean?" the count had risen from his chair. hortense, greatly excited, said: "are you really sure that there has been a murder and that the murder was done by some one belonging to the house?" "quite sure." "but why are you so certain?" "because i know who the two victims were and what caused them to be killed." prince rénine was making none but positive statements and his method suggested the belief that he supported by the strongest proofs. m. d'aigleroche strode up and down the room, with his hands behind his back. he ended by saying: "i always had an instinctive feeling that something had happened, but i never tried to find out.... now, as a matter of fact, twenty years ago, a relation of mine, a distant cousin, used to live at the domaine de halingre. i hoped, because of the name i bear, that this story, which, as i say, i never knew but suspected, would remain hidden for ever." "so this cousin killed somebody?" "yes, he was obliged to." rénine shook his head: "i am sorry to have to amend that phrase, my dear sir. the truth, on the contrary, is that your cousin took his victims' lives in cold blood and in a cowardly manner. i never heard of a crime more deliberately and craftily planned." "what is it that you know?" the moment had come for rénine to explain himself, a solemn and anguish-stricken moment, the full gravity of which hortense understood, though she had not yet divined any part of the tragedy which the prince unfolded step by step." "it's a very simple story," he said. "there is every reason to believe that m. d'aigleroche was married and that there was another couple living in the neighbourhood with whom the owner of the domaine de halingre were on friendly terms. what happened one day, which of these four persons first disturbed the relations between the two households, i am unable to say. but a likely version, which at once occurs to the mind, is that your cousin's wife, madame d'aigleroche, was in the habit of meeting the other husband in the ivy-covered tower, which had a door opening outside the estate. on discovering the intrigue, your cousin d'aigleroche resolved to be revenged, but in such a manner that there should be no scandal and that no one even should ever know that the guilty pair had been killed. now he had ascertained--as i did just now--that there was a part of the house, the belvedere, from which you can see, over the trees and the undulations of the park, the tower standing eight hundred yards away, and that this was the only place that overlooked the top of the tower. he therefore pierced a hole in the parapet, through one of the former loopholes, and from there, by using a telescope which fitted exactly in the grove which he had hollowed out, he watched the meetings of the two lovers. and it was from there, also, that, after carefully taking all his measurements, and calculating all his distances, on a sunday, the th of september, when the house was empty, he killed them with two shots." the truth was becoming apparent. the light of day was breaking. the count muttered: "yes, that's what must have happened. i expect that my cousin d'aigleroche...." "the murderer," rénine continued, "stopped up the loophole neatly with a clod of earth. no one would ever know that two dead bodies were decaying on the top of that tower which was never visited and of which he took the precaution to demolish the wooden stairs. nothing therefore remained for him to do but to explain the disappearance of his wife and his friend. this presented no difficulty. he accused them of having eloped together." hortense gave a start. suddenly, as though the last sentence were a complete and to her an absolutely unexpected revelation, she understood what rénine was trying to convey: "what do you mean?" she asked. "i mean that m. d'aigleroche accused his wife and his friend of eloping together." "no, no!" she cried. "i can't allow that!... you are speaking of a cousin of my uncle's? why mix up the two stories?" "why mix up this story with another which took place at that time?" said the prince. "but i am not mixing them up, my dear madame; there is only one story and i am telling it as it happened." hortense turned to her uncle. he sat silent, with his arms folded; and his head remained in the shadow cast by the lamp-shade. why had he not protested? rénine repeated in a firm tone: "there is only one story. on the evening of that very day, the th of september at eight o'clock, m. d'aigleroche, doubtless alleging as his reason that he was going in pursuit of the runaway couple, left his house after boarding up the entrance. he went away, leaving all the rooms as they were and removing only the firearms from their glass case. at the last minute, he had a presentiment, which has been justified to-day, that the discovery of the telescope which had played so great a part in the preparation of his crime might serve as a clue to an enquiry; and he threw it into the clock-case, where, as luck would have it, it interrupted the swing of the pendulum. this unreflecting action, one of those which every criminal inevitably commits, was to betray him twenty years later. just now, the blows which i struck to force the door of the drawing-room released the pendulum. the clock was set going, struck eight o'clock ... and i possessed the clue of thread which was to lead me through the labyrinth." "proofs!" stammered hortense. "proofs!" "proofs?" replied rénine, in a loud voice. "why, there are any number of proofs; and you know them as well as i do. who could have killed at that distance of eight hundred yards, except an expert shot, an ardent sportsman? you agree, m. d'aigleroche, do you not?... proofs? why was nothing removed from the house, nothing except the guns, those guns which an ardent sportsman cannot afford to leave behind--you agree, m. d'aigleroche--those guns which we find here, hanging in trophies on the walls!... proofs? what about that date, the th of september, which was the date of the crime and which has left such a horrible memory in the criminal's mind that every year at this time--at this time alone--he surrounds himself with distractions and that every year, on this same th of september, he forgets his habits of temperance? well, to-day, is the th of september.... proofs? why, if there weren't any others, would that not be enough for you?" and rénine, flinging out his arm, pointed to the comte d'aigleroche, who, terrified by this evocation of the past, had sunk huddled into a chair and was hiding his head in his hands. hortense did not attempt to argue with him. she had never liked her uncle, or rather her husband's uncle. she now accepted the accusation laid against him. sixty seconds passed. then m. d'aigleroche walked up to them and said: "whether the story be true or not, you can't call a husband a criminal for avenging his honour and killing his faithless wife." "no," replied rénine, "but i have told only the first version of the story. there is another which is infinitely more serious ... and more probable, one to which a more thorough investigation would be sure to lead." "what do you mean?" "i mean this. it may not be a matter of a husband taking the law into his own hands, as i charitably supposed. it may be a matter of a ruined man who covets his friend's money and his friend's wife and who, with this object in view, to secure his freedom, to get rid of his friend and of his own wife, draws them into a trap, suggests to them that they should visit that lonely tower and kills them by shooting them from a distance safely under cover." "no, no," the count protested. "no, all that is untrue." "i don't say it isn't. i am basing my accusation on proofs, but also on intuitions and arguments which up to now have been extremely accurate. all the same, i admit that the second version may be incorrect. but, if so, why feel any remorse? one does not feel remorse for punishing guilty people." "one does for taking life. it is a crushing burden to bear." "was it to give himself greater strength to bear this burden that m. d'aigleroche afterwards married his victim's widow? for that, sir, is the crux of the question. what was the motive of that marriage? was m. d'aigleroche penniless? was the woman he was taking as his second wife rich? or were they both in love with each other and did m. d'aigleroche plan with her to kill his first wife and the husband of his second wife? these are problems to which i do not know the answer. they have no interest for the moment; but the police, with all the means at their disposal, would have no great difficulty in elucidating them." m. d'aigleroche staggered and had to steady himself against the back of a chair. livid in the face, he spluttered: "are you going to inform the police?" "no, no," said rénine. "to begin with, there is the statute of limitations. then there are twenty years of remorse and dread, a memory which will pursue the criminal to his dying hour, accompanied no doubt by domestic discord, hatred, a daily hell ... and, in the end, the necessity of returning to the tower and removing the traces of the two murders, the frightful punishment of climbing that tower, of touching those skeletons, of undressing them and burying them. that will be enough. we will not ask for more. we will not give it to the public to batten on and create a scandal which would recoil upon m. d'aigleroche's niece. no, let us leave this disgraceful business alone." the count resumed his seat at the table, with his hands clutching his forehead, and asked: "then why ...?" "why do i interfere?" said rénine. "what you mean is that i must have had some object in speaking. that is so. there must indeed be a penalty, however slight, and our interview must lead to some practical result. but have no fear: m. d'aigleroche will be let off lightly." the contest was ended. the count felt that he had only a small formality to fulfil, a sacrifice to accept; and, recovering some of his self-assurance, he said, in an almost sarcastic tone: "what's your price?" rénine burst out laughing: "splendid! you see the position. only, you make a mistake in drawing me into the business. i'm working for the glory of the thing." "in that case?" "you will be called upon at most to make restitution." "restitution?" rénine leant over the table and said: "in one of those drawers is a deed awaiting your signature. it is a draft agreement between you and your niece hortense daniel, relating to her private fortune, which fortune was squandered and for which you are responsible. sign the deed." m. d'aigleroche gave a start: "do you know the amount?" "i don't wish to know it." "and if i refuse?..." "i shall ask to see the comtesse d'aigleroche." without further hesitation, the count opened a drawer, produced a document on stamped paper and quickly signed it: "here you are," he said, "and i hope...." "you hope, as i do, that you and i may never have any future dealings? i'm convinced of it. i shall leave this evening; your niece, no doubt, tomorrow. good-bye." * * * * * in the drawing-room, which was still empty, while the guests at the house were dressing for dinner, rénine handed the deed to hortense. she seemed dazed by all that she had heard; and the thing that bewildered her even more than the relentless light shed upon her uncle's past was the miraculous insight and amazing lucidity displayed by this man: the man who for some hours had controlled events and conjured up before her eyes the actual scenes of a tragedy which no one had beheld. "are you satisfied with me?" he asked. she gave him both her hands: "you have saved me from rossigny. you have given me back my freedom and my independence. i thank you from the bottom of my heart." "oh, that's not what i am asking you to say!" he answered. "my first and main object was to amuse you. your life seemed so humdrum and lacking in the unexpected. has it been so to-day?" "how can you ask such a question? i have had the strangest and most stirring experiences." "that is life," he said. "when one knows how to use one's eyes. adventure exists everywhere, in the meanest hovel, under the mask of the wisest of men. everywhere, if you are only willing, you will find an excuse for excitement, for doing good, for saving a victim, for ending an injustice." impressed by his power and authority, she murmured: "who are you exactly?" "an adventurer. nothing more. a lover of adventures. life is not worth living except in moments of adventure, the adventures of others or personal adventures. to-day's has upset you because it affected the innermost depths of your being. but those of others are no less stimulating. would you like to make the experiment?" "how?" "become the companion of my adventures. if any one calls on me for help, help him with me. if chance or instinct puts me on the track of a crime or the trace of a sorrow, let us both set out together. do you consent?" "yes," she said, "but...." she hesitated, as though trying to guess rénine's secret intentions. "but," he said, expressing her thoughts for her, with a smile, "you are a trifle sceptical. what you are saying to yourself is, 'how far does that lover of adventures want to make me go? it is quite obvious that i attract him; and sooner or later he would not be sorry to receive payment for his services.' you are quite right. we must have a formal contract." "very formal," said hortense, preferring to give a jesting tone to the conversation. "let me hear your proposals." he reflected for a moment and continued: "well, we'll say this. the clock at halingre gave eight strokes this afternoon, the day of the first adventure. will you accept its decree and agree to carry out seven more of these delightful enterprises with me, during a period, for instance, of three months? and shall we say that, at the eighth, you will be pledged to grant me...." "what?" he deferred his answer: "observe that you will always be at liberty to leave me on the road if i do not succeed in interesting you. but, if you accompany me to the end, if you allow me to begin and complete the eighth enterprise with you, in three months, on the th of december, at the very moment when the eighth stroke of that clock sounds--and it will sound, you may be sure of that, for the old brass pendulum will not stop swinging again--you will be pledged to grant me...." "what?" she repeated, a little unnerved by waiting. he was silent. he looked at the beautiful lips which he had meant to claim as his reward. he felt perfectly certain that hortense had understood and he thought it unnecessary to speak more plainly: "the mere delight of seeing you will be enough to satisfy me. it is not for me but for you to impose conditions. name them: what do you demand?" she was grateful for his respect and said, laughingly: "what do i demand?" "yes." "can i demand anything i like, however difficult and impossible?" "everything is easy and everything is possible to the man who is bent on winning you." then she said: "i demand that you shall restore to me a small, antique clasp, made of a cornelian set in a silver mount. it came to me from my mother and everyone knew that it used to bring her happiness and me too. since the day when it vanished from my jewel-case, i have had nothing but unhappiness. restore it to me, my good genius." "when was the clasp stolen?" she answered gaily: "seven years ago ... or eight ... or nine; i don't know exactly ... i don't know where ... i don't know how ... i know nothing about it...." "i will find it," rénine declared, "and you shall be happy." ii the water-bottle four days after she had settled down in paris, hortense daniel agreed to meet prince rénine in the bois. it was a glorious morning and they sat down on the terrace of the restaurant impérial, a little to one side. hortense, feeling glad to be alive, was in a playful mood, full of attractive grace. rénine, lest he should startle her, refrained from alluding to the compact into which they had entered at his suggestion. she told him how she had left la marèze and said that she had not heard of rossigny. "i have," said rénine. "i've heard of him." "oh?" "yes, he sent me a challenge. we fought a duel this morning. rossigny got a scratch in the shoulder. that finished the duel. let's talk of something else." there was no further mention of rossigny. rénine at once expounded to hortense the plan of two enterprises which he had in view and in which he offered, with no great enthusiasm, to let her share: "the finest adventure," he declared, "is that which we do not foresee. it comes unexpectedly, unannounced; and no one, save the initiated, realizes that an opportunity to act and to expend one's energies is close at hand. it has to be seized at once. a moment's hesitation may mean that we are too late. we are warned by a special sense, like that of a sleuth-hound which distinguishes the right scent from all the others that cross it." the terrace was beginning to fill up around them. at the next table sat a young man reading a newspaper. they were able to see his insignificant profile and his long, dark moustache. from behind them, through an open window of the restaurant, came the distant strains of a band; in one of the rooms a few couples were dancing. as rénine was paying for the refreshments, the young man with the long moustache stifled a cry and, in a choking voice, called one of the waiters: "what do i owe you?... no change? oh, good lord, hurry up!" rénine, without a moment's hesitation, had picked up the paper. after casting a swift glance down the page, he read, under his breath: "maître dourdens, the counsel for the defence in the trial of jacques aubrieux, has been received at the Élysée. we are informed that the president of the republic has refused to reprieve the condemned man and that the execution will take place to-morrow morning." after crossing the terrace, the young man found himself faced, at the entrance to the garden, by a lady and gentleman who blocked his way; and the latter said: "excuse me, sir, but i noticed your agitation. it's about jacques aubrieux, isn't it?" "yes, yes, jacques aubrieux," the young man stammered. "jacques, the friend of my childhood. i'm hurrying to see his wife. she must be beside herself with grief." "can i offer you my assistance? i am prince rénine. this lady and i would be happy to call on madame aubrieux and to place our services at her disposal." the young man, upset by the news which he had read, seemed not to understand. he introduced himself awkwardly: "my name is dutreuil, gaston dutreuil." rénine beckoned to his chauffeur, who was waiting at some little distance, and pushed gaston dutreuil into the car, asking: "what address? where does madame aubrieux live?" " _bis_, avenue du roule." after helping hortense in, rénine repeated the address to the chauffeur and, as soon as they drove off, tried to question gaston dutreuil: "i know very little of the case," he said. "tell it to me as briefly as you can. jacques aubrieux killed one of his near relations, didn't he?" "he is innocent, sir," replied the young man, who seemed incapable of giving the least explanation. "innocent, i swear it. i've been jacques' friend for twenty years ... he is innocent ... and it would be monstrous...." there was nothing to be got out of him. besides, it was only a short drive. they entered neuilly through the porte des sablons and, two minutes later, stopped before a long, narrow passage between high walls which led them to a small, one-storeyed house. gaston dutreuil rang. "madame is in the drawing-room, with her mother," said the maid who opened the door. "i'll go in to the ladies," he said, taking rénine and hortense with him. it was a fair-sized, prettily-furnished room, which, in ordinary times, must have been used also as a study. two women sat weeping, one of whom, elderly and grey-haired, came up to gaston dutreuil. he explained the reason for rénine's presence and she at once cried, amid her sobs: "my daughter's husband is innocent, sir. jacques? a better man never lived. he was so good-hearted! murder his cousin? but he worshipped his cousin! i swear that he's not guilty, sir! and they are going to commit the infamy of putting him to death? oh, sir, it will kill my daughter!" rénine realized that all these people had been living for months under the obsession of that innocence and in the certainty that an innocent man could never be executed. the news of the execution, which was now inevitable, was driving them mad. he went up to a poor creature bent in two whose face, a quite young face, framed in pretty, flaxen hair, was convulsed with desperate grief. hortense, who had already taken a seat beside her, gently drew her head against her shoulder. rénine said to her: "madame, i do not know what i can do for you. but i give you my word of honour that, if any one in this world can be of use to you, it is myself. i therefore implore you to answer my questions as though the clear and definite wording of your replies were able to alter the aspect of things and as though you wished to make me share your opinion of jacques aubrieux. for he is innocent, is he not?" "oh, sir, indeed he is!" she exclaimed; and the woman's whole soul was in the words. "you are certain of it. but you were unable to communicate your certainty to the court. well, you must now compel me to share it. i am not asking you to go into details and to live again through the hideous torment which you have suffered, but merely to answer certain questions. will you do this?" "i will." rénine's influence over her was complete. with a few sentences rénine had succeeded in subduing her and inspiring her with the will to obey. and once more hortense realized all the man's power, authority and persuasion. "what was your husband?" he asked, after begging the mother and gaston dutreuil to preserve absolute silence. "an insurance-broker." "lucky in business?" "until last year, yes." "so there have been financial difficulties during the past few months?" "yes." "and the murder was committed when?" "last march, on a sunday." "who was the victim?" "a distant cousin, m. guillaume, who lived at suresnes." "what was the sum stolen?" "sixty thousand-franc notes, which this cousin had received the day before, in payment of a long-outstanding debt." "did your husband know that?" "yes. his cousin told him of it on the sunday, in the course of a conversation on the telephone, and jacques insisted that his cousin ought not to keep so large a sum in the house and that he ought to pay it into a bank next day." "was this in the morning?" "at one o'clock in the afternoon. jacques was to have gone to m. guillaume on his motor-cycle. but he felt tired and told him that he would not go out. so he remained here all day." "alone?" "yes. the two servants were out. i went to the cinéma des ternes with my mother and our friend dutreuil. in the evening, we learnt that m. guillaume had been murdered. next morning, jacques was arrested." "on what evidence?" the poor creature hesitated to reply: the evidence of guilt had evidently been overwhelming. then, obeying a sign from rénine, she answered without a pause: "the murderer went to suresnes on a motorcycle and the tracks discovered were those of my husband's machine. they found a handkerchief with my husband's initials; and the revolver which was used belonged to him. lastly, one of our neighbours maintains that he saw my husband go out on his bicycle at three o'clock and another that he saw him come in at half-past four. the murder was committed at four o'clock." "and what does jacques aubrieux say in his defence?" "he declares that he slept all the afternoon. during that time, some one came who managed to unlock the cycle-shed and take the motor-cycle to go to suresnes. as for the handkerchief and the revolver, they were in the tool-bag. there would be nothing surprising in the murderer's using them." "it seems a plausible explanation." "yes, but the prosecution raised two objections. in the first place, nobody, absolutely nobody, knew that my husband was going to stay at home all day, because, on the contrary, it was his habit to go out on his motor-cycle every sunday afternoon." "and the second objection?" she flushed and murmured: "the murderer went to the pantry at m. guillaume's and drank half a bottle of wine straight out of the bottle, which shows my husband's fingerprints." it seemed as though her strength was exhausted and as though, at the same time, the unconscious hope which rénine's intervention had awakened in her had suddenly vanished before the accumulation of adverse facts. again she collapsed, withdrawn into a sort of silent meditation from which hortense's affectionate attentions were unable to distract her. the mother stammered: "he's not guilty, is he, sir? and they can't punish an innocent man. they haven't the right to kill my daughter. oh dear, oh dear, what have we done to be tortured like this? my poor little madeleine!" "she will kill herself," said dutreuil, in a scared voice. "she will never be able to endure the idea that they are guillotining jacques. she will kill herself presently ... this very night...." rénine was striding up and down the room. "you can do nothing for her, can you?" asked hortense. "it's half-past eleven now," he replied, in an anxious tone, "and it's to happen to-morrow morning." "do you think he's guilty?" "i don't know.... i don't know.... the poor woman's conviction is too impressive to be neglected. when two people have lived together for years, they can hardly be mistaken about each other to that degree. and yet...." he stretched himself out on a sofa and lit a cigarette. he smoked three in succession, without a word from any one to interrupt his train of thought. from time to time he looked at his watch. every minute was of such importance! at last he went back to madeleine aubrieux, took her hands and said, very gently: "you must not kill yourself. there is hope left until the last minute has come; and i promise you that, for my part, i will not be disheartened until that last minute. but i need your calmness and your confidence." "i will be calm," she said, with a pitiable air. "and confident?" "and confident." "well, wait for me. i shall be back in two hours from now. will you come with us, m. dutreuil?" as they were stepping into his car, he asked the young man: "do you know any small, unfrequented restaurant, not too far inside paris?" "there's the brasserie lutetia, on the ground-floor of the house in which i live, on the place des ternes." "capital. that will be very handy." they scarcely spoke on the way. rénine, however, said to gaston dutreuil: "so far as i remember, the numbers of the notes are known, aren't they?" "yes. m. guillaume had entered the sixty numbers in his pocket-book." rénine muttered, a moment later: "that's where the whole problem lies. where are the notes? if we could lay our hands on them, we should know everything." at the brasserie lutetia there was a telephone in the private room where he asked to have lunch served. when the waiter had left him alone with hortense and dutreuil, he took down the receiver with a resolute air: "hullo!... prefecture of police, please.... hullo! hullo!... is that the prefecture of police? please put me on to the criminal investigation department. i have a very important communication to make. you can say it's prince rénine." holding the receiver in his hand, he turned to gaston dutreuil: "i can ask some one to come here, i suppose? we shall be quite undisturbed?" "quite." he listened again: "the secretary to the head of the criminal investigation department? oh, excellent! mr. secretary, i have on several occasions been in communication with m. dudouis and have given him information which has been of great use to him. he is sure to remember prince rénine. i may be able to-day to show him where the sixty thousand-franc notes are hidden which aubrieux the murderer stole from his cousin. if he's interested in the proposal, beg him to send an inspector to the brasserie lutetia, place des ternes. i shall be there with a lady and m. dutreuil, aubrieux's friend. good day, mr. secretary." when rénine hung up the instrument, he saw the amazed faces of hortense and of gaston dutreuil confronting him. hortense whispered: "then you know? you've discovered ...?" "nothing," he said, laughing. "well?" "well, i'm acting as though i knew. it's not a bad method. let's have some lunch, shall we?" the clock marked a quarter to one. "the man from the prefecture will be here," he said, "in twenty minutes at latest." "and if no one comes?" hortense objected. "that would surprise me. of course, if i had sent a message to m. dudouis saying, 'aubrieux is innocent,' i should have failed to make any impression. it's not the least use, on the eve of an execution, to attempt to convince the gentry of the police or of the law that a man condemned to death is innocent. no. from henceforth jacques aubrieux belongs to the executioner. but the prospect of securing the sixty bank-notes is a windfall worth taking a little trouble over. just think: that was the weak point in the indictment, those sixty notes which they were unable to trace." "but, as you know nothing of their whereabouts...." "my dear girl--i hope you don't mind my calling you so?--my dear girl, when a man can't explain this or that physical phenomenon, he adopts some sort of theory which explains the various manifestations of the phenomenon and says that everything happened as though the theory were correct. that's what i am doing." "that amounts to saying that you are going upon a supposition?" rénine did not reply. not until some time later, when lunch was over, did he say: "obviously i am going upon a supposition. if i had several days before me, i should take the trouble of first verifying my theory, which is based upon intuition quite as much as upon a few scattered facts. but i have only two hours; and i am embarking on the unknown path as though i were certain that it would lead me to the truth." "and suppose you are wrong?" "i have no choice. besides, it is too late. there's a knock. oh, one word more! whatever i may say, don't contradict me. nor you, m. dutreuil." he opened the door. a thin man, with a red imperial, entered: "prince rénine?" "yes, sir. you, of course, are from m. dudouis?" "yes." and the newcomer gave his name: "chief-inspector morisseau." "i am obliged to you for coming so promptly, mr. chief-inspector," said prince rénine, "and i hope that m. dudouis will not regret having placed you at my disposal." "at your entire disposal, in addition to two inspectors whom i have left in the square outside and who have been in the case, with me, from the first." "i shall not detain you for any length of time," said rénine, "and i will not even ask you to sit down. we have only a few minutes in which to settle everything. you know what it's all about?" "the sixty thousand-franc notes stolen from m. guillaume. i have the numbers here." rénine ran his eyes down the slip of paper which the chief-inspector handed him and said: "that's right. the two lists agree." inspector morisseau seemed greatly excited: "the chief attaches the greatest importance to your discovery. so you will be able to show me?..." rénine was silent for a moment and then declared: "mr. chief-inspector, a personal investigation--and a most exhaustive investigation it was, as i will explain to you presently--has revealed the fact that, on his return from suresnes, the murderer, after replacing the motor-cycle in the shed in the avenue du roule, ran to the ternes and entered this house." "this house?" "yes." "but what did he come here for?" "to hide the proceeds of his theft, the sixty bank-notes." "how do you mean? where?" "in a flat of which he had the key, on the fifth floor." gaston dutreuil exclaimed, in amazement: "but there's only one flat on the fifth floor and that's the one i live in!" "exactly; and, as you were at the cinema with madame aubrieux and her mother, advantage was taken of your absence...." "impossible! no one has the key except myself." "one can get in without a key." "but i have seen no marks of any kind." morisseau intervened: "come, let us understand one another. you say the bank-notes were hidden in m. dutreuil's flat?" "yes." "then, as jacques aubrieux was arrested the next morning, the notes ought to be there still?" "that's my opinion." gaston dutreuil could not help laughing: "but that's absurd! i should have found them!" "did you look for them?" "no. but i should have come across them at any moment. the place isn't big enough to swing a cat in. would you care to see it?" "however small it may be, it's large enough to hold sixty bits of paper." "of course, everything is possible," said dutreuil. "still, i must repeat that nobody, to my knowledge, has been to my rooms; that there is only one key; that i am my own housekeeper; and that i can't quite understand...." hortense too could not understand. with her eyes fixed on prince rénine's, she was trying to read his innermost thoughts. what game was he playing? was it her duty to support his statements? she ended by saying: "mr. chief-inspector, since prince rénine maintains that the notes have been put away upstairs, wouldn't the simplest thing be to go and look? m. dutreuil will take us up, won't you?" "this minute," said the young man. "as you say, that will be simplest." they all four climbed the five storys of the house and, after dutreuil had opened the door, entered a tiny set of chambers consisting of a sitting-room, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom, all arranged with fastidious neatness. it was easy to see that every chair in the sitting-room occupied a definite place. the pipes had a rack to themselves; so had the matches. three walking-sticks, arranged according to their length, hung from three nails. on a little table before the window a hat-box, filled with tissue-paper, awaited the felt hat which dutreuil carefully placed in it. he laid his gloves beside it, on the lid. he did all this with sedate and mechanical movements, like a man who loves to see things in the places which he has chosen for them. indeed, no sooner did rénine shift something than dutreuil made a slight gesture of protest, took out his hat again, stuck it on his head, opened the window and rested his elbows on the sill, with his back turned to the room, as though he were unable to bear the sight of such vandalism. "you're positive, are you not?" the inspector asked rénine. "yes, yes, i'm positive that the sixty notes were brought here after the murder." "let's look for them." this was easy and soon done. in half an hour, not a corner remained unexplored, not a knick-knack unlifted. "nothing," said inspector morisseau. "shall we continue?" "no," replied rénine, "the notes are no longer here." "what do you mean?" "i mean that they have been removed." "by whom? can't you make a more definite accusation?" rénine did not reply. but gaston dutreuil wheeled round. he was choking and spluttered: "mr. inspector, would you like _me_ to make the accusation more definite, as conveyed by this gentleman's remarks? it all means that there's a dishonest man here, that the notes hidden by the murderer were discovered and stolen by that dishonest man and deposited in another and safer place. that is your idea, sir, is it not? and you accuse me of committing this theft don't you?" he came forward, drumming his chest with his fists: "me! me! i found the notes, did i, and kept them for myself? you dare to suggest that!" rénine still made no reply. dutreuil flew into a rage and, taking inspector morisseau aside, exclaimed: "mr. inspector, i strongly protest against all this farce and against the part which you are unconsciously playing in it. before your arrival, prince rénine told this lady and myself that he knew nothing, that he was venturing into this affair at random and that he was following the first road that offered, trusting to luck. do you deny it, sir?" rénine did not open his lips. "answer me, will you? explain yourself; for, really, you are putting forward the most improbable facts without any proof whatever. it's easy enough to say that i stole the notes. and how were you to know that they were here at all? who brought them here? why should the murderer choose this flat to hide them in? it's all so stupid, so illogical and absurd!... give us your proofs, sir ... one single proof!" inspector morisseau seemed perplexed. he questioned rénine with a glance. rénine said: "since you want specific details, we will get them from madame aubrieux herself. she's on the telephone. let's go downstairs. we shall know all about it in a minute." dutreuil shrugged his shoulders: "as you please; but what a waste of time!" he seemed greatly irritated. his long wait at the window, under a blazing sun, had thrown him into a sweat. he went to his bedroom and returned with a bottle of water, of which he took a few sips, afterwards placing the bottle on the window-sill: "come along," he said. prince rénine chuckled. "you seem to be in a hurry to leave the place." "i'm in a hurry to show you up," retorted dutreuil, slamming the door. they went downstairs to the private room containing the telephone. the room was empty. rénine asked gaston dutreuil for the aubrieuxs' number, took down the instrument and was put through. the maid who came to the telephone answered that madame aubrieux had fainted, after giving way to an access of despair, and that she was now asleep. "fetch her mother, please. prince rénine speaking. it's urgent." he handed the second receiver to morisseau. for that matter, the voices were so distinct that dutreuil and hortense were able to hear every word exchanged. "is that you, madame?" "yes. prince rénine, i believe?" "prince rénine." "oh, sir, what news have you for me? is there any hope?" asked the old lady, in a tone of entreaty. "the enquiry is proceeding very satisfactorily," said rénine, "and you may hope for the best. for the moment, i want you to give me some very important particulars. on the day of the murder, did gaston dutreuil come to your house?" "yes, he came to fetch my daughter and myself, after lunch." "did he know at the time that m. guillaume had sixty thousand francs at his place?" "yes, i told him." "and that jacques aubrieux was not feeling very well and was proposing not to take his usual cycle-ride but to stay at home and sleep?" "yes." "you are sure?" "absolutely certain." "and you all three went to the cinema together?" "yes." "and you were all sitting together?" "oh, no! there was no room. he took a seat farther away." "a seat where you could see him?" "no." "but he came to you during the interval?" "no, we did not see him until we were going out." "there is no doubt of that?" "none at all." "very well, madame. i will tell you the result of my efforts in an hour's time. but above all, don't wake up madame aubrieux." "and suppose she wakes of her own accord?" "reassure her and give her confidence. everything is going well, very well indeed." he hung up the receiver and turned to dutreuil, laughing: "ha, ha, my boy! things are beginning to look clearer. what do you say?" it was difficult to tell what these words meant or what conclusions rénine had drawn from his conversation. the silence was painful and oppressive. "mr. chief-inspector, you have some of your men outside, haven't you?" "two detective-sergeants." "it's important that they should be there. please also ask the manager not to disturb us on any account." and, when morisseau returned, rénine closed the door, took his stand in front of dutreuil and, speaking in a good-humoured but emphatic tone, said: "it amounts to this, young man, that the ladies saw nothing of you between three and five o'clock on that sunday. that's rather a curious detail." "a perfectly natural detail," dutreuil retorted, "and one, moreover, which proves nothing at all." "it proves, young man, that you had a good two hours at your disposal." "obviously. two hours which i spent at the cinema." "or somewhere else." dutreuil looked at him: "somewhere else?" "yes. as you were free, you had plenty of time to go wherever you liked ... to suresnes, for instance." "oh!" said the young man, jesting in his turn. "suresnes is a long way off!" "it's quite close! hadn't you your friend jacques aubrieux's motor-cycle?" a fresh pause followed these words. dutreuil had knitted his brows as though he were trying to understand. at last he was heard to whisper: "so that is what he was trying to lead up to!... the brute!..." rénine brought down his hand on dutreuil's shoulder: "no more talk! facts! gaston dutreuil, you are the only person who on that day knew two essential things: first, that cousin guillaume had sixty thousand francs in his house; secondly, that jacques aubrieux was not going out. you at once saw your chance. the motor-cycle was available. you slipped out during the performance. you went to suresnes. you killed cousin guillaume. you took the sixty bank-notes and left them at your rooms. and at five o'clock you went back to fetch the ladies." dutreuil had listened with an expression at once mocking and flurried, casting an occasional glance at inspector morisseau as though to enlist him as a witness: "the man's mad," it seemed to say. "it's no use being angry with him." when rénine had finished, he began to laugh: "very funny!... a capital joke!... so it was i whom the neighbours saw going and returning on the motor-cycle?" "it was you disguised in jacques aubrieux's clothes." "and it was my finger-prints that were found on the bottle in m. guillaume's pantry?" "the bottle had been opened by jacques aubrieux at lunch, in his own house, and it was you who took it with you to serve as evidence." "funnier and funnier!" cried dutreuil, who had the air of being frankly amused. "then i contrived the whole affair so that jacques aubrieux might be accused of the crime?" "it was the safest means of not being accused yourself." "yes, but jacques is a friend whom i have known from childhood." "you're in love with his wife." the young man gave a sudden, infuriated start: "you dare!... what! you dare make such an infamous suggestion?" "i have proof of it." "that's a lie! i have always respected madeleine aubrieux and revered her...." "apparently. but you're in love with her. you desire her. don't contradict me. i have abundant proof of it." "that's a lie, i tell you! you have only known me a few hours!" "come, come! i've been quietly watching you for days, waiting for the moment to pounce upon you." he took the young man by the shoulders and shook him: "come, dutreuil, confess! i hold all the proofs in my hand. i have witnesses whom we shall meet presently at the criminal investigation department. confess, can't you? in spite of everything, you're tortured by remorse. remember your dismay, at the restaurant, when you had seen the newspaper. what? jacques aubrieux condemned to die? that's more than you bargained for! penal servitude would have suited your book; but the scaffold!... jacques aubrieux executed to-morrow, an innocent man!... confess, won't you? confess to save your own skin! own up!" bending over the other, he was trying with all his might to extort a confession from him. but dutreuil drew himself up and coldly, with a sort of scorn in his voice, said: "sir, you are a madman. not a word that you have said has any sense in it. all your accusations are false. what about the bank-notes? did you find them at my place as you said you would?" rénine, exasperated, clenched his fist in his face: "oh, you swine, i'll dish you yet, i swear i will!" he drew the inspector aside: "well, what do you say to it? an arrant rogue, isn't he?" the inspector nodded his head: "it may be.... but, all the same ... so far there's no real evidence." "wait, m. morisseau," said rénine. "wait until we've had our interview with m. dudouis. for we shall see m. dudouis at the prefecture, shall we not?" "yes, he'll be there at three o'clock." "well, you'll be convinced, mr. inspector! i tell you here and now that you will be convinced." rénine was chuckling like a man who feels certain of the course of events. hortense, who was standing near him and was able to speak to him without being heard by the others, asked, in a low voice: "you've got him, haven't you?" he nodded his head in assent: "got him? i should think i have! all the same, i'm no farther forward than i was at the beginning." "but this is awful! and your proofs?" "not the shadow of a proof ... i was hoping to trip him up. but he's kept his feet, the rascal!" "still, you're certain it's he?" "it can't be any one else. i had an intuition at the very outset; and i've not taken my eyes off him since. i have seen his anxiety increasing as my investigations seemed to centre on him and concern him more closely. now i know." "and he's in love with madame aubrieux?" "in logic, he's bound to be. but so far we have only hypothetical suppositions, or rather certainties which are personal to myself. we shall never intercept the guillotine with those. ah, if we could only find the bank-notes! given the bank-notes, m. dudouis would act. without them, he will laugh in my face." "what then?" murmured hortense, in anguished accents. he did not reply. he walked up and down the room, assuming an air of gaiety and rubbing his hands. all was going so well! it was really a treat to take up a case which, so to speak, worked itself out automatically. "suppose we went on to the prefecture, m. morisseau? the chief must be there by now. and, having gone so far, we may as well finish. will m. dutreuil come with us?" "why not?" said dutreuil, arrogantly. but, just as rénine was opening the door, there was a noise in the passage and the manager ran up, waving his arms: "is m. dutreuil still here?... m. dutreuil, your flat is on fire!... a man outside told us. he saw it from the square." the young man's eyes lit up. for perhaps half a second his mouth was twisted by a smile which rénine noticed: "oh, you ruffian!" he cried. "you've given yourself away, my beauty! it was you who set fire to the place upstairs; and now the notes are burning." he blocked his exit. "let me pass," shouted dutreuil. "there's a fire and no one can get in, because no one else has a key. here it is. let me pass, damn it!" rénine snatched the key from his hand and, holding him by the collar of his coat: "don't you move, my fine fellow! the game's up! you precious blackguard! m. morisseau, will you give orders to the sergeant not to let him out of his sight and to blow out his brains if he tries to get away? sergeant, we rely on you! put a bullet into him, if necessary!..." he hurried up the stairs, followed by hortense and the chief inspector, who was protesting rather peevishly: "but, i say, look here, it wasn't he who set the place on fire! how do you make out that he set it on fire, seeing that he never left us?" "why, he set it on fire beforehand, to be sure!" "how? i ask you, how?" "how do i know? but a fire doesn't break out like that, for no reason at all, at the very moment when a man wants to burn compromising papers." they heard a commotion upstairs. it was the waiters of the restaurant trying to burst the door open. an acrid smell filled the well of the stair-case. rénine reached the top floor: "by your leave, friends. i have the key." he inserted it in the lock and opened the door. he was met by a gust of smoke so dense that one might well have supposed the whole floor to be ablaze. rénine at once saw that the fire had gone out of its own accord, for lack of fuel, and that there were no more flames: "m. morisseau, you won't let any one come in with us, will you? an intruder might spoil everything. bolt the door, that will be best." he stepped into the front room, where the fire had obviously had its chief centre. the furniture, the walls and the ceiling, though blackened by the smoke, had not been touched. as a matter of fact, the fire was confined to a blaze of papers which was still burning in the middle of the room, in front of the window. rénine struck his forehead: "what a fool i am! what an unspeakable ass!" "why?" asked the inspector. "the hat-box, of course! the cardboard hat-box which was standing on the table. that's where he hid the notes. they were there all through our search." "impossible!" "why, yes, we always overlook that particular hiding-place, the one just under our eyes, within reach of our hands! how could one imagine that a thief would leave sixty thousand francs in an open cardboard box, in which he places his hat when he comes in, with an absent-minded air? that's just the one place we don't look in.... well played, m. dutreuil!" the inspector, who remained incredulous, repeated: "no, no, impossible! we were with him and he could not have started the fire himself." "everything was prepared beforehand on the supposition that there might be an alarm.... the hat-box ... the tissue paper ... the bank-notes: they must all have been steeped in some inflammable liquid. he must have thrown a match, a chemical preparation or what not into it, as we were leaving." "but we should have seen him, hang it all! and then is it credible that a man who has committed a murder for the sake of sixty thousand francs should do away with the money in this way? if the hiding-place was such a good one--and it was, because we never discovered it--why this useless destruction?" "he got frightened, m. morisseau. remember that his head is at stake and he knows it. anything rather than the guillotine; and they--the bank-notes--were the only proof which we had against him. how could he have left them where they were?" morisseau was flabbergasted: "what! the only proof?" "why, obviously!" "but your witnesses? your evidence? all that you were going to tell the chief?" "mere bluff." "well, upon my word," growled the bewildered inspector, "you're a cool customer!" "would you have taken action without my bluff?" "no." "then what more do you want?" rénine stooped to stir the ashes. but there was nothing left, not even those remnants of stiff paper which still retain their shape. "nothing," he said. "it's queer, all the same! how the deuce did he manage to set the thing alight?" he stood up, looking attentively about him. hortense had a feeling that he was making his supreme effort and that, after this last struggle in the dark, he would either have devised his plan of victory or admit that he was beaten. faltering with anxiety, she asked: "it's all up, isn't it?" "no, no," he said, thoughtfully, "it's not all up. it was, a few seconds ago. but now there is a gleam of light ... and one that gives me hope." "god grant that it may be justified!" "we must go slowly," he said. "it is only an attempt, but a fine, a very fine attempt; and it may succeed." he was silent for a moment; then, with an amused smile and a click of the tongue, he said: "an infernally clever fellow, that dutreuil! his trick of burning the notes: what a fertile imagination! and what coolness! a pretty dance the beggar has led me! he's a master!" he fetched a broom from the kitchen and swept a part of the ashes into the next room, returning with a hat-box of the same size and appearance as the one which had been burnt. after crumpling the tissue paper with which it was filled, he placed the hat-box on the little table and set fire to it with a match. it burst into flames, which he extinguished when they had consumed half the cardboard and nearly all the paper. then he took from an inner pocket of his waistcoat a bundle of bank-notes and selected six, which he burnt almost completely, arranging the remains and hiding the rest of the notes at the bottom of the box, among the ashes and the blackened bits of paper: "m. morisseau," he said, when he had done, "i am asking for your assistance for the last time. go and fetch dutreuil. tell him just this: 'you are unmasked. the notes did not catch fire. come with me.' and bring him up here." despite his hesitation and his fear of exceeding his instructions from the head of the detective service, the chief-inspector was powerless to throw off the ascendancy which rénine had acquired over him. he left the room. rénine turned to hortense: "do you understand my plan of battle?" "yes," she said, "but it's a dangerous experiment. do you think that dutreuil will fall into the trap?" "everything depends on the state of his nerves and the degree of demoralization to which he is reduced. a surprise attack may very well do for him." "nevertheless, suppose he recognizes by some sign that the box has been changed?" "oh, of course, he has a few chances in his favour! the fellow is much more cunning than i thought and quite capable of wriggling out of the trap. on the other hand, however, how uneasy he must be! how the blood must be buzzing in his ears and obscuring his sight! no, i don't think that he will avoid the trap.... he will give in.... he will give in...." they exchanged no more words. rénine did not move. hortense was stirred to the very depths of her being. the life of an innocent man hung trembling in the balance. an error of judgment, a little bad luck ... and, twelve hours later, jacques aubrieux would be put to death. and together with a horrible anguish she experienced, in spite of all, a feeling of eager curiosity. what was prince rénine going to do? what would be the outcome of the experiment on which he was venturing? what resistance would gaston dutreuil offer? she lived through one of those minutes of superhuman tension in which life becomes intensified until it reaches its utmost value. they heard footsteps on the stairs, the footsteps of men in a hurry. the sound drew nearer. they were reaching the top floor. hortense looked at her companion. he had stood up and was listening, his features already transfigured by action. the footsteps were now echoing in the passage. then, suddenly, he ran to the door and cried: "quick! let's make an end of it!" two or three detectives and a couple of waiters entered. he caught hold of dutreuil in the midst of the detectives and pulled him by the arm, gaily exclaiming: "well done, old man! that trick of yours with the table and the water-bottle was really splendid! a masterpiece, on my word! only, it didn't come off!" "what do you mean? what's the matter?" mumbled gaston dutreuil, staggering. "what i say: the fire burnt only half the tissue-paper and the hat-box; and, though some of the bank-notes were destroyed, like the tissue-paper, the others are there, at the bottom.... you understand? the long-sought notes, the great proof of the murder: they're there, where you hid them.... as chance would have it, they've escaped burning.... here, look: there are the numbers; you can check them.... oh, you're done for, done for, my beauty!" the young man drew himself up stiffly. his eyelids quivered. he did not accept rénine's invitation to look; he examined neither the hat-box nor the bank-notes. from the first moment, without taking the time to reflect and before his instinct could warn him, he believed what he was told and collapsed heavily into a chair, weeping. the surprise attack, to use rénine's expression, had succeeded. on seeing all his plans baffled and the enemy master of his secrets, the wretched man had neither the strength nor the perspicacity necessary to defend himself. he threw up the sponge. rénine gave him no time to breathe: "capital! you're saving your head; and that's all, my good youth! write down your confession and get it off your chest. here's a fountain-pen.... the luck has been against you, i admit. it was devilishly well thought out, your trick of the last moment. you had the bank-notes which were in your way and which you wanted to destroy. nothing simpler. you take a big, round-bellied water-bottle and stand it on the window-sill. it acts as a burning-glass, concentrating the rays of the sun on the cardboard and tissue-paper, all nicely prepared. ten minutes later, it bursts into flames. a splendid idea! and, like all great discoveries, it came quite by chance, what? it reminds one of newton's apple.... one day, the sun, passing through the water in that bottle, must have set fire to a scrap of cotton or the head of a match; and, as you had the sun at your disposal just now, you said to yourself, 'now's the time,' and stood the bottle in the right position. my congratulations, gaston!... look, here's a sheet of paper. write down: 'it was i who murdered m. guillaume.' write, i tell you!" leaning over the young man, with all his implacable force of will he compelled him to write, guiding his hand and dictating the sentences. dutreuil, exhausted, at the end of his strength, wrote as he was told. "here's the confession, mr. chief-inspector," said rénine. "you will be good enough to take it to m. dudouis. these gentlemen," turning to the waiters, from the restaurant, "will, i am sure, consent to serve as witnesses." and, seeing that dutreuil, overwhelmed by what had happened, did not move, he gave him a shake: "hi, you, look alive! now that you've been fool enough to confess, make an end of the job, my gentle idiot!" the other watched him, standing in front of him. "obviously," rénine continued, "you're only a simpleton. the hat-box was fairly burnt to ashes: so were the notes. that hat-box, my dear fellow, is a different one; and those notes belong to me. i even burnt six of them to make you swallow the stunt. and you couldn't make out what had happened. what an owl you must be! to furnish me with evidence at the last moment, when i hadn't a single proof of my own! and such evidence! a written confession! written before witnesses!... look here, my man, if they do cut off your head--as i sincerely hope they will--upon my word, you'll have jolly well deserved it! good-bye, dutreuil!" * * * * * downstairs, in the street, rénine asked hortense daniel to take the car, go to madeleine aubrieux and tell her what had happened. "and you?" asked hortense. "i have a lot to do ... urgent appointments...." "and you deny yourself the pleasure of bringing the good news?" "it's one of the pleasures that pall upon one. the only pleasure that never flags is that of the fight itself. afterwards, things cease to be interesting." she took his hand and for a moment held it in both her own. she would have liked to express all her admiration to that strange man, who seemed to do good as a sort of game and who did it with something like genius. but she was unable to speak. all these rapid incidents had upset her. emotion constricted her throat and brought the tears to her eyes. rénine bowed his head, saying: "thank you. i have my reward." iii the case of jean louis "monsieur," continued the young girl, addressing serge rénine, "it was while i was spending the easter holidays at nice with my father that i made the acquaintance of jean louis d'imbleval...." rénine interrupted her: "excuse me, mademoiselle, but just now you spoke of this young man as jean louis vaurois." "that's his name also," she said. "has he two names then?" "i don't know ... i don't know anything about it," she said, with some embarrassment, "and that is why, by hortense's advice, i came to ask for your help." this conversation was taking place in rénine's flat on the boulevard haussmann, to which hortense had brought her friend geneviève aymard, a slender, pretty little creature with a face over-shadowed by an expression of the greatest melancholy. "rénine will be successful, take my word for it, geneviève. you will, rénine, won't you?" "please tell me the rest of the story, mademoiselle," he said. geneviève continued: "i was already engaged at the time to a man whom i loathe and detest. my father was trying to force me to marry him and is still trying to do so. jean louis and i felt the keenest sympathy for each other, a sympathy that soon developed into a profound and passionate affection which, i can assure you, was equally sincere on both sides. on my return to paris, jean louis, who lives in the country with his mother and his aunt, took rooms in our part of the town; and, as i am allowed to go out by myself, we used to see each other daily. i need not tell you that we were engaged to be married. i told my father so. and this is what he said: 'i don't particularly like the fellow. but, whether it's he or another, what i want is that you should get married. so let him come and ask for your hand. if not, you must do as i say.' in the middle of june, jean louis went home to arrange matters with his mother and aunt. i received some passionate letters; and then just these few words: 'there are too many obstacles in the way of our happiness. i give up. i am mad with despair. i love you more than ever. good-bye and forgive me.' "since then, i have received nothing: no reply to my letters and telegrams." "perhaps he has fallen in love with somebody else?" asked rénine. "or there may be some old connection which he is unable to shake off." geneviève shook her head: "monsieur, believe me, if our engagement had been broken off for an ordinary reason, i should not have allowed hortense to trouble you. but it is something quite different, i am absolutely convinced. there's a mystery in jean louis' life, or rather an endless number of mysteries which hamper and pursue him. i never saw such distress in a human face; and, from the first moment of our meeting, i was conscious in him of a grief and melancholy which have always persisted, even at times when he was giving himself to our love with the greatest confidence." "but your impression must have been confirmed by minor details, by things which happened to strike you as peculiar?" "i don't quite know what to say." "these two names, for instance?" "yes, there was certainly that." "by what name did he introduce himself to you?" "jean louis d'imbleval." "but jean louis vaurois?" "that's what my father calls him." "why?" "because that was how he was introduced to my father, at nice, by a gentleman who knew him. besides, he carries visiting-cards which describe him under either name." "have you never questioned him on this point?" "yes, i have, twice. the first time, he said that his aunt's name was vaurois and his mother's d'imbleval." "and the second time?" "he told me the contrary: he spoke of his mother as vaurois and of his aunt as d'imbleval. i pointed this out. he coloured up and i thought it better not to question him any further." "does he live far from paris?" "right down in brittany: at the manoir d'elseven, five miles from carhaix." rénine rose and asked the girl, seriously: "are you quite certain that he loves you, mademoiselle?" "i am certain of it and i know too that he represents all my life and all my happiness. he alone can save me. if he can't, then i shall be married in a week's time to a man whom i hate. i have promised my father; and the banns have been published." "we shall leave for carhaix, madame daniel and i, this evening," said rénine. that evening he and hortense took the train for brittany. they reached carhaix at ten o'clock in the morning; and, after lunch, at half past twelve o'clock they stepped into a car borrowed from a leading resident of the district. "you're looking a little pale, my dear," said rénine, with a laugh, as they alighted by the gate of the garden at elseven. "i'm very fond of geneviève," she said. "she's the only friend i have. and i'm feeling frightened." he called her attention to the fact that the central gate was flanked by two wickets bearing the names of madame d'imbleval and madame vaurois respectively. each of these wickets opened on a narrow path which ran among the shrubberies of box and aucuba to the left and right of the main avenue. the avenue itself led to an old manor-house, long, low and picturesque, but provided with two clumsily-built, ugly wings, each in a different style of architecture and each forming the destination of one of the side-paths. madame d'imbleval evidently lived on the left and madame vaurois on the right. hortense and rénine listened. shrill, hasty voices were disputing inside the house. the sound came through one of the windows of the ground-floor, which was level with the garden and covered throughout its length with red creepers and white roses. "we can't go any farther," said hortense. "it would be indiscreet." "all the more reason," whispered rénine. "look here: if we walk straight ahead, we shan't be seen by the people who are quarrelling." the sounds of conflict were by no means abating; and, when they reached the window next to the front-door, through the roses and creepers they could both see and hear two old ladies shrieking at the tops of their voices and shaking their fists at each other. the women were standing in the foreground, in a large dining-room where the table was not yet cleared; and at the farther side of the table sat a young man, doubtless jean louis himself, smoking his pipe and reading a newspaper, without appearing to trouble about the two old harridans. one of these, a thin, tall woman, was wearing a purple silk dress; and her hair was dressed in a mass of curls much too yellow for the ravaged face around which they tumbled. the other, who was still thinner, but quite short, was bustling round the room in a cotton dressing-gown and displayed a red, painted face blazing with anger: "a baggage, that's what you are!" she yelped. "the wickedest woman in the world and a thief into the bargain!" "i, a thief!" screamed the other. "what about that business with the ducks at ten francs apiece: don't you call that thieving?" "hold your tongue, you low creature! who stole the fifty-franc note from my dressing-table? lord, that i should have to live with such a wretch!" the other started with fury at the outrage and, addressing the young man, cried: "jean, are you going to sit there and let me be insulted by your hussy of a d'imbleval?" and the tall one retorted, furiously: "hussy! do you hear that, louis? look at her, your vaurois! she's got the airs of a superannuated barmaid! make her stop, can't you?" suddenly jean louis banged his fist upon the table, making the plates and dishes jump, and shouted: "be quiet, both of you, you old lunatics!" they turned upon him at once and loaded him with abuse: "coward!... hypocrite!... liar!... a pretty sort of son you are!... the son of a slut and not much better yourself!..." the insults rained down upon him. he stopped his ears with his fingers and writhed as he sat at table like a man who has lost all patience and has need to restrain himself lest he should fall upon his enemy. rénine whispered: "now's the time to go in." "in among all those infuriated people?" protested hortense. "exactly. we shall see them better with their masks off." and, with a determined step, he walked to the door, opened it and entered the room, followed by hortense. his advent gave rise to a feeling of stupefaction. the two women stopped yelling, but were still scarlet in the face and trembling with rage. jean louis, who was very pale, stood up. profiting by the general confusion, rénine said briskly: "allow me to introduce myself. i am prince rénine. this is madame daniel. we are friends of mlle. geneviève aymard and we have come in her name. i have a letter from her addressed to you, monsieur." jean louis, already disconcerted by the newcomers' arrival, lost countenance entirely on hearing the name of geneviève. without quite knowing what he was saying and with the intention of responding to rénine's courteous behaviour, he tried in his turn to introduce the two ladies and let fall the astounding words: "my mother, madame d'imbleval; my mother, madame vaurois." for some time no one spoke. rénine bowed. hortense did not know with whom she should shake hands, with madame d'imbleval, the mother, or with madame vaurois, the mother. but what happened was that madame d'imbleval and madame vaurois both at the same time attempted to snatch the letter which rénine was holding out to jean louis, while both at the same time mumbled: "mlle. aymard!... she has had the coolness ... she has had the audacity...!" then jean louis, recovering his self-possession, laid hold of his mother d'imbleval and pushed her out of the room by a door on the left and next of his mother vaurois and pushed her out of the room by a door on the right. then, returning to his two visitors, he opened the envelope and read, in an undertone: "i am to be married in a week, jean louis. come to my rescue, i beseech you. my friend hortense and prince rénine will help you to overcome the obstacles that baffle you. trust them. i love you. "geneviÈve." he was a rather dull-looking young man, whose very swarthy, lean and bony face certainly bore the expression of melancholy and distress described by geneviève. indeed, the marks of suffering were visible in all his harassed features, as well as in his sad and anxious eyes. he repeated geneviève's name over and over again, while looking about him with a distracted air. he seemed to be seeking a course of conduct. he seemed on the point of offering an explanation but could find nothing to say. the sudden intervention had taken him at a disadvantage, like an unforseen attack which he did not know how to meet. rénine felt that the adversary would capitulate at the first summons. the man had been fighting so desperately during the last few months and had suffered so severely in the retirement and obstinate silence in which he had taken refuge that he was not thinking of defending himself. moreover, how could he do so, now that they had forced their way into the privacy of his odious existence? "take my word for it, monsieur," declared rénine, "that it is in your best interests to confide in us. we are geneviève aymard's friends. do not hesitate to speak." "i can hardly hesitate," he said, "after what you have just heard. this is the life i lead, monsieur. i will tell you the whole secret, so that you may tell it to geneviève. she will then understand why i have not gone back to her ... and why i have not the right to do so." he pushed a chair forward for hortense. the two men sat down, and, without any need of further persuasion, rather as though he himself felt a certain relief in unburdening himself, he said: "you must not be surprised, monsieur, if i tell my story with a certain flippancy, for, as a matter of fact, it is a frankly comical story and cannot fail to make you laugh. fate often amuses itself by playing these imbecile tricks, these monstrous farces which seem as though they must have been invented by the brain of a madman or a drunkard. judge for yourself. twenty-seven years ago, the manoir d'elseven, which at that time consisted only of the main building, was occupied by an old doctor who, to increase his modest means, used to receive one or two paying guests. in this way, madame d'imbleval spent the summer here one year and madame vaurois the following summer. now these two ladies did not know each other. one of them was married to a breton of a merchant-vessel and the other to a commercial traveller from the vendée. "it so happened that they lost their husbands at the same time, at a period when each of them was expecting a baby. and, as they both lived in the country, at places some distance from any town, they wrote to the old doctor that they intended to come to his house for their confinement.... he agreed. they arrived almost on the same day, in the autumn. two small bedrooms were prepared for them, behind the room in which we are sitting. the doctor had engaged a nurse, who slept in this very room. everything was perfectly satisfactory. the ladies were putting the finishing touches to their baby-clothes and were getting on together splendidly. they were determined that their children should be boys and had chosen the names of jean and louis respectively.... one evening the doctor was called out to a case and drove off in his gig with the man-servant, saying that he would not be back till next day. in her master's absence, a little girl who served as maid-of-all-work ran out to keep company with her sweetheart. these accidents destiny turned to account with diabolical malignity. at about midnight, madame d'imbleval was seized with the first pains. the nurse, mlle. boussignol, had had some training as a midwife and did not lose her head. but, an hour later, madame vaurois' turn came; and the tragedy, or i might rather say the tragi-comedy, was enacted amid the screams and moans of the two patients and the bewildered agitation of the nurse running from one to the other, bewailing her fate, opening the window to call out for the doctor or falling on her knees to implore the aid of providence.... madame vaurois was the first to bring a son into the world. mlle. boussignol hurriedly carried him in here, washed and tended him and laid him in the cradle prepared for him.... but madame d'imbleval was screaming with pain; and the nurse had to attend to her while the newborn child was yelling like a stuck pig and the terrified mother, unable to stir from her bed, fainted.... add to this all the wretchedness of darkness and disorder, the only lamp, without any oil, for the servant had neglected to fill it, the candles burning out, the moaning of the wind, the screeching of the owls, and you will understand that mlle. boussignol was scared out of her wits. however, at five o'clock in the morning, after many tragic incidents, she came in here with the d'imbleval baby, likewise a boy, washed and tended him, laid him in his cradle and went off to help madame vaurois, who had come to herself and was crying out, while madame d'imbleval had fainted in her turn. and, when mlle. boussignol, having settled the two mothers, but half-crazed with fatigue, her brain in a whirl, returned to the new-born children, she realized with horror that she had wrapped them in similar binders, thrust their feet into similar woolen socks and laid them both, side by side, _in the same cradle_, so that it was impossible to tell louis d'imbleval from jean vaurois!... to make matters worse, when she lifted one of them out of the cradle, she found that his hands were cold as ice and that he had ceased to breathe. he was dead. what was his name and what the survivor's?... three hours later, the doctor found the two women in a condition of frenzied delirium, while the nurse was dragging herself from one bed to the other, entreating the two mothers to forgive her. she held me out first to one, then to the other, to receive their caresses--for i was the surviving child--and they first kissed me and then pushed me away; for, after all, who was i? the son of the widowed madame d'imbleval and the late merchant-captain or the son of the widowed madame vaurois and the late commercial traveller? there was not a clue by which they could tell.... the doctor begged each of the two mothers to sacrifice her rights, at least from the legal point of view, so that i might be called either louis d'imbleval or jean vaurois. they refused absolutely. 'why jean vaurois, if he's a d'imbleval?' protested the one. 'why louis d'imbleval, if he's a vaurois?' retorted the other. and i was registered under the name of jean louis, the son of an unknown father and mother." prince rénine had listened in silence. but hortense, as the story approached its conclusion, had given way to a hilarity which she could no longer restrain and suddenly, in spite of all her efforts, she burst into a fit of the wildest laughter: "forgive me," she said, her eyes filled with tears, "do forgive me; it's too much for my nerves...." "don't apologize, madame," said the young man, gently, in a voice free from resentment. "i warned you that my story was laughable; i, better than any one, know how absurd, how nonsensical it is. yes, the whole thing is perfectly grotesque. but believe me when i tell you that it was no fun in reality. it seems a humorous situation and it remains humorous by the force of circumstances; but it is also horrible. you can see that for yourself, can't you? the two mothers, neither of whom was certain of being a mother, but neither of whom was certain that she was not one, both clung to jean louis. he might be a stranger; on the other hand, he might be their own flesh and blood. they loved him to excess and fought for him furiously. and, above all, they both came to hate each other with a deadly hatred. differing completely in character and education and obliged to live together because neither was willing to forego the advantage of her possible maternity, they lived the life of irreconcilable enemies who can never lay their weapons aside.... i grew up in the midst of this hatred and had it instilled into me by both of them. when my childish heart, hungering for affection, inclined me to one of them, the other would seek to inspire me with loathing and contempt for her. in this manor-house, which they bought on the old doctor's death and to which they added the two wings, i was the involuntary torturer and their daily victim. tormented as a child, and, as a young man, leading the most hideous of lives, i doubt if any one on earth ever suffered more than i did." "you ought to have left them!" exclaimed hortense, who had stopped laughing. "one can't leave one's mother; and one of those two women was my mother. and a woman can't abandon her son; and each of them was entitled to believe that i was her son. we were all three chained together like convicts, with chains of sorrow, compassion, doubt and also of hope that the truth might one day become apparent. and here we still are, all three, insulting one another and blaming one another for our wasted lives. oh, what a hell! and there was no escaping it. i tried often enough ... but in vain. the broken bonds became tied again. only this summer, under the stimulus of my love for geneviève, i tried to free myself and did my utmost to persuade the two women whom i call mother. and then ... and then! i was up against their complaints, their immediate hatred of the wife, of the stranger, whom i was proposing to force upon them.... i gave way. what sort of a life would geneviève have had here, between madame d'imbleval and madame vaurois? i had no right to victimize her." jean louis, who had been gradually becoming excited, uttered these last words in a firm voice, as though he would have wished his conduct to be ascribed to conscientious motives and a sense of duty. in reality, as rénine and hortense clearly saw, his was an unusually weak nature, incapable of reacting against a ridiculous position from which he had suffered ever since he was a child and which he had come to look upon as final and irremediable. he endured it as a man bears a cross which he has no right to cast aside; and at the same time he was ashamed of it. he had never spoken of it to geneviève, from dread of ridicule; and afterwards, on returning to his prison, he had remained there out of habit and weakness. he sat down to a writing-table and quickly wrote a letter which he handed to rénine: "would you be kind enough to give this note to mlle. aymard and beg her once more to forgive me?" rénine did not move and, when the other pressed the letter upon him, he took it and tore it up. "what does this mean?" asked the young man. "it means that i will not charge myself with any message." "why?" "because you are coming with us." "i?" "yes. you will see mlle. aymard to-morrow and ask for her hand in marriage." jean louis looked at rénine with a rather disdainful air, as though he were thinking: "here's a man who has not understood a word of what i've been explaining to him." but hortense went up to rénine: "why do you say that?" "because it will be as i say." "but you must have your reasons?" "one only; but it will be enough, provided this gentleman is so kind as to help me in my enquiries." "enquiries? with what object?" asked the young man. "with the object of proving that your story is not quite accurate." jean louis took umbrage at this: "i must ask you to believe, monsieur, that i have not said a word which is not the exact truth." "i expressed myself badly," said rénine, with great kindliness. "certainly you have not said a word that does not agree with what you believe to be the exact truth. but the truth is not, cannot be what you believe it to be." the young man folded his arms: "in any case, monsieur, it seems likely that i should know the truth better than you do." "why better? what happened on that tragic night can obviously be known to you only at secondhand. you have no proofs. neither have madame d'imbleval and madame vaurois." "no proofs of what?" exclaimed jean louis, losing patience. "no proofs of the confusion that took place." "what! why, it's an absolute certainty! the two children were laid in the same cradle, with no marks to distinguish one from the other; and the nurse was unable to tell...." "at least, that's her version of it," interrupted rénine. "what's that? her version? but you're accusing the woman." "i'm accusing her of nothing." "yes, you are: you're accusing her of lying. and why should she lie? she had no interest in doing so; and her tears and despair are so much evidence of her good faith. for, after all, the two mothers were there ... they saw the woman weeping ... they questioned her.... and then, i repeat, what interest had she ...?" jean louis was greatly excited. close beside him, madame d'imbleval and madame vaurois, who had no doubt been listening behind the doors and who had stealthily entered the room, stood stammering, in amazement: "no, no ... it's impossible.... we've questioned her over and over again. why should she tell a lie?..." "speak, monsieur, speak," jean louis enjoined. "explain yourself. give your reasons for trying to cast doubt upon an absolute truth!" "because that truth is inadmissible," declared rénine, raising his voice and growing excited in turn to the point of punctuating his remarks by thumping the table. "no, things don't happen like that. no, fate does not display those refinements of cruelty and chance is not added to chance with such reckless extravagance! it was already an unprecedented chance that, on the very night on which the doctor, his man-servant and his maid were out of the house, the two ladies should be seized with labour-pains at the same hour and should bring two sons into the world at the same time. don't let us add a still more exceptional event! enough of the uncanny! enough of lamps that go out and candles that refuse to burn! no and again no, it is not admissable that a midwife should become confused in the essential details of her trade. however bewildered she may be by the unforeseen nature of the circumstances, a remnant of instinct is still on the alert, so that there is a place prepared for each child and each is kept distinct from the other. the first child is here, the second is there. even if they are lying side by side, one is on the left and the other on the right. even if they are wrapped in the same kind of binders, some little detail differs, a trifle which is recorded by the memory and which is inevitably recalled to the mind without any need of reflection. confusion? i refuse to believe in it. impossible to tell one from the other? it isn't true. in the world of fiction, yes, one can imagine all sorts of fantastic accidents and heap contradiction on contradiction. but, in the world of reality, at the very heart of reality, there is always a fixed point, a solid nucleus, about which the facts group themselves in accordance with a logical order. i therefore declare most positively that nurse boussignol could not have mixed up the two children." all this he said decisively, as though he had been present during the night in question; and so great was his power of persuasion that from the very first he shook the certainty of those who for more than a quarter of a century had never doubted. the two women and their son pressed round him and questioned him with breathless anxiety: "then you think that she may know ... that she may be able to tell us....?" he corrected himself: "i don't say yes and i don't say no. all i say is that there was something in her behaviour during those hours that does not tally with her statements and with reality. all the vast and intolerable mystery that has weighed down upon you three arises not from a momentary lack of attention but from something of which we do not know, but of which she does. that is what i maintain; and that is what happened." jean louis said, in a husky voice: "she is alive.... she lives at carhaix.... we can send for her...." hortense at once proposed: "would you like me to go for her? i will take the motor and bring her back with me. where does she live?" "in the middle of the town, at a little draper's shop. the chauffeur will show you. mlle. boussignol: everybody knows her...." "and, whatever you do," added rénine, "don't warn her in any way. if she's uneasy, so much the better. but don't let her know what we want with her." twenty minutes passed in absolute silence. rénine paced the room, in which the fine old furniture, the handsome tapestries, the well-bound books and pretty knick-knacks denoted a love of art and a seeking after style in jean louis. this room was really his. in the adjoining apartments on either side, through the open doors, rénine was able to note the bad taste of the two mothers. he went up to jean louis and, in a low voice, asked: "are they well off?" "yes." "and you?" "they settled the manor-house upon me, with all the land around it, which makes me quite independent." "have they any relations?" "sisters, both of them." "with whom they could go to live?" "yes; and they have sometimes thought of doing so. but there can't be any question of that. once more, i assure you...." meantime the car had returned. the two women jumped up hurriedly, ready to speak. "leave it to me," said rénine, "and don't be surprised by anything that i say. it's not a matter of asking her questions but of frightening her, of flurrying her.... the sudden attack," he added between his teeth. the car drove round the lawn and drew up outside the windows. hortense sprang out and helped an old woman to alight, dressed in a fluted linen cap, a black velvet bodice and a heavy gathered skirt. the old woman entered in a great state of alarm. she had a pointed face, like a weasel's, with a prominent mouth full of protruding teeth. "what's the matter, madame d'imbleval?" she asked, timidly stepping into the room from which the doctor had once driven her. "good day to you, madame vaurois." the ladies did not reply. rénine came forward and said, sternly: "mlle. boussignol, i have been sent by the paris police to throw light upon a tragedy which took place here twenty-seven years ago. i have just secured evidence that you have distorted the truth and that, as the result of your false declarations, the birth-certificate of one of the children born in the course of that night is inaccurate. now false declarations in matters of birth-certificates are misdemeanours punishable by law. i shall therefore be obliged to take you to paris to be interrogated ... unless you are prepared here and now to confess everything that might repair the consequences of your offence." the old maid was shaking in every limb. her teeth were chattering. she was evidently incapable of opposing the least resistance to rénine. "are you ready to confess everything?" he asked. "yes," she panted. "without delay? i have to catch a train. the business must be settled immediately. if you show the least hesitation, i take you with me. have you made up your mind to speak?" "yes." he pointed to jean louis: "whose son is this gentleman? madame d'imbleval's?" "no." "madame vaurois', therefore?" "no." a stupefied silence welcomed the two replies. "explain yourself," rénine commanded, looking at his watch. then madame boussignol fell on her knees and said, in so low and dull a voice that they had to bend over her in order to catch the sense of what she was mumbling: "some one came in the evening ... a gentleman with a new-born baby wrapped in blankets, which he wanted the doctor to look after. as the doctor wasn't there, he waited all night and it was he who did it all." "did what?" asked rénine. "what did he do? what happened?" "well, what happened was that it was not one child but the two of them that died: madame d'imbleval's and madame vaurois' too, both in convulsions. then the gentleman, seeing this, said, 'this shows me where my duty lies. i must seize this opportunity of making sure that my own boy shall be happy and well cared for. put him in the place of one of the dead children.' he offered me a big sum of money, saying that this one payment would save him the expense of providing for his child every month; and i accepted. only, i did not know in whose place to put him and whether to say that the boy was louis d'imbleval or jean vaurois. the gentleman thought a moment and said neither. then he explained to me what i was to do and what i was to say after he had gone. and, while i was dressing his boy in vest and binders the same as one of the dead children, he wrapped the other in the blankets he had brought with him and went out into the night." mlle. boussignol bent her head and wept. after a moment, rénine said: "your deposition agrees with the result of my investigations." "can i go?" "yes." "and is it over, as far as i'm concerned? they won't be talking about this all over the district?" "no. oh, just one more question: do you know the man's name?" "no. he didn't tell me his name." "have you ever seen him since?" "never." "have you anything more to say?" "no." "are you prepared to sign the written text of your confession?" "yes." "very well. i shall send for you in a week or two. till then, not a word to anybody." he saw her to the door and closed it after her. when he returned, jean louis was between the two old ladies and all three were holding hands. the bond of hatred and wretchedness which had bound them had suddenly snapped; and this rupture, without requiring them to reflect upon the matter, filled them with a gentle tranquillity of which they were hardly conscious, but which made them serious and thoughtful. "let's rush things," said rénine to hortense. "this is the decisive moment of the battle. we must get jean louis on board." hortense seemed preoccupied. she whispered: "why did you let the woman go? were you satisfied with her statement?" "i don't need to be satisfied. she told us what happened. what more do you want?" "nothing.... i don't know...." "we'll talk about it later, my dear. for the moment, i repeat, we must get jean louis on board. and immediately.... otherwise...." he turned to the young man: "you agree with me, don't you, that, things being as they are, it is best for you and madame vaurois and madame d'imbleval to separate for a time? that will enable you all to see matters more clearly and to decide in perfect freedom what is to be done. come with us, monsieur. the most pressing thing is to save geneviève aymard, your _fiancée_." jean louis stood perplexed and undecided. rénine turned to the two women: "that is your opinion too, i am sure, ladies?" they nodded. "you see, monsieur," he said to jean louis, "we are all agreed. in great crises, there is nothing like separation ... a few days' respite. quickly now, monsieur." and, without giving him time to hesitate, he drove him towards his bedroom to pack up. half an hour later, jean louis left the manor-house with his new friends. "and he won't go back until he's married," said rénine to hortense, as they were waiting at carhaix station, to which the car had taken them, while jean louis was attending to his luggage. "everything's for the best. are you satisfied?" "yes, geneviève will be glad," she replied, absently. when they had taken their seats in the train, rénine and she repaired to the dining-car. rénine, who had asked hortense several questions to which she had replied only in monosyllables, protested: "what's the matter with you, my child? you look worried!" "i? not at all!" "yes, yes, i know you. now, no secrets, no mysteries!" she smiled: "well, since you insist on knowing if i am satisfied, i am bound to admit that of course i am ... as regards my friend geneviève, but that, in another respect--from the point of view of the adventure--i have an uncomfortable sort of feeling...." "to speak frankly, i haven't 'staggered' you this time?" "not very much." "i seem to you to have played a secondary part. for, after all, what have i done? we arrived. we listened to jean louis' tale of woe. i had a midwife fetched. and that was all." "exactly. i want to know if that _was_ all; and i'm not quite sure. to tell you the truth, our other adventures left behind them an impression which was--how shall i put it?--more definite, clearer." "and this one strikes you as obscure?" "obscure, yes, and incomplete." "but in what way?" "i don't know. perhaps it has something to do with that woman's confession. yes, very likely that is it. it was all so unexpected and so short." "well, of course, i cut it short, as you can readily imagine!" said rénine, laughing. "we didn't want too many explanations." "what do you mean?" "why, if she had given her explanations with too much detail, we should have ended by doubting what she was telling us." "by doubting it?" "well, hang it all, the story is a trifle far-fetched! that fellow arriving at night, with a live baby in his pocket, and going away with a dead one: the thing hardly holds water. but you see, my dear, i hadn't much time to coach the unfortunate woman in her part." hortense stared at him in amazement: "what on earth do you mean?" "well, you know how dull-witted these countrywomen are. and she and i had no time to spare. so we worked out a little scene in a hurry ... and she really didn't act it so badly. it was all in the right key: terror, _tremolo_, tears...." "is it possible?" murmured hortense. "is it possible? you had seen her beforehand?" "i had to, of course." "but when?" "this morning, when we arrived. while you were titivating yourself at the hotel at carhaix, i was running round to see what information i could pick up. as you may imagine, everybody in the district knows the d'imbleval-vaurois story. i was at once directed to the former midwife, mlle. boussignol. with mlle. boussignol it did not take long. three minutes to settle a new version of what had happened and ten thousand francs to induce her to repeat that ... more or less credible ... version to the people at the manor-house." "a quite incredible version!" "not so bad as all that, my child, seeing that you believed it ... and the others too. and that was the essential thing. what i had to do was to demolish at one blow a truth which had been twenty-seven years in existence and which was all the more firmly established because it was founded on actual facts. that was why i went for it with all my might and attacked it by sheer force of eloquence. impossible to identify the children? i deny it. inevitable confusion? it's not true. 'you're all three,' i say, 'the victims of something which i don't know but which it is your duty to clear up!' 'that's easily done,' says jean louis, whose conviction is at once shaken. 'let's send for mlle. boussignol.' 'right! let's send for her.' whereupon mlle. boussignol arrives and mumbles out the little speech which i have taught her. sensation! general stupefaction ... of which i take advantage to carry off our young man!" hortense shook her head: "but they'll get over it, all three of them, on thinking!" "never! never! they will have their doubts, perhaps. but they will never consent to feel certain! they will never agree to think! use your imagination! here are three people whom i have rescued from the hell in which they have been floundering for a quarter of a century. do you think they're going back to it? here are three people who, from weakness or a false sense of duty, had not the courage to escape. do you think that they won't cling like grim death to the liberty which i'm giving them? nonsense! why, they would have swallowed a hoax twice as difficult to digest as that which mlle. boussignol dished up for them! after all, my version was no more absurd than the truth. on the contrary. and they swallowed it whole! look at this: before we left, i heard madame d'imbleval and madame vaurois speak of an immediate removal. they were already becoming quite affectionate at the thought of seeing the last of each other." "but what about jean louis?" "jean louis? why, he was fed up with his two mothers! by jingo, one can't do with two mothers in a life-time! what a situation! and when one has the luck to be able to choose between having two mothers or none at all, why, bless me, one doesn't hesitate! and, besides, jean louis is in love with geneviève." he laughed. "and he loves her well enough, i hope and trust, not to inflict two mothers-in-law upon her! come, you may be easy in your mind. your friend's happiness is assured; and that is all you asked for. all that matters is the object which we achieve and not the more or less peculiar nature of the methods which we employ. and, if some adventures are wound up and some mysteries elucidated by looking for and finding cigarette-ends, or incendiary water-bottles and blazing hat-boxes as on our last expedition, others call for psychology and for purely psychological solutions. i have spoken. and i charge you to be silent." "silent?" "yes, there's a man and woman sitting behind us who seem to be saying something uncommonly interesting." "but they're talking in whispers." "just so. when people talk in whispers, it's always about something shady." he lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair. hortense listened, but in vain. as for him, he was emitting little slow puffs of smoke. fifteen minutes later, the train stopped and the man and woman got out. "pity," said rénine, "that i don't know their names or where they're going. but i know where to find them. my dear, we have a new adventure before us." hortense protested: "oh, no, please, not yet!... give me a little rest!... and oughtn't we to think of geneviève?" he seemed greatly surprised: "why, all that's over and done with! do you mean to say you want to waste any more time over that old story? well, i for my part confess that i've lost all interest in the man with the two mammas." and this was said in such a comical tone and with such diverting sincerity that hortense was once more seized with a fit of giggling. laughter alone was able to relax her exasperated nerves and to distract her from so many contradictory emotions. iv the tell-tale film "do look at the man who's playing the butler," said serge rénine. "what is there peculiar about him?" asked hortense. they were sitting in the balcony at a picture-palace, to which hortense had asked to be taken so that she might see on the screen the daughter of a lady, now dead, who used to give her piano-lessons. rose andrée, a lovely girl with lissome movements and a smiling face, was that evening figuring in a new film, _the happy princess_, which she lit up with her high spirits and her warm, glowing beauty. rénine made no direct reply, but, during a pause in the performance, continued: "i sometimes console myself for an indifferent film by watching the subordinate characters. it seems to me that those poor devils, who are made to rehearse certain scenes ten or twenty times over, must often be thinking of other things than their parts at the time of the final exposure. and it's great fun noting those little moments of distraction which reveal something of their temperament, of their instinct self. as, for instance, in the case of that butler: look!" the screen now showed a luxuriously served table. the happy princess sat at the head, surrounded by all her suitors. half-a-dozen footmen moved about the room, under the orders of the butler, a big fellow with a dull, coarse face, a common appearance and a pair of enormous eyebrows which met across his forehead in a single line. "he looks a brute," said hortense, "but what do you see in him that's peculiar?" "just note how he gazes at the princess and tell me if he doesn't stare at her oftener than he ought to." "i really haven't noticed anything, so far," said hortense. "why, of course he does!" serge rénine declared. "it is quite obvious that in actual life he entertains for rose andrée personal feelings which are quite out of place in a nameless servant. it is possible that, in real life, no one has any idea of such a thing; but, on the screen, when he is not watching himself, or when he thinks that the actors at rehearsal cannot see him, his secret escapes him. look...." the man was standing still. it was the end of dinner. the princess was drinking a glass of champagne and he was gloating over her with his glittering eyes half-hidden behind their heavy lids. twice again they surprised in his face those strange expressions to which rénine ascribed an emotional meaning which hortense refused to see: "it's just his way of looking at people," she said. the first part of the film ended. there were two parts, divided by an _entr'acte_. the notice on the programme stated that "a year had elapsed and that the happy princess was living in a pretty norman cottage, all hung with creepers, together with her husband, a poor musician." the princess was still happy, as was evident on the screen, still as attractive as ever and still besieged by the greatest variety of suitors. nobles and commoners, peasants and financiers, men of all kinds fell swooning at her feet; and prominent among them was a sort of boorish solitary, a shaggy, half-wild woodcutter, whom she met whenever she went out for a walk. armed with his axe, a formidable, crafty being, he prowled around the cottage; and the spectators felt with a sense of dismay that a peril was hanging over the happy princess' head. "look at that!" whispered rénine. "do you realise who the man of the woods is?" "no." "simply the butler. the same actor is doubling the two parts." in fact, notwithstanding the new figure which he cut, the butler's movements and postures were apparent under the heavy gait and rounded shoulders of the woodcutter, even as under the unkempt beard and long, thick hair the once clean-shaven face was visible with the cruel expression and the bushy line of the eyebrows. the princess, in the background, was seen to emerge from the thatched cottage. the man hid himself behind a clump of trees. from time to time, the screen displayed, on an enormously enlarged scale, his fiercely rolling eyes or his murderous hands with their huge thumbs. "the man frightens me," said hortense. "he is really terrifying." "because he's acting on his own account," said rénine. "you must understand that, in the space of three or four months that appears to separate the dates at which the two films were made, his passion has made progress; and to him it is not the princess who is coming but rose andrée." the man crouched low. the victim approached, gaily and unsuspectingly. she passed, heard a sound, stopped and looked about her with a smiling air which became attentive, then uneasy, and then more and more anxious. the woodcutter had pushed aside the branches and was coming through the copse. they were now standing face to face. he opened his arms as though to seize her. she tried to scream, to call out for help; but the arms closed around her before she could offer the slightest resistance. then he threw her over his shoulder and began to run. "are you satisfied?" whispered rénine. "do you think that this fourth-rate actor would have had all that strength and energy if it had been any other woman than rose andrée?" meanwhile the woodcutter was crossing the skirt of a forest and plunging through great trees and masses of rocks. after setting the princess down, he cleared the entrance to a cave which the daylight entered by a slanting crevice. a succession of views displayed the husband's despair, the search and the discovery of some small branches which had been broken by the princess and which showed the path that had been taken. then came the final scene, with the terrible struggle between the man and the woman when the woman, vanquished and exhausted, is flung to the ground, the sudden arrival of the husband and the shot that puts an end to the brute's life.... * * * * * "well," said rénine, when they had left the picture-palace--and he spoke with a certain gravity--"i maintain that the daughter of your old piano-teacher has been in danger ever since the day when that last scene was filmed. i maintain that this scene represents not so much an assault by the man of the woods on the happy princess as a violent and frantic attack by an actor on the woman he desires. certainly it all happened within the bounds prescribed by the part and nobody saw anything in it--nobody except perhaps rose andrée herself--but i, for my part, have detected flashes of passion which leave not a doubt in my mind. i have seen glances that betrayed the wish and even the intention to commit murder. i have seen clenched hands, ready to strangle, in short, a score of details which prove to me that, at that time, the man's instinct was urging him to kill the woman who could never be his." "and it all amounts to what?" "we must protect rose andrée if she is still in danger and if it is not too late." "and to do this?" "we must get hold of further information." "from whom?" "from the world's cinema company, which made the film. i will go to them to-morrow morning. will you wait for me in your flat about lunch-time?" at heart, hortense was still sceptical. all these manifestations of passion, of which she denied neither the ardour nor the ferocity, seemed to her to be the rational behaviour of a good actor. she had seen nothing of the terrible tragedy which rénine contended that he had divined; and she wondered whether he was not erring through an excess of imagination. "well," she asked, next day, not without a touch of irony, "how far have you got? have you made a good bag? anything mysterious? anything thrilling?" "pretty good." "oh, really? and your so-called lover...." "is one dalbrèque, originally a scene-painter, who played the butler in the first part of the film and the man of the woods in the second and was so much appreciated that they engaged him for a new film. consequently, he has been acting lately. he was acting near paris. but, on the morning of friday the th of september, he broke into the garage of the world's cinema company and made off with a magnificent car and forty thousand francs in money. information was lodged with the police; and on the sunday the car was found a little way outside dreux. and up to now the enquiry has revealed two things, which will appear in the papers to-morrow: first, dalbrèque is alleged to have committed a murder which created a great stir last year, the murder of bourguet, the jeweller; secondly, on the day after his two robberies, dalbrèque was driving through le havre in a motor-car with two men who helped him to carry off, in broad daylight and in a crowded street, a lady whose identity has not yet been discovered." "rose andrée?" asked hortense, uneasily. "i have just been to rose andrée's: the world's cinema company gave me her address. rose andrée spent this summer travelling and then stayed for a fortnight in the seine-inférieure, where she has a small place of her own, the actual cottage in _the happy princess_. on receiving an invitation from america to do a film there, she came back to paris, registered her luggage at the gare saint-lazare and left on friday the th of september, intending to sleep at le havre and take saturday's boat." "friday the th," muttered hortense, "the same day on which that man...." "and it was on the saturday that a woman was carried off by him at le havre. i looked in at the compagnie transatlantique and a brief investigation showed that rose andrée had booked a cabin but that the cabin remained unoccupied. the passenger did not turn up." "this is frightful. she has been carried off. you were right." "i fear so." "what have you decided to do?" "adolphe, my chauffeur, is outside with the car. let us go to le havre. up to the present, rose andrée's disappearance does not seem to have become known. before it does and before the police identify the woman carried off by dalbrèque with the woman who did not turn up to claim her cabin, we will get on rose andrée's track." there was not much said on the journey. at four o'clock hortense and rénine reached rouen. but here rénine changed his road. "adolphe, take the left bank of the seine." he unfolded a motoring-map on his knees and, tracing the route with his finger, showed hortense that, if you draw a line from le havre, or rather from quillebeuf, where the road crosses the seine, to dreux, where the stolen car was found, this line passes through routot, a market-town lying west of the forest of brotonne: "now it was in the forest of brotonne," he continued, "according to what i heard, that the second part of _the happy princess_ was filmed. and the question that arises is this: having got hold of rose andrée, would it not occur to dalbrèque, when passing near the forest on the saturday night, to hide his prey there, while his two accomplices went on to dreux and from there returned to paris? the cave was quite near. was he not bound to go to it? how should he do otherwise? wasn't it while running to this cave, a few months ago, that he held in his arms, against his breast, within reach of his lips, the woman whom he loved and whom he has now conquered? by every rule of fate and logic, the adventure is being repeated all over again ... but this time in reality. rose andrée is a captive. there is no hope of rescue. the forest is vast and lonely. that night, or on one of the following nights, rose andrée must surrender ... or die." hortense gave a shudder: "we shall be too late. besides, you don't suppose that he's keeping her a prisoner?" "certainly not. the place i have in mind is at a cross-roads and is not a safe retreat. but we may discover some clue or other." the shades of night were falling from the tall trees when they entered the ancient forest of brotonne, full of roman remains and mediaeval relics. rénine knew the forest well and remembered that near a famous oak, known as the wine-cask, there was a cave which must be the cave of the happy princess. he found it easily, switched on his electric torch, rummaged in the dark corners and brought hortense back to the entrance: "there's nothing inside," he said, "but here is the evidence which i was looking for. dalbrèque was obsessed by the recollection of the film, but so was rose andrée. the happy princess had broken off the tips of the branches on the way through the forest. rose andrée has managed to break off some to the right of this opening, in the hope that she would be discovered as on the first occasion." "yes," said hortense, "it's a proof that she has been here; but the proof is three weeks old. since that time...." "since that time, she is either dead and buried under a heap of leaves or else alive in some hole even lonelier than this." "if so, where is he?" rénine pricked up his ears. repeated blows of the axe were sounding from some distance, no doubt coming from a part of the forest that was being cleared. "he?" said rénine, "i wonder whether he may not have continued to behave under the influence of the film and whether the man of the woods in _the happy princess_ has not quite naturally resumed his calling. for how is the man to live, to obtain his food, without attracting attention? he will have found a job." "we can't make sure of that." "we might, by questioning the woodcutters whom we can hear." the car took them by a forest-road to another cross-roads where they entered on foot a track which was deeply rutted by waggon-wheels. the sound of axes ceased. after walking for a quarter of an hour, they met a dozen men who, having finished work for the day, were returning to the villages near by. "will this path take us to routot?" ask rénine, in order to open a conversation with them. "no, you're turning your backs on it," said one of the men, gruffly. and he went on, accompanied by his mates. hortense and rénine stood rooted to the spot. they had recognized the butler. his cheeks and chin were shaved, but his upper lip was covered by a black moustache, evidently dyed. the eyebrows no longer met and were reduced to normal dimensions. * * * * * thus, in less than twenty hours, acting on the vague hints supplied by the bearing of a film-actor, serge rénine had touched the very heart of the tragedy by means of purely psychological arguments. "rose andrée is alive," he said. "otherwise dalbrèque would have left the country. the poor thing must be imprisoned and bound up; and he takes her some food at night." "we will save her, won't we?" "certainly, by keeping a watch on him and, if necessary, but in the last resort, compelling him by force to give up his secret." they followed the woodcutter at a distance and, on the pretext that the car needed overhauling, engaged rooms in the principal inn at routot. attached to the inn was a small café from which they were separated by the entrance to the yard and above which were two rooms, reached by a wooden outer staircase, at one side. dalbrèque occupied one of these rooms and rénine took the other for his chauffeur. next morning he learnt from adolphe that dalbrèque, on the previous evening, after all the lights were out, had carried down a bicycle from his room and mounted it and had not returned until shortly before sunrise. the bicycle tracks led rénine to the uninhabited château des landes, five miles from the village. they disappeared in a rocky path which ran beside the park down to the seine, opposite the jumièges peninsula. next night, he took up his position there. at eleven o'clock, dalbrèque climbed a bank, scrambled over a wire fence, hid his bicycle under the branches and moved away. it seemed impossible to follow him in the pitchy darkness, on a mossy soil that muffled the sound of footsteps. rénine did not make the attempt; but, at daybreak, he came with his chauffeur and hunted through the park all the morning. though the park, which covered the side of a hill and was bounded below by the river, was not very large, he found no clue which gave him any reason to suppose that rose andrée was imprisoned there. he therefore went back to the village, with the firm intention of taking action that evening and employing force: "this state of things cannot go on," he said to hortense. "i must rescue rose andrée at all costs and save her from that ruffian's clutches. he must be made to speak. he must. otherwise there's a danger that we may be too late." that day was sunday; and dalbrèque did not go to work. he did not leave his room except for lunch and went upstairs again immediately afterwards. but at three o'clock rénine and hortense, who were keeping a watch on him from the inn, saw him come down the wooden staircase, with his bicycle on his shoulder. leaning it against the bottom step, he inflated the tires and fastened to the handle-bar a rather bulky object wrapped in a newspaper. "by jove!" muttered rénine. "what's the matter?" in front of the café was a small terrace bordered on the right and left by spindle-trees planted in boxes, which were connected by a paling. behind the shrubs, sitting on a bank but stooping forward so that they could see dalbrèque through the branches, were four men. "police!" said rénine. "what bad luck! if those fellows take a hand, they will spoil everything." "why? on the contrary, i should have thought...." "yes, they will. they will put dalbrèque out of the way ... and then? will that give us rose andrée?" dalbrèque had finished his preparations. just as he was mounting his bicycle, the detectives rose in a body, ready to make a dash for him. but dalbrèque, though quite unconscious of their presence, changed his mind and went back to his room as though he had forgotten something. "now's the time!" said rénine. "i'm going to risk it. but it's a difficult situation and i've no great hopes." he went out into the yard and, at a moment when the detectives were not looking, ran up the staircase, as was only natural if he wished to give an order to his chauffeur. but he had no sooner reached the rustic balcony at the back of the house, which gave admission to the two bedrooms than he stopped. dalbrèque's door was open. rénine walked in. dalbrèque stepped back, at once assuming the defensive: "what do you want? who said you could...." "silence!" whispered rénine, with an imperious gesture. "it's all up with you!" "what are you talking about?" growled the man, angrily. "lean out of your window. there are four men below on the watch for you to leave, four detectives." dalbrèque leant over the terrace and muttered an oath: "on the watch for me?" he said, turning round. "what do i care?" "they have a warrant." he folded his arms: "shut up with your piffle! a warrant! what's that to me?" "listen," said rénine, "and let us waste no time. it's urgent. your name's dalbrèque, or, at least, that's the name under which you acted in _the happy princess_ and under which the police are looking for you as being the murderer of bourguet the jeweller, the man who stole a motor-car and forty thousand francs from the world's cinema company and the man who abducted a woman at le havre. all this is known and proved ... and here's the upshot. four men downstairs. myself here, my chauffeur in the next room. you're done for. do you want me to save you?" dalbrèque gave his adversary a long look: "who are you?" "a friend of rose andrée's," said rénine. the other started and, to some extent dropping his mask, retorted: "what are your conditions?" "rose andrée, whom you have abducted and tormented, is dying in some hole or corner. where is she?" a strange thing occurred and impressed rénine. dalbrèque's face, usually so common, was lit up by a smile that made it almost attractive. but this was only a flashing vision: the man immediately resumed his hard and impassive expression. "and suppose i refuse to speak?" he said. "so much the worse for you. it means your arrest." "i dare say; but it means the death of rose andrée. who will release her?" "you. you will speak now, or in an hour, or two hours hence at least. you will never have the heart to keep silent and let her die." dalbrèque shrugged his shoulders. then, raising his hand, he said: "i swear on my life that, if they arrest me, not a word will leave my lips." "what then?" "then save me. we will meet this evening at the entrance to the parc des landes and say what we have to say." "why not at once?" "i have spoken." "will you be there?" "i shall be there." rénine reflected. there was something in all this that he failed to grasp. in any case, the frightful danger that threatened rose andrée dominated the whole situation; and rénine was not the man to despise this threat and to persist out of vanity in a perilous course. rose andrée's life came before everything. he struck several blows on the wall of the next bedroom and called his chauffeur. "adolphe, is the car ready?" "yes, sir." "set her going and pull her up in front of the terrace outside the café, right against the boxes so as to block the exit. as for you," he continued, addressing dalbrèque, "you're to jump on your machine and, instead of making off along the road, cross the yard. at the end of the yard is a passage leading into a lane. there you will be free. but no hesitation and no blundering ... else you'll get yourself nabbed. good luck to you." he waited till the car was drawn up in accordance with his instructions and, when he reached it, he began to question his chauffeur, in order to attract the detectives' attention. one of them, however, having cast a glance through the spindle-trees, caught sight of dalbrèque just as he reached the bottom of the staircase. he gave the alarm and darted forward, followed by his comrades, but had to run round the car and bumped into the chauffeur, which gave dalbrèque time to mount his bicycle and cross the yard unimpeded. he thus had some seconds' start. unfortunately for him as he was about to enter the passage at the back, a troop of boys and girls appeared, returning from vespers. on hearing the shouts of the detectives, they spread their arms in front of the fugitive, who gave two or three lurches and ended by falling. cries of triumph were raised: "lay hold of him! stop him!" roared the detectives as they rushed forward. rénine, seeing that the game was up, ran after the others and called out: "stop him!" he came up with them just as dalbrèque, after regaining his feet, knocked one of the policemen down and levelled his revolver. rénine snatched it out of his hands. but the two other detectives, startled, had also produced their weapons. they fired. dalbrèque, hit in the leg and the chest, pitched forward and fell. "thank you, sir," said the inspector to rénine introducing himself. "we owe a lot to you." "it seems to me that you've done for the fellow," said rénine. "who is he?" "one dalbrèque, a scoundrel for whom we were looking." rénine was beside himself. hortense had joined him by this time; and he growled: "the silly fools! now they've killed him!" "oh, it isn't possible!" "we shall see. but, whether he's dead or alive, it's death to rose andrée. how are we to trace her? and what chance have we of finding the place--some inaccessible retreat--where the poor thing is dying of misery and starvation?" the detectives and peasants had moved away, bearing dalbrèque with them on an improvised stretcher. rénine, who had at first followed them, in order to find out what was going to happen, changed his mind and was now standing with his eyes fixed on the ground. the fall of the bicycle had unfastened the parcel which dalbrèque had tied to the handle-bar; and the newspaper had burst, revealing its contents, a tin saucepan, rusty, dented, battered and useless. "what's the meaning of this?" he muttered. "what was the idea?..." he picked it up examined it. then he gave a grin and a click of the tongue and chuckled, slowly: "don't move an eyelash, my dear. let all these people clear off. all this is no business of ours, is it? the troubles of police don't concern us. we are two motorists travelling for our pleasure and collecting old saucepans if we feel so inclined." he called his chauffeur: "adolphe, take us to the parc des landes by a roundabout road." half an hour later they reached the sunken track and began to scramble down it on foot beside the wooded slopes. the seine, which was very low at this time of day, was lapping against a little jetty near which lay a worm-eaten, mouldering boat, full of puddles of water. rénine stepped into the boat and at once began to bale out the puddles with his saucepan. he then drew the boat alongside of the jetty, helped hortense in and used the one oar which he shipped in a gap in the stern to work her into midstream: "i believe i'm there!" he said, with a laugh. "the worst that can happen to us is to get our feet wet, for our craft leaks a trifle. but haven't we a saucepan? oh, blessings on that useful utensil! almost as soon as i set eyes upon it, i remembered that people use those articles to bale out the bottoms of leaky boats. why, there was bound to be a boat in the landes woods! how was it i never thought of that? but of course dalbrèque made use of her to cross the seine! and, as she made water, he brought a saucepan." "then rose andrée ...?" asked hortense. "is a prisoner on the other bank, on the jumièges peninsula. you see the famous abbey from here." they ran aground on a beach of big pebbles covered with slime. "and it can't be very far away," he added. "dalbrèque did not spend the whole night running about." a tow-path followed the deserted bank. another path led away from it. they chose the second and, passing between orchards enclosed by hedges, came to a landscape that seemed strangely familiar to them. where had they seen that pool before, with the willows overhanging it? and where had they seen that abandoned hovel? suddenly both of them stopped with one accord: "oh!" said hortense. "i can hardly believe my eyes!" opposite them was the white gate of a large orchard, at the back of which, among groups of old, gnarled apple-trees, appeared a cottage with blue shutters, the cottage of the happy princess. "of course!" cried rénine. "and i ought to have known it, considering that the film showed both this cottage and the forest close by. and isn't everything happening exactly as in _the happy princess_? isn't dalbrèque dominated by the memory of it? the house, which is certainly the one in which rose andrée spent the summer, was empty. he has shut her up there." "but the house, you told me, was in the seine-inférieure." "well, so are we! to the left of the river, the eure and the forest of brotonne; to the right, the seine-inférieure. but between them is the obstacle of the river, which is why i didn't connect the two. a hundred and fifty yards of water form a more effective division than dozens of miles." the gate was locked. they got through the hedge a little lower down and walked towards the house, which was screened on one side by an old wall shaggy with ivy and roofed with thatch. "it seems as if there was somebody there," said hortense. "didn't i hear the sound of a window?" "listen." some one struck a few chords on a piano. then a voice arose, a woman's voice softly and solemnly singing a ballad that thrilled with restrained passion. the woman's whole soul seemed to breathe itself into the melodious notes. they walked on. the wall concealed them from view, but they saw a sitting-room furnished with bright wall-paper and a blue roman carpet. the throbbing voice ceased. the piano ended with a last chord; and the singer rose and appeared framed in the window. "rose andrée!" whispered hortense. "well!" said rénine, admitting his astonishment. "this is the last thing that i expected! rose andrée! rose andrée at liberty! and singing massenet in the sitting room of her cottage!" "what does it all mean? do you understand?" "yes, but it has taken me long enough! but how could we have guessed ...?" although they had never seen her except on the screen, they had not the least doubt that this was she. it was really rose andrée, or rather, the happy princess, whom they had admired a few days before, amidst the furniture of that very sitting-room or on the threshold of that very cottage. she was wearing the same dress; her hair was done in the same way; she had on the same bangles and necklaces as in _the happy princess_; and her lovely face, with its rosy cheeks and laughing eyes, bore the same look of joy and serenity. some sound must have caught her ear, for she leant over towards a clump of shrubs beside the cottage and whispered into the silent garden: "georges ... georges ... is that you, my darling?" receiving no reply, she drew herself up and stood smiling at the happy thoughts that seemed to flood her being. but a door opened at the back of the room and an old peasant woman entered with a tray laden with bread, butter and milk: "here, rose, my pretty one, i've brought you your supper. milk fresh from the cow...." and, putting down the tray, she continued: "aren't you afraid, rose, of the chill of the night air? perhaps you're expecting your sweetheart?" "i haven't a sweetheart, my dear old catherine." "what next!" said the old woman, laughing. "only this morning there were footprints under the window that didn't look at all proper!" "a burglar's footprints perhaps, catherine." "well, i don't say they weren't, rose dear, especially as in your calling you have a lot of people round you whom it's well to be careful of. for instance, your friend dalbrèque, eh? nice goings on his are! you saw the paper yesterday. a fellow who has robbed and murdered people and carried off a woman at le havre ...!" hortense and rénine would have much liked to know what rose andrée thought of the revelations, but she had turned her back to them and was sitting at her supper; and the window was now closed, so that they could neither hear her reply nor see the expression of her features. they waited for a moment. hortense was listening with an anxious face. but rénine began to laugh: "very funny, really funny! and such an unexpected ending! and we who were hunting for her in some cave or damp cellar, a horrible tomb where the poor thing was dying of hunger! it's a fact, she knew the terrors of that first night of captivity; and i maintain that, on that first night, she was flung, half-dead, into the cave. only, there you are: the next morning she was alive! one night was enough to tame the little rogue and to make dalbrèque as handsome as prince charming in her eyes! for see the difference. on the films or in novels, the happy princesses resist or commit suicide. but in real life ... oh, woman, woman!" "yes," said hortense, "but the man she loves is almost certainly dead." "and a good thing too! it would be the best solution. what would be the outcome of this criminal love for a thief and murderer?" a few minutes passed. then, amid the peaceful silence of the waning day, mingled with the first shadows of the twilight, they again heard the grating of the window, which was cautiously opened. rose andrée leant over the garden and waited, with her eyes turned to the wall, as though she saw something there. presently, rénine shook the ivy-branches. "ah!" she said. "this time i know you're there! yes, the ivy's moving. georges, georges darling, why do you keep me waiting? catherine has gone. i am all alone...." she had knelt down and was distractedly stretching out her shapely arms covered with bangles which clashed with a metallic sound: "georges!... georges!..." her every movement, the thrill of her voice, her whole being expressed desire and love. hortense, deeply touched, could not help saying: "how the poor thing loves him! if she but knew...." "ah!" cried the girl. "you've spoken. you're there, and you want me to come to you, don't you? here i am, georges!..." she climbed over the window-ledge and began to run, while rénine went round the wall and advanced to meet her. she stopped short in front of him and stood choking at the sight of this man and woman whom she did not know and who were stepping out of the very shadow from which her beloved appeared to her each night. rénine bowed, gave his name and introduced his companion: "madame hortense daniel, a pupil and friend of your mother's." still motionless with stupefaction, her features drawn, she stammered: "you know who i am?... and you were there just now?... you heard what i was saying ...?" rénine, without hesitating or pausing in his speech, said: "you are rose andrée, the happy princess. we saw you on the films the other evening; and circumstances led us to set out in search of you ... to le havre, where you were abducted on the day when you were to have left for america, and to the forest of brotonne, where you were imprisoned." she protested eagerly, with a forced laugh: "what is all this? i have not been to le havre. i came straight here. abducted? imprisoned? what nonsense!" "yes, imprisoned, in the same cave as the happy princess; and you broke off some branches to the right of the cave." "but how absurd! who would have abducted me? i have no enemy." "there is a man in love with you: the one whom you were expecting just now." "yes, my lover," she said, proudly. "have i not the right to receive whom i like?" "you have the right; you are a free agent. but the man who comes to see you every evening is wanted by the police. his name is georges dalbrèque. he killed bourguet the jeweller." the accusation made her start with indignation and she exclaimed: "it's a lie! an infamous fabrication of the newspapers! georges was in paris on the night of the murder. he can prove it." "he stole a motor car and forty thousand francs in notes." she retorted vehemently: "the motor-car was taken back by his friends and the notes will be restored. he never touched them. my leaving for america had made him lose his head." "very well. i am quite willing to believe everything that you say. but the police may show less faith in these statements and less indulgence." she became suddenly uneasy and faltered: "the police.... there's nothing to fear from them.... they won't know...." "where to find him? i succeeded, at all events. he's working as a woodcutter, in the forest of brotonne." "yes, but ... you ... that was an accident ... whereas the police...." the words left her lips with the greatest difficulty. her voice was trembling. and suddenly she rushed at rénine, stammering: "he is arrested?... i am sure of it!... and you have come to tell me.... arrested! wounded! dead perhaps?... oh, please, please!..." she had no strength left. all her pride, all the certainty of her great love gave way to an immense despair and she sobbed out. "no, he's not dead, is he? no, i feel that he's not dead. oh, sir, how unjust it all is! he's the gentlest man, the best that ever lived. he has changed my whole life. everything is different since i began to love him. and i love him so! i love him! i want to go to him. take me to him. i want them to arrest me too. i love him.... i could not live without him...." an impulse of sympathy made hortense put her arms around the girl's neck and say warmly: "yes, come. he is not dead, i am sure, only wounded; and prince rénine will save him. you will, won't you, rénine?... come. make up a story for your servant: say that you're going somewhere by train and that she is not to tell anybody. be quick. put on a wrap. we will save him, i swear we will." rose andrée went indoors and returned almost at once, disguised beyond recognition in a long cloak and a veil that shrouded her face; and they all took the road back to routot. at the inn, rose andrée passed as a friend whom they had been to fetch in the neighbourhood and were taking to paris with them. rénine ran out to make enquiries and came back to the two women. "it's all right. dalbrèque is alive. they have put him to bed in a private room at the mayor's offices. he has a broken leg and a rather high temperature; but all the same they expect to move him to rouen to-morrow and they have telephoned there for a motor-car." "and then?" asked rose andrée, anxiously. rénine smiled: "why, then we shall leave at daybreak. we shall take up our positions in a sunken road, rifle in hand, attack the motor-coach and carry off georges!" "oh, don't laugh!" she said, plaintively. "i am so unhappy!" but the adventure seemed to amuse rénine; and, when he was alone with hortense, he exclaimed: "you see what comes of preferring dishonour to death! but hang it all, who could have expected this? it isn't a bit the way in which things happen in the pictures! once the man of the woods had carried off his victim and considering that for three weeks there was no one to defend her, how could we imagine--we who had been proceeding all along under the influence of the pictures--that in the space of a few hours the victim would become a princess in love? confound that georges! i now understand the sly, humorous look which i surprised on his mobile features! he remembered, georges did, and he didn't care a hang for me! oh, he tricked me nicely! and you, my dear, he tricked you too! and it was all the influence of the film. they show us, at the cinema, a brute beast, a sort of long-haired, ape-faced savage. what can a man like that be in real life? a brute, inevitably, don't you agree? well, he's nothing of the kind; he's a don juan! the humbug!" "you will save him, won't you?" said hortense, in a beseeching tone. "are you very anxious that i should?" "very." "in that case, promise to give me your hand to kiss." "you can have both hands, rénine, and gladly." the night was uneventful. rénine had given orders for the two ladies to be waked at an early hour. when they came down, the motor was leaving the yard and pulling up in front of the inn. it was raining; and adolphe, the chauffeur, had fixed up the long, low hood and packed the luggage inside. rénine called for his bill. they all three took a cup of coffee. but, just as they were leaving the room, one of the inspector's men came rushing in: "have you seen him?" he asked. "isn't he here?" the inspector himself arrived at a run, greatly excited: "the prisoner has escaped! he ran back through the inn! he can't be far away!" a dozen rustics appeared like a whirlwind. they ransacked the lofts, the stables, the sheds. they scattered over the neighbourhood. but the search led to no discovery. "oh, hang it all!" said rénine, who had taken his part in the hunt. "how can it have happened?" "how do i know?" spluttered the inspector in despair. "i left my three men watching in the next room. i found them this morning fast asleep, stupefied by some narcotic which had been mixed with their wine! and the dalbrèque bird had flown!" "which way?" "through the window. there were evidently accomplices, with ropes and a ladder. and, as dalbrèque had a broken leg, they carried him off on the stretcher itself." "they left no traces?" "no traces of footsteps, true. the rain has messed everything up. but they went through the yard, because the stretcher's there." "you'll find him, mr. inspector, there's no doubt of that. in any case, you may be sure that you won't have any trouble over the affair. i shall be in paris this evening and shall go straight to the prefecture, where i have influential friends." rénine went back to the two women in the coffee-room and hortense at once said: "it was you who carried him off, wasn't it? please put rose andrée's mind at rest. she is so terrified!" he gave rose andrée his arm and led her to the car. she was staggering and very pale; and she said, in a faint voice: "are we going? and he: is he safe? won't they catch him again?" looking deep into her eyes, he said: "swear to me, rose andrée, that in two months, when he is well and when i have proved his innocence, swear that you will go away with him to america." "i swear." "and that, once there, you will marry him." "i swear." he spoke a few words in her ear. "ah!" she said. "may heaven bless you for it!" hortense took her seat in front, with rénine, who sat at the wheel. the inspector, hat in hand, fussed around the car until it moved off. they drove through the forest, crossed the seine at la mailleraie and struck into the havre-rouen road. "take off your glove and give me your hand to kiss," rénine ordered. "you promised that you would." "oh!" said hortense. "but it was to be when dalbrèque was saved." "he is saved." "not yet. the police are after him. they may catch him again. he will not be really saved until he is with rose andrée." "he is with rose andrée," he declared. "what do you mean?" "turn round." she did so. in the shadow of the hood, right at the back, behind the chauffeur, rose andrée was kneeling beside a man lying on the seat. "oh," stammered hortense, "it's incredible! then it was you who hid him last night? and he was there, in front of the inn, when the inspector was seeing us off?" "lord, yes! he was there, under the cushions and rugs!" "it's incredible!" she repeated, utterly bewildered. "it's incredible! how were you able to manage it all?" "i wanted to kiss your hand," he said. she removed her glove, as he bade her, and raised her hand to his lips. the car was speeding between the peaceful seine and the white cliffs that border it. they sat silent for a long while. then he said: "i had a talk with dalbrèque last night. he's a fine fellow and is ready to do anything for rose andrée. he's right. a man must do anything for the woman he loves. he must devote himself to her, offer her all that is beautiful in this world: joy and happiness ... and, if she should be bored, stirring adventures to distract her, to excite her and to make her smile ... or even weep." hortense shivered; and her eyes were not quite free from tears. for the first time he was alluding to the sentimental adventure that bound them by a tie which as yet was frail, but which became stronger and more enduring with each of the ventures on which they entered together, pursuing them feverishly and anxiously to their close. already she felt powerless and uneasy with this extraordinary man, who subjected events to his will and seemed to play with the destinies of those whom he fought or protected. he filled her with dread and at the same time he attracted her. she thought of him sometimes as her master, sometimes as an enemy against whom she must defend herself, but oftenest as a perturbing friend, full of charm and fascination.... v thÉrÈse and germaine the weather was so mild that autumn that, on the th of october, in the morning, several families still lingering in their villas at Étretat had gone down to the beach. the sea, lying between the cliffs and the clouds on the horizon, might have suggested a mountain-lake slumbering in the hollow of the enclosing rocks, were it not for that crispness in the air and those pale, soft and indefinite colours in the sky which give a special charm to certain days in normandy. "it's delicious," murmured hortense. but the next moment she added: "all the same, we did not come here to enjoy the spectacle of nature or to wonder whether that huge stone needle on our left was really at one time the home of arsène lupin." "we came here," said prince rénine, "because of the conversation which i overheard, a fortnight ago, in a dining-car, between a man and a woman." "a conversation of which i was unable to catch a single word." "if those two people could have guessed for an instant that it was possible to hear a single word of what they were saying, they would not have spoken, for their conversation was one of extraordinary gravity and importance. but i have very sharp ears; and though i could not follow every sentence, i insist that we may be certain of two things. first, that man and woman, who are brother and sister, have an appointment at a quarter to twelve this morning, the th of october, at the spot known as the trois mathildes, with a third person, who is married and who wishes at all costs to recover his or her liberty. secondly, this appointment, at which they will come to a final agreement, is to be followed this evening by a walk along the cliffs, when the third person will bring with him or her the man or woman, i can't definitely say which, whom they want to get rid of. that is the gist of the whole thing. now, as i know a spot called the trois mathildes some way above Étretat and as this is not an everyday name, we came down yesterday to thwart the plan of these objectionable persons." "what plan?" asked hortense. "for, after all, it's only your assumption that there's to be a victim and that the victim is to be flung off the top of the cliffs. you yourself told me that you heard no allusion to a possible murder." "that is so. but i heard some very plain words relating to the marriage of the brother or the sister with the wife or the husband of the third person, which implies the need for a crime." they were sitting on the terrace of the casino, facing the stairs which run down to the beach. they therefore overlooked the few privately-owned cabins on the shingle, where a party of four men were playing bridge, while a group of ladies sat talking and knitting. a short distance away and nearer to the sea was another cabin, standing by itself and closed. half-a-dozen bare-legged children were paddling in the water. "no," said hortense, "all this autumnal sweetness and charm fails to attract me. i have so much faith in all your theories that i can't help thinking, in spite of everything, of this dreadful problem. which of those people yonder is threatened? death has already selected its victim. who is it? is it that young, fair-haired woman, rocking herself and laughing? is it that tall man over there, smoking his cigar? and which of them has the thought of murder hidden in his heart? all the people we see are quietly enjoying themselves. yet death is prowling among them." "capital!" said rénine. "you too are becoming enthusiastic. what did i tell you? the whole of life's an adventure; and nothing but adventure is worth while. at the first breath of coming events, there you are, quivering in every nerve. you share in all the tragedies stirring around you; and the feeling of mystery awakens in the depths of your being. see, how closely you are observing that couple who have just arrived. you never can tell: that may be the gentleman who proposes to do away with his wife? or perhaps the lady contemplates making away with her husband?" "the d'ormevals? never! a perfectly happy couple! yesterday, at the hotel, i had a long talk with the wife. and you yourself...." "oh, i played a round of golf with jacques d'ormeval, who rather fancies himself as an athlete, and i played at dolls with their two charming little girls!" the d'ormevals came up and exchanged a few words with them. madame d'ormeval said that her two daughters had gone back to paris that morning with their governess. her husband, a great tall fellow with a yellow beard, carrying his blazer over his arm and puffing out his chest under a cellular shirt, complained of the heat: "have you the key of the cabin, thérèse?" he asked his wife, when they had left rénine and hortense and stopped at the top of the stairs, a few yards away. "here it is," said the wife. "are you going to read your papers?" "yes. unless we go for a stroll?..." "i had rather wait till the afternoon: do you mind? i have a lot of letters to write this morning." "very well. we'll go on the cliff." hortense and rénine exchanged a glance of surprise. was this suggestion accidental? or had they before them, contrary to their expectations, the very couple of whom they were in search? hortense tried to laugh: "my heart is thumping," she said. "nevertheless, i absolutely refuse to believe in anything so improbable. 'my husband and i have never had the slightest quarrel,' she said to me. no, it's quite clear that those two get on admirably." "we shall see presently, at the trois mathildes, if one of them comes to meet the brother and sister." m. d'ormeval had gone down the stairs, while his wife stood leaning on the balustrade of the terrace. she had a beautiful, slender, supple figure. her clear-cut profile was emphasized by a rather too prominent chin when at rest; and, when it was not smiling, the face gave an expression of sadness and suffering. "have you lost something, jacques?" she called out to her husband, who was stooping over the shingle. "yes, the key," he said. "it slipped out of my hand." she went down to him and began to look also. for two or three minutes, as they sheered off to the right and remained close to the bottom of the under-cliff, they were invisible to hortense and rénine. their voices were covered by the noise of a dispute which had arisen among the bridge-players. they reappeared almost simultaneously. madame d'ormeval slowly climbed a few steps of the stairs and then stopped and turned her face towards the sea. her husband had thrown his blazer over his shoulders and was making for the isolated cabin. as he passed the bridge-players, they asked him for a decision, pointing to their cards spread out upon the table. but, with a wave of the hand, he refused to give an opinion and walked on, covered the thirty yards which divided them from the cabin, opened the door and went in. thérèse d'ormeval came back to the terrace and remained for ten minutes sitting on a bench. then she came out through the casino. hortense, on leaning forward, saw her entering one of the chalets annexed to the hôtel hauville and, a moment later, caught sight of her again on the balcony. "eleven o'clock," said rénine. "whoever it is, he or she, or one of the card-players, or one of their wives, it won't be long before some one goes to the appointed place." nevertheless, twenty minutes passed and twenty-five; and no one stirred. "perhaps madame d'ormeval has gone." hortense suggested, anxiously. "she is no longer on her balcony." "if she is at the trois mathildes," said rénine, "we will go and catch her there." he was rising to his feet, when a fresh discussion broke out among the bridge-players and one of them exclaimed: "let's put it to d'ormeval." "very well," said his adversary. "i'll accept his decision ... if he consents to act as umpire. he was rather huffy just now." they called out: "d'ormeval! d'ormeval!" they then saw that d'ormeval must have shut the door behind him, which kept him in the half dark, the cabin being one of the sort that has no window. "he's asleep," cried one. "let's wake him up." all four went to the cabin, began by calling to him and, on receiving no answer, thumped on the door: "hi! d'ormeval! are you asleep?" on the terrace serge rénine suddenly leapt to his feet with so uneasy an air that hortense was astonished. he muttered: "if only it's not too late!" and, when hortense asked him what he meant, he tore down the steps and started running to the cabin. he reached it just as the bridge-players were trying to break in the door: "stop!" he ordered. "things must be done in the regular fashion." "what things?" they asked. he examined the venetian shutters at the top of each of the folding-doors and, on finding that one of the upper slats was partly broken, hung on as best he could to the roof of the cabin and cast a glance inside. then he said to the four men: "i was right in thinking that, if m. d'ormeval did not reply, he must have been prevented by some serious cause. there is every reason to believe that m. d'ormeval is wounded ... or dead." "dead!" they cried. "what do you mean? he has only just left us." rénine took out his knife, prized open the lock and pulled back the two doors. there were shouts of dismay. m. d'ormeval was lying flat on his face, clutching his jacket and his newspaper in his hands. blood was flowing from his back and staining his shirt. "oh!" said some one. "he has killed himself!" "how can he have killed himself?" said rénine. "the wound is right in the middle of the back, at a place which the hand can't reach. and, besides, there's not a knife in the cabin." the others protested: "if so, he has been murdered. but that's impossible! there has been nobody here. we should have seen, if there had been. nobody could have passed us without our seeing...." the other men, all the ladies and the children paddling in the sea had come running up. rénine allowed no one to enter the cabin, except a doctor who was present. but the doctor could only say that m. d'ormeval was dead, stabbed with a dagger. at that moment, the mayor and the policeman arrived, together with some people of the village. after the usual enquiries, they carried away the body. a few persons went on ahead to break the news to thérèse d'ormeval, who was once more to be seen on her balcony. * * * * * and so the tragedy had taken place without any clue to explain how a man, protected by a closed door with an uninjured lock, could have been murdered in the space of a few minutes and in front of twenty witnesses, one might almost say, twenty spectators. no one had entered the cabin. no one had come out of it. as for the dagger with which m. d'ormeval had been stabbed between the shoulders, it could not be traced. and all this would have suggested the idea of a trick of sleight-of-hand performed by a clever conjuror, had it not concerned a terrible murder, committed under the most mysterious conditions. hortense was unable to follow, as rénine would have liked, the small party who were making for madame d'ormeval; she was paralysed with excitement and incapable of moving. it was the first time that her adventures with rénine had taken her into the very heart of the action and that, instead of noting the consequences of a murder, or assisting in the pursuit of the criminals, she found herself confronted with the murder itself. it left her trembling all over; and she stammered: "how horrible!... the poor fellow!... ah, rénine, you couldn't save him this time!... and that's what upsets me more than anything, that we could and should have saved him, since we knew of the plot...." rénine made her sniff at a bottle of salts; and when she had quite recovered her composure, he said, while observing her attentively: "so you think that there is some connection between the murder and the plot which we were trying to frustrate?" "certainly," said she, astonished at the question. "then, as that plot was hatched by a husband against his wife or by a wife against her husband, you admit that madame d'ormeval ...?" "oh, no, impossible!" she said. "to begin with, madame d'ormeval did not leave her rooms ... and then i shall never believe that pretty woman capable.... no, no, of course there was something else...." "what else?" "i don't know.... you may have misunderstood what the brother and sister were saying to each other.... you see, the murder has been committed under quite different conditions ... at another hour and another place...." "and therefore," concluded rénine, "the two cases are not in any way related?" "oh," she said, "there's no making it out! it's all so strange!" rénine became a little satirical: "my pupil is doing me no credit to-day," he said. "why, here is a perfectly simple story, unfolded before your eyes. you have seen it reeled off like a scene in the cinema; and it all remains as obscure to you as though you were hearing of an affair that happened in a cave a hundred miles away!" hortense was confounded: "what are you saying? do you mean that you have understood it? what clues have you to go by?" rénine looked at his watch: "i have not understood everything," he said. "the murder itself, the mere brutal murder, yes. but the essential thing, that is to say, the psychology of the crime: i've no clue to that. only, it is twelve o'clock. the brother and sister, seeing no one come to the appointment at the trois mathildes, will go down to the beach. don't you think that we shall learn something then of the accomplice whom i accuse them of having and of the connection between the two cases?" they reached the esplanade in front of the hauville chalets, with the capstans by which the fishermen haul up their boats to the beach. a number of inquisitive persons were standing outside the door of one of the chalets. two coastguards, posted at the door, prevented them from entering. the mayor shouldered his way eagerly through the crowd. he was back from the post-office, where he had been telephoning to le havre, to the office of the procurator-general, and had been told that the public prosecutor and an examining-magistrate would come on to Étretat in the course of the afternoon. "that leaves us plenty of time for lunch," said rénine. "the tragedy will not be enacted before two or three o'clock. and i have an idea that it will be sensational." they hurried nevertheless. hortense, overwrought by fatigue and her desire to know what was happening, continually questioned rénine, who replied evasively, with his eyes turned to the esplanade, which they could see through the windows of the coffee-room. "are you watching for those two?" asked hortense. "yes, the brother and sister." "are you sure that they will venture?..." "look out! here they come!" he went out quickly. where the main street opened on the sea-front, a lady and gentleman were advancing with hesitating steps, as though unfamiliar with the place. the brother was a puny little man, with a sallow complexion. he was wearing a motoring-cap. the sister too was short, but rather stout, and was wrapped in a large cloak. she struck them as a woman of a certain age, but still good-looking under the thin veil that covered her face. they saw the groups of bystanders and drew nearer. their gait betrayed uneasiness and hesitation. the sister asked a question of a seaman. at the first words of his answer, which no doubt conveyed the news of d'ormeval's death, she uttered a cry and tried to force her way through the crowd. the brother, learning in his turn what had happened, made great play with his elbows and shouted to the coast-guards: "i'm a friend of d'ormeval's!... here's my card! frédéric astaing.... my sister, germaine astaing, knows madame d'ormeval intimately!... they were expecting us.... we had an appointment!..." they were allowed to pass. rénine, who had slipped behind them, followed them in without a word, accompanied by hortense. the d'ormevals had four bedrooms and a sitting-room on the second floor. the sister rushed into one of the rooms and threw herself on her knees beside the bed on which the corpse lay stretched. thérèse d'ormeval was in the sitting-room and was sobbing in the midst of a small company of silent persons. the brother sat down beside her, eagerly seized her hands and said, in a trembling voice: "my poor friend!... my poor friend!..." rénine and hortense gazed at the pair of them: and hortense whispered: "and she's supposed to have killed him for that? impossible!" "nevertheless," observed rénine, "they are acquaintances; and we know that astaing and his sister were also acquainted with a third person who was their accomplice. so that...." "it's impossible!" hortense repeated. and, in spite of all presumption, she felt so much attracted by thérèse that, when frédéric astaing stood up, she proceeded straightway to sit down beside her and consoled her in a gentle voice. the unhappy woman's tears distressed her profoundly. rénine, on the other hand, applied himself from the outset to watching the brother and sister, as though this were the only thing that mattered, and did not take his eyes off frédéric astaing, who, with an air of indifference, began to make a minute inspection of the premises, examining the sitting-room, going into all the bedrooms, mingling with the various groups of persons present and asking questions about the manner in which the murder had been committed. twice his sister came up and spoke to him. then he went back to madame d'ormeval and again sat down beside her, full of earnest sympathy. lastly, in the lobby, he had a long conversation with his sister, after which they parted, like people who have come to a perfect understanding. frédéric then left. these manoeuvers had lasted quite thirty or forty minutes. it was at this moment that the motor-car containing the examining-magistrate and the public prosecutor pulled up outside the chalets. rénine, who did not expect them until later, said to hortense: "we must be quick. on no account leave madame d'ormeval." word was sent up to the persons whose evidence might be of any service that they were to go to the beach, where the magistrate was beginning a preliminary investigation. he would call on madame d'ormeval afterwards. accordingly, all who were present left the chalet. no one remained behind except the two guards and germaine astaing. germaine knelt down for the last time beside the dead man and, bending low, with her face in her hands, prayed for a long time. then she rose and was opening the door on the landing, when rénine came forward: "i should like a few words with you, madame." she seemed surprised and replied: "what is it, monsieur? i am listening." "not here." "where then, monsieur?" "next door, in the sitting-room." "no," she said, sharply. "why not? though you did not even shake hands with her, i presume that madame d'ormeval is your friend?" he gave her no time to reflect, drew her into the next room, closed the door and, at once pouncing upon madame d'ormeval, who was trying to go out and return to her own room, said: "no, madame, listen, i implore you. madame astaing's presence need not drive you away. we have very serious matters to discuss, without losing a minute." the two women, standing face to face, were looking at each other with the same expression of implacable hatred, in which might be read the same confusion of spirit and the same restrained anger. hortense, who believed them to be friends and who might, up to a certain point, have believed them to be accomplices, foresaw with terror the hostile encounter which she felt to be inevitable. she compelled madame d'ormeval to resume her seat, while rénine took up his position in the middle of the room and spoke in resolute tones: "chance, which has placed me in possession of part of the truth, will enable me to save you both, if you are willing to assist me with a frank explanation that will give me the particulars which i still need. each of you knows the danger in which she stands, because each of you is conscious in her heart of the evil for which she is responsible. but you are carried away by hatred; and it is for me to see clearly and to act. the examining-magistrate will be here in half-an-hour. by that time, you must have come to an agreement." they both started, as though offended by such a word. "yes, an agreement," he repeated, in a more imperious tone. "whether you like it or not, you will come to an agreement. you are not the only ones to be considered. there are your two little daughters, madame d'ormeval. since circumstances have set me in their path, i am intervening in their defence and for their safety. a blunder, a word too much; and they are ruined. that must not happen." at the mention of her children, madame d'ormeval broke down and sobbed. germaine astaing shrugged her shoulders and made a movement towards the door. rénine once more blocked the way: "where are you going?" "i have been summoned by the examining-magistrate." "no, you have not." "yes, i have. just as all those have been who have any evidence to give." "you were not on the spot. you know nothing of what happened. nobody knows anything of the murder." "i know who committed it." "that's impossible." "it was thérèse d'ormeval." the accusation was hurled forth in an outburst of rage and with a fiercely threatening gesture. "you wretched creature!" exclaimed madame d'ormeval, rushing at her. "go! leave the room! oh, what a wretch the woman is!" hortense was trying to restrain her, but rénine whispered: "let them be. it's what i wanted ... to pitch them one against the other and so to let in the day-light." madame astaing had made a convulsive effort to ward off the insult with a jest; and she sniggered: "a wretched creature? why? because i have accused you?" "why? for every reason! you're a wretched creature! you hear what i say, germaine: you're a wretch!" thérèse d'ormeval was repeating the insult as though it afforded her some relief. her anger was abating. very likely also she no longer had the strength to keep up the struggle; and it was madame astaing who returned to the attack, with her fists clenched and her face distorted and suddenly aged by fully twenty years: "you! you dare to insult me, you! you after the murder you have committed! you dare to lift up your head when the man whom you killed is lying in there on his death-bed! ah, if one of us is a wretched creature, it's you, thérèse, and you know it! you have killed your husband! you have killed your husband!" she leapt forward, in the excitement of the terrible words which she was uttering; and her finger-nails were almost touching her friend's face. "oh, don't tell me you didn't kill him!" she cried. "don't say that: i won't let you. don't say it. the dagger is there, in your bag. my brother felt it, while he was talking to you; and his hand came out with stains of blood upon it: your husband's blood, thérèse. and then, even if i had not discovered anything, do you think that i should not have guessed, in the first few minutes? why, i knew the truth at once, thérèse! when a sailor down there answered, 'm. d'ormeval? he has been murdered,' i said to myself then and there, 'it's she, it's thérèse, she killed him.'" thérèse did not reply. she had abandoned her attitude of protest. hortense, who was watching her with anguish, thought that she could perceive in her the despondency of those who know themselves to be lost. her cheeks had fallen in and she wore such an expression of despair that hortense, moved to compassion, implored her to defend herself: "please, please, explain things. when the murder was committed, you were here, on the balcony.... but then the dagger ... how did you come to have it ...? how do you explain it?..." "explanations!" sneered germaine astaing. "how could she possibly explain? what do outward appearances matter? what does it matter what any one saw or did not see? the proof is the thing that tells.... the dagger is there, in your bag, thérèse: that's a fact.... yes, yes, it was you who did it! you killed him! you killed him in the end!... ah, how often i've told my brother, 'she will kill him yet!' frédéric used to try to defend you. he always had a weakness for you. but in his innermost heart he foresaw what would happen.... and now the horrible thing has been done. a stab in the back! coward! coward!... and you would have me say nothing? why, i didn't hesitate a moment! nor did frédéric. we looked for proofs at once.... and i've denounced you of my own free will, perfectly well aware of what i was doing.... and it's over, thérèse. you're done for. nothing can save you now. the dagger is in that bag which you are clutching in your hand. the magistrate is coming; and the dagger will be found, stained with the blood of your husband. so will your pocket-book. they're both there. and they will be found...." her rage had incensed her so vehemently that she was unable to continue and stood with her hand outstretched and her chin twitching with nervous tremors. rénine gently took hold of madame d'ormeval's bag. she clung to it, but he insisted and said: "please allow me, madame. your friend germaine is right. the examining-magistrate will be here presently; and the fact that the dagger and the pocket-book are in your possession will lead to your immediate arrest. this must not happen. please allow me." his insinuating voice diminished thérèse d'ormeval's resistance. she released her fingers, one by one. he took the bag, opened it, produced a little dagger with an ebony handle and a grey leather pocket-book and quietly slipped the two into the inside pocket of his jacket. germaine astaing gazed at him in amazement: "you're mad, monsieur! what right have you ...?" "these things must not be left lying about. i sha'n't worry now. the magistrate will never look for them in my pocket." "but i shall denounce you to the police," she exclaimed, indignantly. "they shall be told!" "no, no," he said, laughing, "you won't say anything! the police have nothing to do with this. the quarrel between you must be settled in private. what an idea, to go dragging the police into every incident of one's life!" madame astaing was choking with fury: "but you have no right to talk like this, monsieur! who are you, after all? a friend of that woman's?" "since you have been attacking her, yes." "but i'm only attacking her because she's guilty. for you can't deny it: she has killed her husband." "i don't deny it," said rénine, calmly. "we are all agreed on that point. jacques d'ormeval was killed by his wife. but, i repeat, the police must not know the truth." "they shall know it through me, monsieur, i swear they shall. that woman must be punished: she has committed murder." rénine went up to her and, touching her on the shoulder: "you asked me just now by what right i was interfering. and you yourself, madame?" "i was a friend of jacques d'ormeval." "only a friend?" she was a little taken aback, but at once pulled herself together and replied: "i was his friend and it is my duty to avenge his death." "nevertheless, you will remain silent, as he did." "he did not know, when he died." "that's where you are wrong. he could have accused his wife, if he had wished. he had ample time to accuse her; and he said nothing." "why?" "because of his children." madame astaing was not appeased; and her attitude displayed the same longing for revenge and the same detestation. but she was influenced by rénine in spite of herself. in the small, closed room, where there was such a clash of hatred, he was gradually becoming the master; and germaine astaing understood that it was against him that she had to struggle, while madame d'ormeval felt all the comfort of that unexpected support which was offering itself on the brink of the abyss: "thank you, monsieur," she said. "as you have seen all this so clearly, you also know that it was for my children's sake that i did not give myself up. but for that ... i am so tired ...!" and so the scene was changing and things assuming a different aspect. thanks to a few words let fall in the midst of the dispute, the culprit was lifting her head and taking heart, whereas her accuser was hesitating and seemed to be uneasy. and it also came about that the accuser dared not say anything further and that the culprit was nearing the moment at which the need is felt of breaking silence and of speaking, quite naturally, words that are at once a confession and a relief. "the time, i think, has come," said rénine to thérèse, with the same unvarying gentleness, "when you can and ought to explain yourself." she was again weeping, lying huddled in a chair. she too revealed a face aged and ravaged by sorrow; and, in a very low voice, with no display of anger, she spoke, in short, broken sentences: "she has been his mistress for the last four years.... i can't tell you how i suffered.... she herself told me of it ... out of sheer wickedness ... her loathing for me was even greater than her love for jacques ... and every day i had some fresh injury to bear ... she would ring me up to tell me of her appointments with my husband ... she hoped to make me suffer so much i should end by killing myself.... i did think of it sometimes, but i held out, for the children's sake ... jacques was weakening. she wanted him to get a divorce ... and little by little he began to consent ... dominated by her and by her brother, who is slyer than she is, but quite as dangerous ... i felt all this ... jacques was becoming harsh to me.... he had not the courage to leave me, but i was the obstacle and he bore me a grudge.... heavens, the tortures i suffered!..." "you should have given him his liberty," cried germaine astaing. "a woman doesn't kill her husband for wanting a divorce." thérèse shook her head and answered: "i did not kill him because he wanted a divorce. if he had really wanted it, he would have left me; and what could i have done? but your plans had changed, germaine; divorce was not enough for you; and it was something else that you would have obtained from him, another, much more serious thing which you and your brother had insisted on ... and to which he had consented ... out of cowardice ... in spite of himself...." "what do you mean?" spluttered germaine. "what other thing?" "my death." "you lie!" cried madame astaing. thérèse did not raise her voice. she made not a movement of aversion or indignation and simply repeated: "my death, germaine. i have read your latest letters, six letters from you which he was foolish enough to leave about in his pocket-book and which i read last night, six letters in which the terrible word is not set down, but in which it appears between every line. i trembled as i read it! that jacques should come to this!... nevertheless the idea of stabbing him did not occur to me for a second. a woman like myself, germaine, does not readily commit murder.... if i lost my head, it was after that ... and it was your fault...." she turned her eyes to rénine as if to ask him if there was no danger in her speaking and revealing the truth. "don't be afraid," he said. "i will be answerable for everything." she drew her hand across her forehead. the horrible scene was being reenacted within her and was torturing her. germaine astaing did not move, but stood with folded arms and anxious eyes, while hortense daniel sat distractedly awaiting the confession of the crime and the explanation of the unfathomable mystery. "it was after that and it was through your fault germaine ... i had put back the pocket-book in the drawer where it was hidden; and i said nothing to jacques this morning ... i did not want to tell him what i knew.... it was too horrible.... all the same, i had to act quickly; your letters announced your secret arrival to-day.... i thought at first of running away, of taking the train.... i had mechanically picked up that dagger, to defend myself.... but when jacques and i went down to the beach, i was resigned.... yes, i had accepted death: 'i will die,' i thought, 'and put an end to all this nightmare!'... only, for the children's sake, i was anxious that my death should look like an accident and that jacques should have no part in it. that was why your plan of a walk on the cliff suited me.... a fall from the top of a cliff seems quite natural ... jacques therefore left me to go to his cabin, from which he was to join you later at the trois mathildes. on the way, below the terrace, he dropped the key of the cabin. i went down and began to look for it with him ... and it happened then ... through your fault ... yes, germaine, through your fault ... jacques' pocket-book had slipped from his jacket, without his noticing it, and, together with the pocket-book, a photograph which i recognized at once: a photograph, taken this year, of myself and my two children. i picked it up ... and i saw.... you know what i saw, germaine. instead of my face, the face in the photograph was _yours_!... you had put in your likeness, germaine, and blotted me out! it was your face! one of your arms was round my elder daughter's neck; and the younger was sitting on your knees.... it was you, germaine, the wife of my husband, the future mother of my children, you, who were going to bring them up ... you, you! ... then i lost my head. i had the dagger ... jacques was stooping ... i stabbed him...." every word of her confession was strictly true. those who listened to her felt this profoundly; and nothing could have given hortense and rénine a keener impression of tragedy. she had fallen back into her chair, utterly exhausted. nevertheless, she went on speaking unintelligible words; and it was only gradually by leaning over her, that they were able to make out: "i thought that there would be an outcry and that i should be arrested. but no. it happened in such a way and under such conditions that no one had seen anything. further, jacques had drawn himself up at the same time as myself; and he actually did not fall. no, he did not fall! i had stabbed him; and he remained standing! i saw him from the terrace, to which i had returned. he had hung his jacket over his shoulders, evidently to hide his wound, and he moved away without staggering ... or staggering so little that i alone was able to perceive it. he even spoke to some friends who were playing cards. then he went to his cabin and disappeared.... in a few moments, i came back indoors. i was persuaded that all of this was only a bad dream ... that i had not killed him ... or that at the worst the wound was a slight one. jacques would come out again. i was certain of it.... i watched from my balcony.... if i had thought for a moment that he needed assistance, i should have flown to him.... but truly i didn't know ... i didn't guess.... people speak of presentiments: there are no such things. i was perfectly calm, just as one is after a nightmare of which the memory is fading away.... no, i swear to you, i knew nothing ... until the moment..." she interrupted herself, stifled by sobs. rénine finished her sentence for her, "until the moment when they came and told you, i suppose?" thérèse stammered: "yes. it was not till then that i was conscious of what i had done ... and i felt that i was going mad and that i should cry out to all those people, 'why, it was i who did it! don't search! here is the dagger ... i am the culprit!' yes, i was going to say that, when suddenly i caught sight of my poor jacques.... they were carrying him along.... his face was very peaceful, very gentle.... and, in his presence, i understood my duty, as he had understood his.... he had kept silent, for the sake of the children. i would be silent too. we were both guilty of the murder of which he was the victim; and we must both do all we could to prevent the crime from recoiling upon them.... he had seen this clearly in his dying agony. he had had the amazing courage to keep his feet, to answer the people who spoke to him and to lock himself up to die. he had done this, wiping out all his faults with a single action, and in so doing had granted me his forgiveness, because he was not accusing me ... and was ordering me to hold my peace ... and to defend myself ... against everybody ... especially against you, germaine." she uttered these last words more firmly. at first wholly overwhelmed by the unconscious act which she had committed in killing her husband, she had recovered her strength a little in thinking of what she had done and in defending herself with such energy. faced by the intriguing woman whose hatred had driven both of them to death and crime, she clenched her fists, ready for the struggle, all quivering with resolution. germaine astaing did not flinch. she had listened without a word, with a relentless expression which grew harder and harder as thérèse's confessions became precise. no emotion seemed to soften her and no remorse to penetrate her being. at most, towards the end, her thin lips shaped themselves into a faint smile. she was holding her prey in her clutches. slowly, with her eyes raised to a mirror, she adjusted her hat and powdered her face. then she walked to the door. thérèse darted forward: "where are you going?" "where i choose." "to see the examining-magistrate?" "very likely." "you sha'n't pass!" "as you please. i'll wait for him here." "and you'll tell him what?" "why, all that you've said, of course, all that you've been silly enough to say. how could he doubt the story? you have explained it all to me so fully." thérèse took her by the shoulders: "yes, but i'll explain other things to him at the same time, germaine, things that concern you. if i'm ruined, so shall you be." "you can't touch me." "i can expose you, show your letters." "what letters?" "those in which my death was decided on." "lies, thérèse! you know that famous plot exists only in your imagination. neither jacques nor i wished for your death." "you did, at any rate. your letters condemn you." "lies! they were the letters of a friend to a friend." "letters of a mistress to her paramour." "prove it." "they are there, in jacques' pocket-book." "no, they're not." "what's that you say?" "i say that those letters belonged to me. i've taken them back, or rather my brother has." "you've stolen them, you wretch! and you shall give them back again," cried thérèse, shaking her. "i haven't them. my brother kept them. he has gone." thérèse staggered and stretched out her hands to rénine with an expression of despair. rénine said: "what she says is true. i watched the brother's proceedings while he was feeling in your bag. he took out the pocket-book, looked through it with his sister, came and put it back again and went off with the letters." rénine paused and added, "or, at least, with five of them." the two women moved closer to him. what did he intend to convey? if frédéric astaing had taken away only five letters, what had become of the sixth? "i suppose," said rénine, "that, when the pocket-book fell on the shingle, that sixth letter slipped out at the same time as the photograph and that m. d'ormeval must have picked it up, for i found it in the pocket of his blazer, which had been hung up near the bed. here it is. it's signed germaine astaing and it is quite enough to prove the writer's intentions and the murderous counsels which she was pressing upon her lover." madame astaing had turned grey in the face and was so much disconcerted that she did not try to defend herself. rénine continued, addressing his remarks to her: "to my mind, madame, you are responsible for all that happened. penniless, no doubt, and at the end of your resources, you tried to profit by the passion with which you inspired m. d'ormeval in order to make him marry you, in spite of all the obstacles, and to lay your hands upon his fortune. i have proofs of this greed for money and these abominable calculations and can supply them if need be. a few minutes after i had felt in the pocket of that jacket, you did the same. i had removed the sixth letter, but had left a slip of paper which you looked for eagerly and which also must have dropped out of the pocket-book. it was an uncrossed cheque for a hundred thousand francs, drawn by m. d'ormeval in your brother's name ... just a little wedding-present ... what we might call pin-money. acting on your instructions, your brother dashed off by motor to le havre to reach the bank before four o'clock. i may as well tell you that he will not have cashed the cheque, for i had a telephone-message sent to the bank to announce the murder of m. d'ormeval, which stops all payments. the upshot of all this is that the police, if you persist in your schemes of revenge, will have in their hands all the proofs that are wanted against you and your brother. i might add, as an edifying piece of evidence, the story of the conversation which i overheard between your brother and yourself in a dining-car on the railway between brest and paris, a fortnight ago. but i feel sure that you will not drive me to adopt these extreme measures and that we understand each other. isn't that so?" natures like madame astaing's, which are violent and headstrong so long as a fight is possible and while a gleam of hope remains, are easily swayed in defeat. germaine was too intelligent not to grasp the fact that the least attempt at resistance would be shattered by such an adversary as this. she was in his hands. she could but yield. she therefore did not indulge in any play-acting, nor in any demonstration such as threats, outbursts of fury or hysterics. she bowed: "we are agreed," she said. "what are your terms?" "go away. if ever you are called upon for your evidence, say that you know nothing." she walked away. at the door, she hesitated and then, between her teeth, said: "the cheque." rénine looked at madame d'ormeval, who declared: "let her keep it. i would not touch that money." * * * * * when rénine had given thérèse d'ormeval precise instructions as to how she was to behave at the enquiry and to answer the questions put to her, he left the chalet, accompanied by hortense daniel. on the beach below, the magistrate and the public prosecutor were continuing their investigations, taking measurements, examining the witnesses and generally laying their heads together. "when i think," said hortense, "that you have the dagger and m. d'ormeval's pocket-book on you!" "and it strikes you as awfully dangerous, i suppose?" he said, laughing. "it strikes _me_ as awfully comic." "aren't you afraid?" "of what?" "that they may suspect something?" "lord, they won't suspect a thing! we shall tell those good people what we saw and our evidence will only increase their perplexity, for we saw nothing at all. for prudence sake we will stay a day or two, to see which way the wind is blowing. but it's quite settled: they will never be able to make head or tail of the matter." "nevertheless, _you_ guessed the secret and from the first. why?" "because, instead of seeking difficulties where none exist, as people generally do, i always put the question as it should be put; and the solution comes quite naturally. a man goes to his cabin and locks himself in. half an hour later, he is found inside, dead. no one has gone in. what has happened? to my mind there is only one answer. there is no need to think about it. as the murder was not committed in the cabin, it must have been committed beforehand and the man was already mortally wounded when he entered his cabin. and forthwith the truth in this particular case appeared to me. madame d'ormeval, who was to have been killed this evening, forestalled her murderers and while her husband was stooping to the ground, in a moment of frenzy stabbed him in the back. there was nothing left to do but look for the reasons that prompted her action. when i knew them, i took her part unreservedly. that's the whole story." the day was beginning to wane. the blue of the sky was becoming darker and the sea, even more peaceful than before. "what are you thinking of?" asked rénine, after a moment. "i am thinking," she said, "that if i too were the victim of some machination, i should trust you whatever happened, trust you through and against all. i know, as certainly as i know that i exist, that you would save me, whatever the obstacles might be. there is no limit to the power of your will." he said, very softly: "there is no limit to my wish to please you." vi the lady with the hatchet one of the most incomprehensible incidents that preceded the great war was certainly the one which was known as the episode of the lady with the hatchet. the solution of the mystery was unknown and would never have been known, had not circumstances in the cruellest fashion obliged prince rénine--or should i say, arsène lupin?--to take up the matter and had i not been able to-day to tell the true story from the details supplied by him. let me recite the facts. in a space of eighteen months, five women disappeared, five women of different stations in life, all between twenty and thirty years of age and living in paris or the paris district. i will give their names: madame ladoue, the wife of a doctor; mlle. ardant, the daughter of a banker; mlle. covereau, a washer-woman of courbevoie; mlle. honorine vernisset, a dressmaker; and madame grollinger, an artist. these five women disappeared without the possibility of discovering a single particular to explain why they had left their homes, why they did not return to them, who had enticed them away, and where and how they were detained. each of these women, a week after her departure, was found somewhere or other in the western outskirts of paris; and each time it was a dead body that was found, the dead body of a woman who had been killed by a blow on the head from a hatchet. and each time, not far from the woman, who was firmly bound, her face covered with blood and her body emaciated by lack of food, the marks of carriage-wheels proved that the corpse had been driven to the spot. the five murders were so much alike that there was only a single investigation, embracing all the five enquiries and, for that matter, leading to no result. a woman disappeared; a week later, to a day, her body was discovered; and that was all. the bonds that fastened her were similar in each case; so were the tracks left by the wheels; so were the blows of the hatchet, all of which were struck vertically at the top and right in the middle of the forehead. the motive of the crime? the five women had been completely stripped of their jewels, purses and other objects of value. but the robberies might well have been attributed to marauders or any passersby, since the bodies were lying in deserted spots. were the authorities to believe in the execution of a plan of revenge or of a plan intended to do away with the series of persons mutually connected, persons, for instance, likely to benefit by a future inheritance? here again the same obscurity prevailed. theories were built up, only to be demolished forthwith by an examination of the facts. trails were followed and at once abandoned. and suddenly there was a sensation. a woman engaged in sweeping the roads picked up on the pavement a little note-book which she brought to the local police-station. the leaves of this note-book were all blank, excepting one, on which was written a list of the murdered women, with their names set down in order of date and accompanied by three figures: ladoue, ; vernisset, ; and so on. certainly no importance would have been attached to these entries, which anybody might have written, since every one was acquainted with the sinister list. but, instead of five names, it included six! yes, below the words "grollinger, ," there appeared "williamson, ." did this indicate a sixth murder? the obviously english origin of the name limited the field of the investigations, which did not in fact take long. it was ascertained that, a fortnight ago, a miss hermione williamson, a governess in a family at auteuil, had left her place to go back to england and that, since then, her sisters, though she had written to tell them that she was coming over, had heard no more of her. a fresh enquiry was instituted. a postman found the body in the meudon woods. miss williamson's skull was split down the middle. i need not describe the public excitement at this stage nor the shudder of horror which passed through the crowd when it read this list, written without a doubt in the murderer's own hand. what could be more frightful than such a record, kept up to date like a careful tradesman's ledger: "on such a day, i killed so-and-so; on such a day so-and-so!" and the sum total was six dead bodies. against all expectation, the experts in handwriting had no difficulty in agreeing and unanimously declared that the writing was "that of a woman, an educated woman, possessing artistic tastes, imagination and an extremely sensitive nature." the "lady with the hatchet," as the journalists christened her, was decidedly no ordinary person; and scores of newspaper-articles made a special study of her case, exposing her mental condition and losing themselves in far-fetched explanations. nevertheless it was the writer of one of these articles, a young journalist whose chance discovery made him the centre of public attention, who supplied the one element of truth and shed upon the darkness the only ray of light that was to penetrate it. in casting about for the meaning of the figures which followed the six names, he had come to ask himself whether those figures did not simply represent the number of the days separating one crime from the next. all that he had to do was to check the dates. he at once found that his theory was correct. mlle. vernisset had been carried off one hundred and thirty-two days after madame ladoue; mlle. covereau one hundred and eighteen days after honorine vernisset; and so on. there was therefore no room for doubt; and the police had no choice but to accept a solution which so precisely fitted the circumstances: the figures corresponded with the intervals. there was no mistake in the records of the lady with the hatchet. but then one deduction became inevitable. miss williamson, the latest victim, had been carried off on the th of june last, and her name was followed by the figures : was it not to be presumed that a fresh crime would be committed a hundred and fourteen days later, that is to say, on the th of october? was it not probable that the horrible business would be repeated in accordance with the murderer's secret intentions? were they not bound to pursue to its logical conclusion the argument which ascribed to the figures--to all the figures, to the last as well as to the others--their value as eventual dates? now it was precisely this deduction which was drawn and was being weighed and discussed during the few days that preceded the th of october, when logic demanded the performance of yet another act of the abominable tragedy. and it was only natural that, on the morning of that day, prince rénine and hortense, when making an appointment by telephone for the evening, should allude to the newspaper-articles which they had both been reading: "look out!" said rénine, laughing. "if you meet the lady with the hatchet, take the other side of the road!" "and, if the good lady carries me off, what am i to do?" "strew your path with little white pebbles and say, until the very moment when the hatchet flashes in the air, 'i have nothing to fear; _he_ will save me.' _he_ is myself ... and i kiss your hands. till this evening, my dear." that afternoon, rénine had an appointment with rose andrée and dalbrèque to arrange for their departure for the states. [footnote: see _the tell-tale film_.] before four and seven o'clock, he bought the different editions of the evening papers. none of them reported an abduction. at nine o'clock he went to the gymnase, where he had taken a private box. at half-past nine, as hortense had not arrived, he rang her up, though without thought of anxiety. the maid replied that madame daniel had not come in yet. seized with a sudden fear, rénine hurried to the furnished flat which hortense was occupying for the time being, near the parc monceau, and questioned the maid, whom he had engaged for her and who was completely devoted to him. the woman said that her mistress had gone out at two o'clock, with a stamped letter in her hand, saying that she was going to the post and that she would come back to dress. this was the last that had been seen of her. "to whom was the letter addressed?" "to you, sir. i saw the writing on the envelope: prince serge rénine." he waited until midnight, but in vain. hortense did not return; nor did she return next day. "not a word to any one," said rénine to the maid. "say that your mistress is in the country and that you are going to join her." for his own part, he had not a doubt: hortense's disappearance was explained by the very fact of the date, the th of october. she was the seventh victim of the lady with the hatchet. * * * * * "the abduction," said rénine to himself, "precedes the blow of the hatchet by a week. i have, therefore, at the present moment, seven full days before me. let us say six, to avoid any surprise. this is saturday: hortense must be set free by mid-day on friday; and, to make sure of this, i must know her hiding-place by nine o'clock on thursday evening at latest." rénine wrote, "thursday evening, nine o'clock," in big letters, on a card which he nailed above the mantelpiece in his study. then at midday on saturday, the day after the disappearance, he locked himself into the study, after telling his man not to disturb him except for meals and letters. he spent four days there, almost without moving. he had immediately sent for a set of all the leading newspapers which had spoken in detail of the first six crimes. when he had read and reread them, he closed the shutters, drew the curtains and lay down on the sofa in the dark, with the door bolted, thinking. by tuesday evening he was no further advanced than on the saturday. the darkness was as dense as ever. he had not discovered the smallest clue for his guidance, nor could he see the slightest reason to hope. at times, notwithstanding his immense power of self-control and his unlimited confidence in the resources at his disposal, at times he would quake with anguish. would he arrive in time? there was no reason why he should see more clearly during the last few days than during those which had already elapsed. and this meant that hortense daniel would inevitably be murdered. the thought tortured him. he was attached to hortense by a much stronger and deeper feeling than the appearance of the relations between them would have led an onlooker to believe. the curiosity at the beginning, the first desire, the impulse to protect hortense, to distract her, to inspire her with a relish for existence: all this had simply turned to love. neither of them was aware of it, because they barely saw each other save at critical times when they were occupied with the adventures of others and not with their own. but, at the first onslaught of danger, rénine realized the place which hortense had taken in his life and he was in despair at knowing her to be a prisoner and a martyr and at being unable to save her. he spent a feverish, agitated night, turning the case over and over from every point of view. the wednesday morning was also a terrible time for him. he was losing ground. giving up his hermit-like seclusion, he threw open the windows and paced to and fro through his rooms, ran out into the street and came in again, as though fleeing before the thought that obsessed him: "hortense is suffering.... hortense is in the depths.... she sees the hatchet.... she is calling to me.... she is entreating me.... and i can do nothing...." it was at five o'clock in the afternoon that, on examining the list of the six names, he received that little inward shock which is a sort of signal of the truth that is being sought for. a light shot through his mind. it was not, to be sure, that brilliant light in which every detail is made plain, but it was enough to tell him in which direction to move. his plan of campaign was formed at once. he sent adolphe, his chauffeur, to the principal newspapers, with a few lines which were to appear in type among the next morning's advertisements. adolphe was also told to go to the laundry at courbevoie, where mlle. covereau, the second of the six victims, had been employed. on the thursday, rénine did not stir out of doors. in the afternoon, he received several letters in reply to his advertisement. then two telegrams arrived. lastly, at three o'clock, there came a pneumatic letter, bearing the trocadéro postmark, which seemed to be what he was expecting. he turned up a directory, noted an address--"m. de lourtier-vaneau, retired colonial governor, _bis_, avenue kléber"--and ran down to his car: "adolphe, _bis_, avenue kléber." * * * * * he was shown into a large study furnished with magnificent book-cases containing old volumes in costly bindings. m. de lourtier-vaneau was a man still in the prime of life, wearing a slightly grizzled beard and, by his affable manners and genuine distinction, commanding confidence and liking. "m. de lourtier," said rénine, "i have ventured to call on your excellency because i read in last year's newspapers that you used to know one of the victims of the lady with the hatchet, honorine vernisset." "why, of course we knew her!" cried m. de lourtier. "my wife used to employ her as a dressmaker by the day. poor girl!" "m. de lourtier, a lady of my acquaintance has disappeared as the other six victims disappeared." "what!" exclaimed m. de lourtier, with a start. "but i have followed the newspapers carefully. there was nothing on the th of october." "yes, a woman of whom i am very fond, madame hortense daniel, was abducted on the th of october." "and this is the nd!" "yes; and the murder will be committed on the th." "horrible! horrible! it must be prevented at all costs...." "and i shall perhaps succeed in preventing it, with your excellency's assistance." "but have you been to the police?" "no. we are faced by mysteries which are, so to speak, absolute and compact, which offer no gap through which the keenest eyes can see and which it is useless to hope to clear up by ordinary methods, such as inspection of the scenes of the crimes, police enquiries, searching for finger-prints and so on. as none of those proceedings served any good purpose in the previous cases, it would be waste of time to resort to them in a seventh, similar case. an enemy who displays such skill and subtlety would not leave behind her any of those clumsy traces which are the first things that a professional detective seizes upon." "then what have you done?" "before taking any action, i have reflected. i gave four days to thinking the matter over." m. de lourtier-vaneau examined his visitor closely and, with a touch of irony, asked: "and the result of your meditations ...?" "to begin with," said rénine, refusing to be put out of countenance, "i have submitted all these cases to a comprehensive survey, which hitherto no one else had done. this enabled me to discover their general meaning, to put aside all the tangle of embarrassing theories and, since no one was able to agree as to the motives of all this filthy business, to attribute it to the only class of persons capable of it." "that is to say?" "lunatics, your excellency." m. de lourtier-vaneau started: "lunatics? what an idea!" "m. de lourtier, the woman known as the lady with the hatchet is a madwoman." "but she would be locked up!" "we don't know that she's not. we don't know that she is not one of those half-mad people, apparently harmless, who are watched so slightly that they have full scope to indulge their little manias, their wild-beast instincts. nothing could be more treacherous than these creatures. nothing could be more crafty, more patient, more persistent, more dangerous and at the same time more absurd and more logical, more slovenly and more methodical. all these epithets, m. de lourtier, may be applied to the doings of the lady with the hatchet. the obsession of an idea and the continual repetition of an act are characteristics of the maniac. i do not yet know the idea by which the lady with the hatchet is obsessed but i do know the act that results from it; and it is always the same. the victim is bound with precisely similar ropes. she is killed after the same number of days. she is struck by an identical blow, with the same instrument, in the same place, the middle of the forehead, producing an absolutely vertical wound. an ordinary murderer displays some variety. his trembling hand swerves aside and strikes awry. the lady with the hatchet does not tremble. it is as though she had taken measurements; and the edge of her weapon does not swerve by a hair's breadth. need i give you any further proofs or examine all the other details with you? surely not. you now possess the key to the riddle; and you know as i do that only a lunatic can behave in this way, stupidly, savagely, mechanically, like a striking clock or the blade of the guillotine...." m. de lourtier-vaneau nodded his head: "yes, that is so. one can see the whole affair from that angle ... and i am beginning to believe that this is how one ought to see it. but, if we admit that this madwoman has the sort of mathematical logic which governed the murders of the six victims, i see no connection between the victims themselves. she struck at random. why this victim rather than that?" "ah," said rénine. "your excellency is asking me a question which i asked myself from the first moment, the question which sums up the whole problem and which cost me so much trouble to solve! why hortense daniel rather than another? among two millions of women who might have been selected, why hortense? why little vernisset? why miss williamson? if the affair is such as i conceived it, as a whole, that is to say, based upon the blind and fantastic logic of a madwoman, a choice was inevitably exercised. now in what did that choice consist? what was the quality, or the defect, or the sign needed to induce the lady with the hatchet to strike? in a word, if she chose--and she must have chosen--what directed her choice?" "have you found the answer?" rénine paused and replied: "yes, your excellency, i have. and i could have found it at the very outset, since all that i had to do was to make a careful examination of the list of victims. but these flashes of truth are never kindled save in a brain overstimulated by effort and reflection. i stared at the list twenty times over, before that little detail took a definite shape." "i don't follow you," said m. de lourtier-vaneau. "m. de lourtier, it may be noted that, if a number of persons are brought together in any transaction, or crime, or public scandal or what not, they are almost invariably described in the same way. on this occasion, the newspapers never mentioned anything more than their surnames in speaking of madame ladoue, mlle. ardent or mlle. covereau. on the other hand, mlle. vernisset and miss williamson were always described by their christian names as well: honorine and hermione. if the same thing had been done in the case of all the six victims, there would have been no mystery." "why not?" "because we should at once have realized the relation existing between the six unfortunate women, as i myself suddenly realized it on comparing those two christian names with that of hortense daniel. you understand now, don't you? you see the three christian names before your eyes...." m. de lourtier-vaneau seemed to be perturbed. turning a little pale, he said: "what do you mean? what do you mean?" "i mean," continued rénine, in a clear voice, sounding each syllable separately, "i mean that you see before your eyes three christian names which all three begin with the same initial and which all three, by a remarkable coincidence, consist of the same number of letters, as you may prove. if you enquire at the courbevoie laundry, where mlle. covereau used to work, you will find that her name was hilairie. here again we have the same initial and the same number of letters. there is no need to seek any farther. we are sure, are we not, that the christian names of all the victims offer the same peculiarities? and this gives us, with absolute certainty, the key to the problem which was set us. it explains the madwoman's choice. we now know the connection between the unfortunate victims. there can be no mistake about it. it's that and nothing else. and how this method of choosing confirms my theory! what proof of madness! why kill these women rather than any others? because their names begin with an h and consist of eight letters! you understand me, m. de lourtier, do you not? the number of letters is eight. the initial letter is the eighth letter of the alphabet; and the word _huit_, eight, begins with an h. always the letter h. _and the implement used to commit the crime was a hatchet_. is your excellency prepared to tell me that the lady with the hatchet is not a madwoman?" rénine interrupted himself and went up to m. de lourtier-vaneau: "what's the matter, your excellency? are you unwell?" "no, no," said m. de lourtier, with the perspiration streaming down his forehead. "no ... but all this story is so upsetting! only think, i knew one of the victims! and then...." rénine took a water-bottle and tumbler from a small table, filled the glass and handed it to m. de lourtier, who sipped a few mouthfuls from it and then, pulling himself together, continued, in a voice which he strove to make firmer than it had been: "very well. we'll admit your supposition. even so, it is necessary that it should lead to tangible results. what have you done?" "this morning i published in all the newspapers an advertisement worded as follows: 'excellent cook seeks situation. write before p.m. to herminie, boulevard haussmann, etc.' you continue to follow me, don't you, m. de lourtier? christian names beginning with an h and consisting of eight letters are extremely rare and are all rather out of date: herminie, hilairie, hermione. well, these christian names, for reasons which i do not understand, are essential to the madwoman. she cannot do without them. to find women bearing one of these christian names and for this purpose only she summons up all her remaining powers of reason, discernment, reflection and intelligence. she hunts about. she asks questions. she lies in wait. she reads newspapers which she hardly understands, but in which certain details, certain capital letters catch her eye. and consequently i did not doubt for a second that this name of herminie, printed in large type, would attract her attention and that she would be caught to-day in the trap of my advertisement." "did she write?" asked m. de lourtier-vaneau, anxiously. "several ladies," rénine continued, "wrote the letters which are usual in such cases, to offer a home to the so-called herminie. but i received an express letter which struck me as interesting." "from whom?" "read it, m. de lourtier." m. de lourtier-vaneau snatched the sheet from rénine's hands and cast a glance at the signature. his first movement was one of surprise, as though he had expected something different. then he gave a long, loud laugh of something like joy and relief. "why do you laugh, m. de lourtier? you seem pleased." "pleased, no. but this letter is signed by my wife." "and you were afraid of finding something else?" "oh no! but since it's my wife...." he did not finish his sentence and said to rénine: "come this way." he led him through a passage to a little drawing-room where a fair-haired lady, with a happy and tender expression on her comely face, was sitting in the midst of three children and helping them with their lessons. she rose. m. de lourtier briefly presented his visitor and asked his wife: "suzanne, is this express message from you?" "to mlle. herminie, boulevard haussmann? yes," she said, "i sent it. as you know, our parlour-maid's leaving and i'm looking out for a new one." rénine interrupted her: "excuse me, madame. just one question: where did you get the woman's address?" she flushed. her husband insisted: "tell us, suzanne. who gave you the address?" "i was rung up." "by whom?" she hesitated and then said: "your old nurse." "félicienne?" "yes." m. de lourtier cut short the conversation and, without permitting rénine to ask any more questions, took him back to the study: "you see, monsieur, that pneumatic letter came from a quite natural source. félicienne, my old nurse, who lives not far from paris on an allowance which i make her, read your advertisement and told madame de lourtier of it. for, after all," he added laughing, "i don't suppose that you suspect my wife of being the lady with the hatchet." "no." "then the incident is closed ... at least on my side. i have done what i could, i have listened to your arguments and i am very sorry that i can be of no more use to you...." he drank another glass of water and sat down. his face was distorted. rénine looked at him for a few seconds, as a man will look at a failing adversary who has only to receive the knock-out blow, and, sitting down beside him, suddenly gripped his arm: "your excellency, if you do not speak, hortense daniel will be the seventh victim." "i have nothing to say, monsieur! what do you think i know?" "the truth! my explanations have made it plain to you. your distress, your terror are positive proofs." "but, after all, monsieur, if i knew, why should i be silent?" "for fear of scandal. there is in your life, so a profound intuition assures me, something that you are constrained to hide. the truth about this monstrous tragedy, which suddenly flashed upon you, this truth, if it were known, would spell dishonour to you, disgrace ... and you are shrinking from your duty." m. de lourtier did not reply. rénine leant over him and, looking him in the eyes, whispered: "there will be no scandal. i shall be the only person in the world to know what has happened. and i am as much interested as yourself in not attracting attention, because i love hortense daniel and do not wish her name to be mixed up in your horrible story." they remained face to face during a long interval. rénine's expression was harsh and unyielding. m. de lourtier felt that nothing would bend him if the necessary words remained unspoken; but he could not bring himself to utter them: "you are mistaken," he said. "you think you have seen things that don't exist." rénine received a sudden and terrifying conviction that, if this man took refuge in a stolid silence, there was no hope for hortense daniel; and he was so much infuriated by the thought that the key to the riddle lay there, within reach of his hand, that he clutched m. de lourtier by the throat and forced him backwards: "i'll have no more lies! a woman's life is at stake! speak ... and speak at once! if not ...!" m. de lourtier had no strength left in him. all resistance was impossible. it was not that rénine's attack alarmed him, or that he was yielding to this act of violence, but he felt crushed by that indomitable will, which seemed to admit no obstacle, and he stammered: "you are right. it is my duty to tell everything, whatever comes of it." "nothing will come of it, i pledge my word, on condition that you save hortense daniel. a moment's hesitation may undo us all. speak. no details, but the actual facts." "madame de lourtier is not my wife. the only woman who has the right to bear my name is one whom i married when i was a young colonial official. she was a rather eccentric woman, of feeble mentality and incredibly subject to impulses that amounted to monomania. we had two children, twins, whom she worshipped and in whose company she would no doubt have recovered her mental balance and moral health, when, by a stupid accident--a passing carriage--they were killed before her eyes. the poor thing went mad ... with the silent, secretive madness which you imagined. some time afterwards, when i was appointed to an algerian station, i brought her to france and put her in the charge of a worthy creature who had nursed me and brought me up. two years later, i made the acquaintance of the woman who was to become the joy of my life. you saw her just now. she is the mother of my children and she passes as my wife. are we to sacrifice her? is our whole existence to be shipwrecked in horror and must our name be coupled with this tragedy of madness and blood?" rénine thought for a moment and asked: "what is the other one's name?" "hermance." "hermance! still that initial ... still those eight letters!" "that was what made me realize everything just now," said m. de lourtier. "when you compared the different names, i at once reflected that my unhappy wife was called hermance and that she was mad ... and all the proofs leapt to my mind." "but, though we understand the selection of the victims, how are we to explain the murders? what are the symptoms of her madness? does she suffer at all?" "she does not suffer very much at present. but she has suffered in the past, the most terrible suffering that you can imagine: since the moment when her two children were run over before her eyes, night and day she had the horrible spectacle of their death before her eyes, without a moment's interruption, for she never slept for a single second. think of the torture of it! to see her children dying through all the hours of the long day and all the hours of the interminable night!" "nevertheless," rénine objected, "it is not to drive away that picture that she commits murder?" "yes, possibly," said m. de lourtier, thoughtfully, "to drive it away by sleep." "i don't understand." "you don't understand, because we are talking of a madwoman ... and because all that happens in that disordered brain is necessarily incoherent and abnormal?" "obviously. but, all the same, is your supposition based on facts that justify it?" "yes, on facts which i had, in a way, overlooked but which to-day assume their true significance. the first of these facts dates a few years back, to a morning when my old nurse for the first time found hermance fast asleep. now she was holding her hands clutched around a puppy which she had strangled. and the same thing was repeated on three other occasions." "and she slept?" "yes, each time she slept a sleep which lasted for several nights." "and what conclusion did you draw?" "i concluded that the relaxation of the nerves provoked by taking life exhausted her and predisposed her for sleep." rénine shuddered: "that's it! there's not a doubt of it! the taking life, the effort of killing makes her sleep. and she began with women what had served her so well with animals. all her madness has become concentrated on that one point: she kills them to rob them of their sleep! she wanted sleep; and she steals the sleep of others! that's it, isn't it? for the past two years, she has been sleeping?" "for the past two years, she has been sleeping," stammered m. de lourtier. rénine gripped him by the shoulder: "and it never occurred to you that her madness might go farther, that she would stop at nothing to win the blessing of sleep! let us make haste, monsieur! all this is horrible!" they were both making for the door, when m. de lourtier hesitated. the telephone-bell was ringing. "it's from there," he said. "from there?" "yes, my old nurse gives me the news at the same time every day." he unhooked the receivers and handed one to rénine, who whispered in his ear the questions which he was to put. "is that you, félicienne? how is she?" "not so bad, sir." "is she sleeping well?" "not very well, lately. last night, indeed, she never closed her eyes. so she's very gloomy just now." "what is she doing at the moment?" "she is in her room." "go to her, félicienne, and don't leave her." "i can't. she's locked herself in." "you must, félicienne. break open the door. i'm coming straight on.... hullo! hullo!... oh, damnation, they've cut us off!" without a word, the two men left the flat and ran down to the avenue. rénine hustled m. de lourtier into the car: "what address?" "ville d'avray." "of course! in the very center of her operations ... like a spider in the middle of her web! oh, the shame of it!" he was profoundly agitated. he saw the whole adventure in its monstrous reality. "yes, she kills them to steal their sleep, as she used to kill the animals. it is the same obsession, but complicated by a whole array of utterly incomprehensible practices and superstitions. she evidently fancies that the similarity of the christian names to her own is indispensable and that she will not sleep unless her victim is an hortense or an honorine. it's a madwoman's argument; its logic escapes us and we know nothing of its origin; but we can't get away from it. she has to hunt and has to find. and she finds and carries off her prey beforehand and watches over it for the appointed number of days, until the moment when, crazily, through the hole which she digs with a hatchet in the middle of the skull, she absorbs the sleep which stupefies her and grants her oblivion for a given period. and here again we see absurdity and madness. why does she fix that period at so many days? why should one victim ensure her a hundred and twenty days of sleep and another a hundred and twenty-five? what insanity! the calculation is mysterious and of course mad; but the fact remains that, at the end of a hundred or a hundred and twenty-five days, as the case may be, a fresh victim is sacrificed; and there have been six already and the seventh is awaiting her turn. ah, monsieur, what a terrible responsibility for you! such a monster as that! she should never have been allowed out of sight!" m. de lourtier-vaneau made no protest. his air of dejection, his pallor, his trembling hands, all proved his remorse and his despair: "she deceived me," he murmured. "she was outwardly so quiet, so docile! and, after all, she's in a lunatic asylum." "then how can she ...?" "the asylum," explained m. de lourtier, "is made up of a number of separate buildings scattered over extensive grounds. the sort of cottage in which hermance lives stands quite apart. there is first a room occupied by félicienne, then hermance's bedroom and two separate rooms, one of which has its windows overlooking the open country. i suppose it is there that she locks up her victims." "but the carriage that conveys the dead bodies?" "the stables of the asylum are quite close to the cottage. there's a horse and carriage there for station work. hermance no doubt gets up at night, harnesses the horse and slips the body through the window." "and the nurse who watches her?" "félicienne is very old and rather deaf." "but by day she sees her mistress moving to and fro, doing this and that. must we not admit a certain complicity?" "never! félicienne herself has been deceived by hermance's hypocrisy." "all the same, it was she who telephoned to madame de lourtier first, about that advertisement...." "very naturally. hermance, who talks now and then, who argues, who buries herself in the newspapers, which she does not understand, as you were saying just now, but reads through them attentively, must have seen the advertisement and, having heard that we were looking for a servant, must have asked félicienne to ring me up." "yes ... yes ... that is what i felt," said rénine, slowly. "she marks down her victims.... with hortense dead, she would have known, once she had used up her allowance of sleep, where to find an eighth victim.... but how did she entice the unfortunate women? how did she entice hortense?" the car was rushing along, but not fast enough to please rénine, who rated the chauffeur: "push her along, adolphe, can't you?... we're losing time, my man." suddenly the fear of arriving too late began to torture him. the logic of the insane is subject to sudden changes of mood, to any perilous idea that may enter the mind. the madwoman might easily mistake the date and hasten the catastrophe, like a clock out of order which strikes an hour too soon. on the other hand, as her sleep was once more disturbed, might she not be tempted to take action without waiting for the appointed moment? was this not the reason why she had locked herself into her room? heavens, what agonies her prisoner must be suffering! what shudders of terror at the executioner's least movement! "faster, adolphe, or i'll take the wheel myself! faster, hang it." at last they reached ville d'avray. there was a steep, sloping road on the right and walls interrupted by a long railing. "drive round the grounds, adolphe. we mustn't give warning of our presence, must we, m. de lourtier? where is the cottage?" "just opposite," said m. de lourtier-vaneau. they got out a little farther on. rénine began to run along a bank at the side of an ill-kept sunken road. it was almost dark. m. de lourtier said: "here, this building standing a little way back.... look at that window on the ground-floor. it belongs to one of the separate rooms ... and that is obviously how she slips out." "but the window seems to be barred." "yes; and that is why no one suspected anything. but she must have found some way to get through." the ground-floor was built over deep cellars. rénine quickly clambered up, finding a foothold on a projecting ledge of stone. sure enough, one of the bars was missing. he pressed his face to the window-pane and looked in. the room was dark inside. nevertheless he was able to distinguish at the back a woman seated beside another woman, who was lying on a mattress. the woman seated was holding her forehead in her hands and gazing at the woman who was lying down. "it's she," whispered m. de lourtier, who had also climbed the wall. "the other one is bound." rénine took from his pocket a glazier's diamond and cut out one of the panes without making enough noise to arouse the madwoman's attention. he next slid his hand to the window-fastening and turned it softly, while with his left hand he levelled a revolver. "you're not going to fire, surely!" m. de lourtier-vaneau entreated. "if i must, i shall." rénine pushed open the window gently. but there was an obstacle of which he was not aware, a chair which toppled over and fell. he leapt into the room and threw away his revolver in order to seize the madwoman. but she did not wait for him. she rushed to the door, opened it and fled, with a hoarse cry. m. de lourtier made as though to run after her. "what's the use?" said rénine, kneeling down, "let's save the victim first." he was instantly reassured: hortense was alive. the first thing that he did was to cut the cords and remove the gag that was stifling her. attracted by the noise, the old nurse had hastened to the room with a lamp, which rénine took from her, casting its light on hortense. he was astounded: though livid and exhausted, with emaciated features and eyes blazing with fever, hortense was trying to smile. she whispered: "i was expecting you ... i did not despair for a moment ... i was sure of you...." she fainted. an hour later, after much useless searching around the cottage, they found the madwoman locked into a large cupboard in the loft. she had hanged herself. * * * * * hortense refused to stay another night. besides, it was better that the cottage should be empty when the old nurse announced the madwoman's suicide. rénine gave félicienne minute directions as to what she should do and say; and then, assisted by the chauffeur and m. de lourtier, carried hortense to the car and brought her home. she was soon convalescent. two days later, rénine carefully questioned her and asked her how she had come to know the madwoman. "it was very simple," she said. "my husband, who is not quite sane, as i have told you, is being looked after at ville d'avray; and i sometimes go to see him, without telling anybody, i admit. that was how i came to speak to that poor madwoman and how, the other day, she made signs that she wanted me to visit her. we were alone. i went into the cottage. she threw herself upon me and overpowered me before i had time to cry for help. i thought it was a jest; and so it was, wasn't it: a madwoman's jest? she was quite gentle with me.... all the same, she let me starve. but i was so sure of you!" "and weren't you frightened?" "of starving? no. besides, she gave me some food, now and then, when the fancy took her.... and then i was sure of you!" "yes, but there was something else: that other peril...." "what other peril?" she asked, ingenuously. rénine gave a start. he suddenly understood--it seemed strange at first, though it was quite natural--that hortense had not for a moment suspected and did not yet suspect the terrible danger which she had run. her mind had not connected with her own adventure the murders committed by the lady with the hatchet. he thought that it would always be time enough to tell her the truth. for that matter, a few days later her husband, who had been locked up for years, died in the asylum at ville d'avray, and hortense, who had been recommended by her doctor a short period of rest and solitude, went to stay with a relation living near the village of bassicourt, in the centre of france. vii footprints in the snow _to prince serge rénine, boulevard haussmann, paris_ la ronciÈre near bassicourt, november. "my dear friend,-- "you must be thinking me very ungrateful. i have been here three weeks; and you have had not one letter from me! not a word of thanks! and yet i ended by realizing from what terrible death you saved me and understanding the secret of that terrible business! but indeed, indeed i couldn't help it! i was in such a state of prostration after it all! i needed rest and solitude so badly! was i to stay in paris? was i to continue my expeditions with you? no, no, no! i had had enough adventures! other people's are very interesting, i admit. but when one is one's self the victim and barely escapes with one's life?... oh, my dear friend, how horrible it was! shall i ever forget it?... "here, at la roncière, i enjoy the greatest peace. my old spinster cousin ermelin pets and coddles me like an invalid. i am getting back my colour and am very well, physically ... so much so, in fact, that i no longer ever think of interesting myself in other people's business. never again! for instance (i am only telling you this because you are incorrigible, as inquisitive as any old charwoman, and always ready to busy yourself with things that don't concern you), yesterday i was present at a rather curious meeting. antoinette had taken me to the inn at bassicourt, where we were having tea in the public room, among the peasants (it was market-day), when the arrival of three people, two men and a woman, caused a sudden pause in the conversation. "one of the men was a fat farmer in a long blouse, with a jovial, red face, framed in white whiskers. the other was younger, was dressed in corduroy and had lean, yellow, cross-grained features. each of them carried a gun slung over his shoulder. between them was a short, slender young woman, in a brown cloak and a fur cap, whose rather thin and extremely pale face was surprisingly delicate and distinguished-looking. "'father, son and daughter-in-law,' whispered my cousin. "'what! can that charming creature be the wife of that clod-hopper?' "'and the daughter-in-law of baron de gorne.' "'is the old fellow over there a baron?' "'yes, descended from a very ancient, noble family which used to own the château in the old days. he has always lived like a peasant: a great hunter, a great drinker, a great litigant, always at law with somebody, now very nearly ruined. his son mathias was more ambitious and less attached to the soil and studied for the bar. then he went to america. next, the lack of money brought him back to the village, whereupon he fell in love with a young girl in the nearest town. the poor girl consented, no one knows why, to marry him; and for five years past she has been leading the life of a hermit, or rather of a prisoner, in a little manor-house close by, the manoir-au-puits, the well manor.' "'with the father and the son?' i asked. "'no, the father lives at the far end of the village, on a lonely farm.' "'and is master mathias jealous?' "'a perfect tiger!' "'without reason?' "'without reason, for natalie de gorne is the straightest woman in the world and it is not her fault if a handsome young man has been hanging around the manor-house for the past few months. however, the de gornes can't get over it.' "'what, the father neither?' "'the handsome young man is the last descendant of the people who bought the château long ago. this explains old de gorne's hatred. jérôme vignal--i know him and am very fond of him--is a good-looking fellow and very well off; and he has sworn to run off with natalie de gorne. it's the old man who says so, whenever he has had a drop too much. there, listen!' "the old chap was sitting among a group of men who were amusing themselves by making him drink and plying him with questions. he was already a little bit 'on' and was holding forth with a tone of indignation and a mocking smile which formed the most comic contrast: "'he's wasting his time, i tell you, the coxcomb! it's no manner of use his poaching round our way and making sheep's-eyes at the wench.... the coverts are watched! if he comes too near, it means a bullet, eh, mathias?' "he gripped his daughter-in-law's hand: "'and then the little wench knows how to defend herself too,' he chuckled. 'eh, you don't want any admirers, do you natalie?' "the young wife blushed, in her confusion at being addressed in these terms, while her husband growled: "'you'd do better to hold your tongue, father. there are things one doesn't talk about in public.' "'things that affect one's honour are best settled in public,' retorted the old one. 'where i'm concerned, the honour of the de gornes comes before everything; and that fine spark, with his paris airs, sha'n't....' "he stopped short. before him stood a man who had just come in and who seemed to be waiting for him to finish his sentence. the newcomer was a tall, powerfully-built young fellow, in riding-kit, with a hunting-crop in his hand. his strong and rather stern face was lighted up by a pair of fine eyes in which shone an ironical smile. "'jérôme vignal,' whispered my cousin. "the young man seemed not at all embarrassed. on seeing natalie, he made a low bow; and, when mathias de gorne took a step forward, he eyed him from head to foot, as though to say: "'well, what about it?' "and his attitude was so haughty and contemptuous that the de gornes unslung their guns and took them in both hands, like sportsmen about to shoot. the son's expression was very fierce. "jérôme was quite unmoved by the threat. after a few seconds, turning to the inn-keeper, he remarked: "'oh, i say! i came to see old vasseur. but his shop is shut. would you mind giving him the holster of my revolver? it wants a stitch or two.' "he handed the holster to the inn-keeper and added, laughing: "'i'm keeping the revolver, in case i need it. you never can tell!' "then, still very calmly, he took a cigarette from a silver case, lit it and walked out. we saw him through the window vaulting on his horse and riding off at a slow trot. "old de gorne tossed off a glass of brandy, swearing most horribly. "his son clapped his hand to the old man's mouth and forced him to sit down. natalie de gorne was weeping beside them.... "that's my story, dear friend. as you see, it's not tremendously interesting and does not deserve your attention. there's no mystery in it and no part for you to play. indeed, i particularly insist that you should not seek a pretext for any untimely interference. of course, i should be glad to see the poor thing protected: she appears to be a perfect martyr. but, as i said before, let us leave other people to get out of their own troubles and go no farther with our little experiments...." * * * * * rénine finished reading the letter, read it over again and ended by saying: "that's it. everything's right as right can be. she doesn't want to continue our little experiments, because this would make the seventh and because she's afraid of the eighth, which under the terms of our agreement has a very particular significance. she doesn't want to ... and she does want to ... without seeming to want to." * * * * * he rubbed his hands. the letter was an invaluable witness to the influence which he had gradually, gently and patiently gained over hortense daniel. it betrayed a rather complex feeling, composed of admiration, unbounded confidence, uneasiness at times, fear and almost terror, but also love: he was convinced of that. his companion in adventures which she shared with a good fellowship that excluded any awkwardness between them, she had suddenly taken fright; and a sort of modesty, mingled with a certain coquetry; was impelling her to hold back. that very evening, sunday, rénine took the train. and, at break of day, after covering by diligence, on a road white with snow, the five miles between the little town of pompignat, where he alighted, and the village of bassicourt, he learnt that his journey might prove of some use: three shots had been heard during the night in the direction of the manoir-au-puits. "three shots, sergeant. i heard them as plainly as i see you standing before me," said a peasant whom the gendarmes were questioning in the parlour of the inn which rénine had entered. "so did i," said the waiter. "three shots. it may have been twelve o'clock at night. the snow, which had been falling since nine, had stopped ... and the shots sounded across the fields, one after the other: bang, bang, bang." five more peasants gave their evidence. the sergeant and his men had heard nothing, because the police-station backed on the fields. but a farm-labourer and a woman arrived, who said that they were in mathias de gorne's service, that they had been away for two days because of the intervening sunday and that they had come straight from the manor-house, where they were unable to obtain admission: "the gate of the grounds is locked, sergeant," said the man. "it's the first time i've known this to happen. m. mathias comes out to open it himself, every morning at the stroke of six, winter and summer. well, it's past eight now. i called and shouted. nobody answered. so we came on here." "you might have enquired at old m. de gorne's," said the sergeant. "he lives on the high-road." "on my word, so i might! i never thought of that." "we'd better go there now," the sergeant decided. two of his men went with him, as well as the peasants and a locksmith whose services were called into requisition. rénine joined the party. soon, at the end of the village, they reached old de gorne's farmyard, which rénine recognized by hortense's description of its position. the old fellow was harnessing his horse and trap. when they told him what had happened, he burst out laughing: "three shots? bang, bang, bang? why, my dear sergeant, there are only two barrels to mathias' gun!" "what about the locked gate?" "it means that the lad's asleep, that's all. last night, he came and cracked a bottle with me ... perhaps two ... or even three; and he'll be sleeping it off, i expect ... he and natalie." he climbed on to the box of his trap--an old cart with a patched tilt--and cracked his whip: "good-bye, gentlemen all. those three shots of yours won't stop me from going to market at pompignat, as i do every monday. i've a couple of calves under the tilt; and they're just fit for the butcher. good-day to you!" the others walked on. rénine went up to the sergeant and gave him his name: "i'm a friend of mlle. ermelin, of la roncière; and, as it's too early to call on her yet, i shall be glad if you'll allow me to go round by the manor with you. mlle. ermelin knows madame de gorne; and it will be a satisfaction to me to relieve her mind, for there's nothing wrong at the manor-house, i hope?" "if there is," replied the sergeant, "we shall read all about it as plainly as on a map, because of the snow." he was a likable young man and seemed smart and intelligent. from the very first he had shown great acuteness in observing the tracks which mathias had left behind him, the evening before, on returning home, tracks which soon became confused with the footprints made in going and coming by the farm-labourer and the woman. meanwhile they came to the walls of a property of which the locksmith readily opened the gate. from here onward, a single trail appeared upon the spotless snow, that of mathias; and it was easy to perceive that the son must have shared largely in the father's libations, as the line of footprints described sudden curves which made it swerve right up to the trees of the avenue. two hundred yards farther stood the dilapidated two-storeyed building of the manoir-au-puits. the principal door was open. "let's go in," said the sergeant. and, the moment he had crossed the threshold, he muttered: "oho! old de gorne made a mistake in not coming. they've been fighting in here." the big room was in disorder. two shattered chairs, the overturned table and much broken glass and china bore witness to the violence of the struggle. the tall clock, lying on the ground, had stopped at twenty past eleven. with the farm-girl showing them the way, they ran up to the first floor. neither mathias nor his wife was there. but the door of their bedroom had been broken down with a hammer which they discovered under the bed. rénine and the sergeant went downstairs again. the living-room had a passage communicating with the kitchen, which lay at the back of the house and opened on a small yard fenced off from the orchard. at the end of this enclosure was a well near which one was bound to pass. now, from the door of the kitchen to the well, the snow, which was not very thick, had been pressed down to this side and that, as though a body had been dragged over it. and all around the well were tangled traces of trampling feet, showing that the struggle must have been resumed at this spot. the sergeant again discovered mathias' footprints, together with others which were shapelier and lighter. these latter went straight into the orchard, by themselves. and, thirty yards on, near the footprints, a revolver was picked up and recognized by one of the peasants as resembling that which jérôme vignal had produced in the inn two days before. the sergeant examined the cylinder. three of the seven bullets had been fired. and so the tragedy was little by little reconstructed in its main outlines; and the sergeant, who had ordered everybody to stand aside and not to step on the site of the footprints, came back to the well, leant over, put a few questions to the farm-girl and, going up to rénine, whispered: "it all seems fairly clear to me." rénine took his arm: "let's speak out plainly, sergeant. i understand the business pretty well, for, as i told you, i know mlle. ermelin, who is a friend of jérôme vignal's and also knows madame de gorne. do you suppose ...?" "i don't want to suppose anything. i simply declare that some one came there last night...." "by which way? the only tracks of a person coming towards the manor are those of m. de gorne." "that's because the other person arrived before the snowfall, that is to say, before nine o'clock." "then he must have hidden in a corner of the living-room and waited for the return of m. de gorne, who came after the snow?" "just so. as soon as mathias came in, the man went for him. there was a fight. mathias made his escape through the kitchen. the man ran after him to the well and fired three revolver-shots." "and where's the body?" "down the well." rénine protested: "oh, i say! aren't you taking a lot for granted?" "why, sir, the snow's there, to tell the story; and the snow plainly says that, after the struggle, after the three shots, one man alone walked away and left the farm, one man only, and his footprints are not those of mathias de gorne. then where can mathias de gorne be?" "but the well ... can be dragged?" "no. the well is practically bottomless. it is known all over the district and gives its name to the manor." "so you really believe ...?" "i repeat what i said. before the snowfall, a single arrival, mathias, and a single departure, the stranger." "and madame de gorne? was she too killed and thrown down the well like her husband?" "no, carried off." "carried off?" "remember that her bedroom was broken down with a hammer." "come, come, sergeant! you yourself declare that there was only one departure, the stranger's." "stoop down. look at the man's footprints. see how they sink into the snow, until they actually touch the ground. those are the footprints of a man, laden with a heavy burden. the stranger was carrying madame de gorne on his shoulder." "then there's an outlet this way?" "yes, a little door of which mathias de gorne always had the key on him. the man must have taken it from him." "a way out into the open fields?" "yes, a road which joins the departmental highway three quarters of a mile from here.... and do you know where?" "where?" "at the corner of the château." "jérôme vignal's château?" "by jove, this is beginning to look serious! if the trail leads to the château and stops there, we shall know where we stand." the trail did continue to the château, as they were able to perceive after following it across the undulating fields, on which the snow lay heaped in places. the approach to the main gates had been swept, but they saw that another trail, formed by the two wheels of a vehicle, was running in the opposite direction to the village. the sergeant rang the bell. the porter, who had also been sweeping the drive, came to the gates, with a broom in his hand. in answer to a question, the man said that m. vignal had gone away that morning before anyone else was up and that he himself had harnessed the horse to the trap. "in that case," said rénine, when they had moved away, "all we have to do is to follow the tracks of the wheels." "that will be no use," said the sergeant. "they have taken the railway." "at pompignat station, where i came from? but they would have passed through the village." "they have gone just the other way, because it leads to the town, where the express trains stop. the procurator-general has an office in the town. i'll telephone; and, as there's no train before eleven o'clock, all that they need do is to keep a watch at the station." "i think you're doing the right thing, sergeant," said rénine, "and i congratulate you on the way in which you have carried out your investigation." they parted. rénine went back to the inn in the village and sent a note to hortense daniel by hand: "my very dear friend, "i seemed to gather from your letter that, touched as always by anything that concerns the heart, you were anxious to protect the love-affair of jérôme and natalie. now there is every reason to suppose that these two, without consulting their fair protectress, have run away, after throwing mathias de gorne down a well. "forgive me for not coming to see you. the whole thing is extremely obscure; and, if i were with you, i should not have the detachment of mind which is needed to think the case over." it was then half-past ten. rénine went for a walk into the country, with his hands clasped behind his back and without vouchsafing a glance at the exquisite spectacle of the white meadows. he came back for lunch, still absorbed in his thoughts and indifferent to the talk of the customers of the inn, who on all sides were discussing recent events. he went up to his room and had been asleep some time when he was awakened by a tapping at the door. he got up and opened it: "is it you?... is it you?" he whispered. hortense and he stood gazing at each other for some seconds in silence, holding each other's hands, as though nothing, no irrelevant thought and no utterance, must be allowed to interfere with the joy of their meeting. then he asked: "was i right in coming?" "yes," she said, gently, "i expected you." "perhaps it would have been better if you had sent for me sooner, instead of waiting.... events did not wait, you see, and i don't quite know what's to become of jérôme vignal and natalie de gorne." "what, haven't you heard?" she said, quickly. "they've been arrested. they were going to travel by the express." "arrested? no." rénine objected. "people are not arrested like that. they have to be questioned first." "that's what's being done now. the authorities are making a search." "where?" "at the château. and, as they are innocent.... for they are innocent, aren't they? you don't admit that they are guilty, any more than i do?" he replied: "i admit nothing, i can admit nothing, my dear. nevertheless, i am bound to say that everything is against them ... except one fact, which is that everything is too much against them. it is not normal for so many proofs to be heaped up one on top of the other and for the man who commits a murder to tell his story so frankly. apart from this, there's nothing but mystery and discrepancy." "well?" "well, i am greatly puzzled." "but you have a plan?" "none at all, so far. ah, if i could see him, jérôme vignal, and her, natalie de gorne, and hear them and know what they are saying in their own defence! but you can understand that i sha'n't be permitted either to ask them any questions or to be present at their examination. besides, it must be finished by this time." "it's finished at the château," she said, "but it's going to be continued at the manor-house." "are they taking them to the manor-house?" he asked eagerly. "yes ... at least, judging by what was said to the chauffeur of one of the procurator's two cars." "oh, in that case," exclaimed rénine, "the thing's done! the manor-house! why, we shall be in the front row of the stalls! we shall see and hear everything; and, as a word, a tone of the voice, a quiver of the eyelids will be enough to give me the tiny clue i need, we may entertain some hope. come along." he took her by the direct route which he had followed that morning, leading to the gate which the locksmith had opened. the gendarmes on duty at the manor-house had made a passage through the snow, beside the line of footprints and around the house. chance enabled rénine and hortense to approach unseen and through a side-window to enter a corridor near a back-staircase. a few steps up was a little chamber which received its only light through a sort of bull's-eye, from the large room on the ground-floor. rénine, during the morning visit, had noticed the bull's-eye, which was covered on the inside with a piece of cloth. he removed the cloth and cut out one of the panes. a few minutes later, a sound of voices rose from the other side of the house, no doubt near the well. the sound grew more distinct. a number of people flocked into the house. some of them went up stairs to the first floor, while the sergeant arrived with a young man of whom rénine and hortense were able to distinguish only the tall figure: "jérôme vignal," said she. "yes," said rénine. "they are examining madame de gorne first, upstairs, in her bedroom." a quarter of an hour passed. then the persons on the first floor came downstairs and went in. they were the procurator's deputy, his clerk, a commissary of police and two detectives. madame de gorne was shown in and the deputy asked jérôme vignal to step forward. jérôme vignal's face was certainly that of the strong man whom hortense had depicted in her letter. he displayed no uneasiness, but rather decision and a resolute will. natalie, who was short and very slight, with a feverish light in her eyes, nevertheless produced the same impression of quiet confidence. the deputy, who was examining the disordered furniture and the traces of the struggle, invited her to sit down and said to jérôme: "monsieur, i have not asked you many questions so far. this is a summary enquiry which i am conducting in your presence and which will be continued later by the examining-magistrate; and i wished above all to explain to you the very serious reasons for which i asked you to interrupt your journey and to come back here with madame de gorne. you are now in a position to refute the truly distressing charges that are hanging over you. i therefore ask you to tell me the exact truth." "mr. deputy," replied jérôme, "the charges in question trouble me very little. the truth for which you are asking will defeat all the lies which chance has accumulated against me. it is this." he reflected for an instant and then, in clear, frank tones, said: "i love madame de gorne. the first time i met her, i conceived the greatest sympathy and admiration for her. but my affection has always been directed by the sole thought of her happiness. i love her, but i respect her even more. madame de gorne must have told you and i tell you again that she and i exchanged our first few words last night." he continued, in a lower voice: "i respect her the more inasmuch as she is exceedingly unhappy. all the world knows that every minute of her life was a martyrdom. her husband persecuted her with ferocious hatred and frantic jealousy. ask the servants. they will tell you of the long suffering of natalie de gorne, of the blows which she received and the insults which she had to endure. i tried to stop this torture by restoring to the rights of appeal which the merest stranger may claim when unhappiness and injustice pass a certain limit. i went three times to old de gorne and begged him to interfere; but i found in him an almost equal hatred towards his daughter-in-law, the hatred which many people feel for anything beautiful and noble. at last i resolved on direct action and last night i took a step with regard to mathias de gorne which was ... a little unusual, i admit, but which seemed likely to succeed, considering the man's character. i swear, mr. deputy, that i had no other intention than to talk to mathias de gorne. knowing certain particulars of his life which enabled me to bring effective pressure to bear upon him, i wished to make use of this advantage in order to achieve my purpose. if things turned out differently, i am not wholly to blame.... so i went there a little before nine o'clock. the servants, i knew, were out. he opened the door himself. he was alone." "monsieur," said the deputy, interrupting him, "you are saying something--as madame de gorne, for that matter, did just now--which is manifestly opposed to the truth. mathias de gorne did not come home last night until eleven o'clock. we have two definite proofs of this: his father's evidence and the prints of his feet in the snow, which fell from a quarter past nine o'clock to eleven." "mr. deputy," jérôme vignal declared, without heeding the bad effect which his obstinacy was producing, "i am relating things as they were and not as they may be interpreted. but to continue. that clock marked ten minutes to nine when i entered this room. m. de gorne, believing that he was about to be attacked, had taken down his gun. i placed my revolver on the table, out of reach of my hand, and sat down: 'i want to speak to you, monsieur,' i said. 'please listen to me.' he did not stir and did not utter a single syllable. so i spoke. and straightway, crudely, without any previous explanations which might have softened the bluntness of my proposal, i spoke the few words which i had prepared beforehand: 'i have spent some months, monsieur,' i said, 'in making careful enquiries into your financial position. you have mortgaged every foot of your land. you have signed bills which will shortly be falling due and which it will be absolutely impossible for you to honour. you have nothing to hope for from your father, whose own affairs are in a very bad condition. so you are ruined. i have come to save you.'... he watched me, still without speaking, and sat down, which i took to mean that my suggestion was not entirely displeasing. then i took a sheaf of bank-notes from my pocket, placed it before him and continued: 'here is sixty thousand francs, monsieur. i will buy the manoir-au-puits, its lands and dependencies and take over the mortgages. the sum named is exactly twice what they are worth.'... i saw his eyes glittering. he asked my conditions. 'only one,' i said, 'that you go to america.'... mr. deputy, we sat discussing for two hours. it was not that my offer roused his indignation--i should not have risked it if i had not known with whom i was dealing--but he wanted more and haggled greedily, though he refrained from mentioning the name of madame de gorne, to whom i myself had not once alluded. we might have been two men engaged in a dispute and seeking an agreement on common ground, whereas it was the happiness and the whole destiny of a woman that were at stake. at last, weary of the discussion, i accepted a compromise and we came to terms, which i resolved to make definite then and there. two letters were exchanged between us: one in which he made the manoir-au-puits over to me for the sum which i had paid him; and one, which he pocketed immediately, by which i was to send him as much more in america on the day on which the decree of divorce was pronounced.... so the affair was settled. i am sure that at that moment he was accepting in good faith. he looked upon me less as an enemy and a rival than as a man who was doing him a service. he even went so far as to give me the key of the little door which opens on the fields, so that i might go home by the short cut. unfortunately, while i was picking up my cap and greatcoat, i made the mistake of leaving on the table the letter of sale which he had signed. in a moment, mathias de gorne had seen the advantage which he could take of my slip: he could keep his property, keep his wife ... and keep the money. quick as lightning, he tucked away the paper, hit me over the head with the butt-end of his gun, threw the gun on the floor and seized me by the throat with both hands. he had reckoned without his host. i was the stronger of the two; and after a sharp but short struggle, i mastered him and tied him up with a cord which i found lying in a corner ... mr. deputy, if my enemy's resolve was sudden, mine was no less so. since, when all was said, he had accepted the bargain, i would force him to keep it, at least in so far as i was interested. a very few steps brought me to the first floor ... i had not a doubt that madame de gorne was there and had heard the sound of our discussion. switching on the light of my pocket-torch, i looked into three bedrooms. the fourth was locked. i knocked at the door. there was no reply. but this was one of the moments in which a man allows no obstacle to stand in his way. i had seen a hammer in one of the rooms. i picked it up and smashed in the door.... yes, natalie was lying there, on the floor, in a dead faint. i took her in my arms, carried her downstairs and went through the kitchen. on seeing the snow outside, i at once realized that my footprints would be easily traced. but what did it matter? was there any reason why i should put mathias de gorne off the scent? not at all. with the sixty thousand francs in his possession, as well as the paper in which i undertook to pay him a like sum on the day of his divorce, to say nothing of his house and land, he would go away, leaving natalie de gorne to me. nothing was changed between us, except one thing: instead of awaiting his good pleasure, i had at once seized the precious pledge which i coveted. what i feared, therefore, was not so much any subsequent attack on the part of mathias de gorne, but rather the indignant reproaches of his wife. what would she say when she realized that she was a prisoner in my hands?... the reasons why i escaped reproach madame de gorne has, i believe, had the frankness to tell you. love calls forth love. that night, in my house, broken by emotion, she confessed her feeling for me. she loved me as i loved her. our destinies were henceforth mingled. she and i set out at five o'clock this morning ... not foreseeing for an instant that we were amenable to the law." jérôme vignal's story was finished. he had told it straight off the reel, like a story learnt by heart and incapable of revision in any detail. there was a brief pause, during which hortense whispered: "it all sounds quite possible and, in any case, very logical." "there are the objections to come," said rénine. "wait till you hear them. they are very serious. there's one in particular...." the deputy-procurator stated it at once: "and what became of m. de gorne in all this?" "mathias de gorne?" asked jérôme. "yes. you have related, with an accent of great sincerity, a series of facts which i am quite willing to admit. unfortunately, you have forgotten a point of the first importance: what became of mathias de gorne? you tied him up here, in this room. well, this morning he was gone." "of course, mr. deputy, mathias de gorne accepted the bargain in the end and went away." "by what road?" "no doubt by the road that leads to his father's house." "where are his footprints? the expanse of snow is an impartial witness. after your fight with him, we see you, on the snow, moving away. why don't we see him? he came and did not go away again. where is he? there is not a trace of him ... or rather...." the deputy lowered his voice: "or rather, yes, there are some traces on the way to the well and around the well ... traces which prove that the last struggle of all took place there.... and after that there is nothing ... not a thing...." jérôme shrugged his shoulders: "you have already mentioned this, mr. deputy, and it implies a charge of homicide against me. i have nothing to say to it." "have you anything to say to the fact that your revolver was picked up within fifteen yards of the well?" "no." "or to the strange coincidence between the three shots heard in the night and the three cartridges missing from your revolver?" "no, mr. deputy, there was not, as you believe, a last struggle by the well, because i left m. de gorne tied up, in this room, and because i also left my revolver here. on the other hand, if shots were heard, they were not fired by me." "a casual coincidence, therefore?" "that's a matter for the police to explain. my only duty is to tell the truth and you are not entitled to ask more of me." "and if that truth conflicts with the facts observed?" "it means that the facts are wrong, mr. deputy." "as you please. but, until the day when the police are able to make them agree with your statements, you will understand that i am obliged to keep you under arrest." "and madame de gorne?" asked jérôme, greatly distressed. the deputy did not reply. he exchanged a few words with the commissary of police and then, beckoning to a detective, ordered him to bring up one of the two motor-cars. then he turned to natalie: "madame, you have heard m. vignal's evidence. it agrees word for word with your own. m. vignal declares in particular that you had fainted when he carried you away. but did you remain unconscious all the way?" it seemed as though jérôme's composure had increased madame de gorne's assurance. she replied: "i did not come to, monsieur, until i was at the château." "it's most extraordinary. didn't you hear the three shots which were heard by almost every one in the village?" "i did not." "and did you see nothing of what happened beside the well?" "nothing did happen. m. vignal has told you so." "then what has become of your husband?" "i don't know." "come, madame, you really must assist the officers of the law and at least tell us what you think. do you believe that there may have been an accident and that possibly m. de gorne, who had been to see his father and had more to drink than usual, lost his balance and fell into the well?" "when my husband came back from seeing his father, he was not in the least intoxicated." "his father, however, has stated that he was. his father and he had drunk two or three bottles of wine." "his father is not telling the truth." "but the snow tells the truth, madame," said the deputy, irritably. "and the line of his footprints wavers from side to side." "my husband came in at half-past-eight, monsieur, before the snow had begun to fall." the deputy struck the table with his fist: "but, really, madame, you're going right against the evidence!... that sheet of snow cannot speak false!... i may accept your denial of matters that cannot be verified. but these footprints in the snow ... in the snow...." he controlled himself. the motor-car drew up outside the windows. forming a sudden resolve, he said to natalie: "you will be good enough to hold yourself at the disposal of the authorities, madame, and to remain here, in the manor-house...." and he made a sign to the sergeant to remove jérôme vignal in the car. the game was lost for the two lovers. barely united, they had to separate and to fight, far away from each other, against the most grievous accusations. jérôme took a step towards natalie. they exchanged a long, sorrowful look. then he bowed to her and walked to the door, in the wake of the sergeant of gendarmes. "halt!" cried a voice. "sergeant, right about ... turn!... jérôme vignal, stay where you are!" the ruffled deputy raised his head, as did the other people present. the voice came from the ceiling. the bulls-eye window had opened and rénine, leaning through it, was waving his arms: "i wish to be heard!... i have several remarks to make ... especially in respect of the zigzag footprints!... it all lies in that!... mathias had not been drinking!..." he had turned round and put his two legs through the opening, saying to hortense, who tried to prevent him: "don't move.... no one will disturb you." and, releasing his hold, he dropped into the room. the deputy appeared dumfounded: "but, really, monsieur, who are you? where do you come from?" rénine brushed the dust from his clothes and replied: "excuse me, mr. deputy. i ought to have come the same way as everybody else. but i was in a hurry. besides, if i had come in by the door instead of falling from the ceiling, my words would not have made the same impression." the infuriated deputy advanced to meet him: "who are you?" "prince rénine. i was with the sergeant this morning when he was pursuing his investigations, wasn't i, sergeant? since then i have been hunting about for information. that's why, wishing to be present at the hearing, i found a corner in a little private room...." "you were there? you had the audacity?..." "one must needs be audacious, when the truth's at stake. if i had not been there, i should not have discovered just the one little clue which i missed. i should not have known that mathias de gorne was not the least bit drunk. now that's the key to the riddle. when we know that, we know the solution." the deputy found himself in a rather ridiculous position. since he had failed to take the necessary precautions to ensure the secrecy of his enquiry, it was difficult for him to take any steps against this interloper. he growled: "let's have done with this. what are you asking?" "a few minutes of your kind attention." "and with what object?" "to establish the innocence of m. vignal and madame de gorne." he was wearing that calm air, that sort of indifferent look which was peculiar to him in moments of actions when the crisis of the drama depended solely upon himself. hortense felt a thrill pass through her and at once became full of confidence: "they're saved," she thought, with sudden emotion. "i asked him to protect that young creature; and he is saving her from prison and despair." jérôme and natalie must have experienced the same impression of sudden hope, for they had drawn nearer to each other, as though this stranger, descended from the clouds, had already given them the right to clasp hands. the deputy shrugged his shoulders: "the prosecution will have every means, when the time comes, of establishing their innocence for itself. you will be called." "it would be better to establish it here and now. any delay might lead to grievous consequences." "i happen to be in a hurry." "two or three minutes will do." "two or three minutes to explain a case like this!" "no longer, i assure you." "are you as certain of it as all that?" "i am now. i have been thinking hard since this morning." the deputy realized that this was one of those gentry who stick to you like a leech and that there was nothing for it but to submit. in a rather bantering tone, he asked: "does your thinking enable you to tell us the exact spot where m. mathias de gorne is at this moment?" rénine took out his watch and answered: "in paris, mr. deputy." "in paris? alive then?" "alive and, what is more, in the pink of health." "i am delighted to hear it. but then what's the meaning of the footprints around the well and the presence of that revolver and those three shots?" "simply camouflage." "oh, really? camouflage contrived by whom?" "by mathias de gorne himself." "that's curious! and with what object?" "with the object of passing himself off for dead and of arranging subsequent matters in such a way that m. vignal was bound to be accused of the death, the murder." "an ingenious theory," the deputy agreed, still in a satirical tone. "what do you think of it, m. vignal?" "it is a theory which flashed through my own mind. mr. deputy," replied jérôme. "it is quite likely that, after our struggle and after i had gone, mathias de gorne conceived a new plan by which, this time, his hatred would be fully gratified. he both loved and detested his wife. he held me in the greatest loathing. this must be his revenge." "his revenge would cost him dear, considering that, according to your statement, mathias de gorne was to receive a second sum of sixty thousand francs from you." "he would receive that sum in another quarter, mr. deputy. my examination of the financial position of the de gorne family revealed to me the fact that the father and son had taken out a life-insurance policy in each other's favour. with the son dead, or passing for dead, the father would receive the insurance-money and indemnify his son." "you mean to say," asked the deputy, with a smile, "that in all this camouflage, as you call it, m. de gorne the elder would act as his son's accomplice?" rénine took up the challenge: "just so, mr. deputy. the father and son are accomplices. "then we shall find the son at the father's?" "you would have found him there last night." "what became of him?" "he took the train at pompignat." "that's a mere supposition." "no, a certainty." "a moral certainty, perhaps, but you'll admit there's not the slightest proof." the deputy did not wait for a reply. he considered that he had displayed an excessive goodwill and that patience has its limits and he put an end to the interview: "not the slightest proof," he repeated, taking up his hat. "and, above all, ... above all, there's nothing in what you've said that can contradict in the very least the evidence of that relentless witness, the snow. to go to his father, mathias de gorne must have left this house. which way did he go?" "hang it all, m. vignal told you: by the road which leads from here to his father's!" "there are no tracks in the snow." "yes, there are." "but they show him coming here and not going away from here." "it's the same thing." "what?" "of course it is. there's more than one way of walking. one doesn't always go ahead by following one's nose." "in what other way can one go ahead?" "by walking backwards, mr. deputy." these few words, spoken very simply, but in a clear tone which gave full value to every syllable, produced a profound silence. those present at once grasped their extreme significance and, by adapting it to the actual happenings, perceived in a flash the impenetrable truth, which suddenly appeared to be the most natural thing in the world. rénine continued his argument. stepping backwards in the direction of the window, he said: "if i want to get to that window, i can of course walk straight up to it; but i can just as easily turn my back to it and walk that way. in either case i reach my goal." and he at once proceeded in a vigorous tone: "here's the gist of it all. at half-past eight, before the snow fell, m. de gorne comes home from his father's house. m. vignal arrives twenty minutes later. there is a long discussion and a struggle, taking up three hours in all. it is then, after m. vignal has carried off madame de gorne and made his escape, that mathias de gorne, foaming at the mouth, wild with rage, but suddenly seeing his chance of taking the most terrible revenge, hits upon the ingenious idea of using against his enemy the very snowfall upon whose evidence you are now relying. he therefore plans his own murder, or rather the appearance of his murder and of his fall to the bottom of the well and makes off backwards, step by step, thus recording his arrival instead of his departure on the white page." the deputy sneered no longer. this eccentric intruder suddenly appeared to him in the light of a person worthy of attention, whom it would not do to make fun of. he asked: "and how could he have left his father's house?" "in a trap, quite simply." "who drove it?" "the father. this morning the sergeant and i saw the trap and spoke to the father, who was going to market as usual. the son was hidden under the tilt. he took the train at pompignat and is in paris by now." rénine's explanation, as promised, had taken hardly five minutes. he had based it solely on logic and the probabilities of the case. and yet not a jot was left of the distressing mystery in which they were floundering. the darkness was dispelled. the whole truth appeared. madame de gorne wept for joy and jérôme vignal thanked the good genius who was changing the course of events with a stroke of his magic wand. "shall we examine those footprints together, mr. deputy?" asked rénine. "do you mind? the mistake which the sergeant and i made this morning was to investigate only the footprints left by the alleged murderer and to neglect mathias de gorne's. why indeed should they have attracted our attention? yet it was precisely there that the crux of the whole affair was to be found." they stepped into the orchard and went to the well. it did not need a long examination to observe that many of the footprints were awkward, hesitating, too deeply sunk at the heel and toe and differing from one another in the angle at which the feet were turned. "this clumsiness was unavoidable," said rénine. "mathias de gorne would have needed a regular apprenticeship before his backward progress could have equalled his ordinary gait; and both his father and he must have been aware of this, at least as regards the zigzags which you see here since old de gorne went out of his way to tell the sergeant that his son had had too much drink." and he added "indeed it was the detection of this falsehood that suddenly enlightened me. when madame de gorne stated that her husband was not drunk, i thought of the footprints and guessed the truth." the deputy frankly accepted his part in the matter and began to laugh: "there's nothing left for it but to send detectives after the bogus corpse." "on what grounds, mr. deputy?" asked rénine. "mathias de gorne has committed no offence against the law. there's nothing criminal in trampling the soil around a well, in shifting the position of a revolver that doesn't belong to you, in firing three shots or in walking backwards to one's father's house. what can we ask of him? the sixty thousand francs? i presume that this is not m. vignal's intention and that he does not mean to bring a charge against him?" "certainly not," said jérôme. "well, what then? the insurance-policy in favour of the survivor? but there would be no misdemeanour unless the father claimed payment. and i should be greatly surprised if he did.... hullo, here the old chap is! you'll soon know all about it." old de gorne was coming along, gesticulating as he walked. his easy-going features were screwed up to express sorrow and anger. "where's my son?" he cried. "it seems the brute's killed him!... my poor mathias dead! oh, that scoundrel of a vignal!" and he shook his fist at jérôme. the deputy said, bluntly: "a word with you, m. de gorne. do you intend to claim your rights under a certain insurance-policy?" "well, what do _you_ think?" said the old man, off his guard. "the fact is ... your son's not dead. people are even saying that you were a partner in his little schemes and that you stuffed him under the tilt of your trap and drove him to the station." the old fellow spat on the ground, stretched out his hand as though he were going to take a solemn oath, stood for an instant without moving and then, suddenly, changing his mind and his tactics with ingenuous cynicism, he relaxed his features, assumed a conciliatory attitude and burst out laughing: "that blackguard mathias! so he tried to pass himself off as dead? what a rascal! and he reckoned on me to collect the insurance-money and send it to him? as if i should be capable of such a low, dirty trick!... you don't know me, my boy!" and, without waiting for more, shaking with merriment like a jolly old fellow amused by a funny story, he took his departure, not forgetting, however, to set his great hob-nail boots on each of the compromising footprints which his son had left behind him. * * * * * later, when rénine went back to the manor to let hortense out, he found that she had disappeared. he called and asked for her at her cousin ermelin's. hortense sent down word asking him to excuse her: she was feeling a little tired and was lying down. "capital!" thought rénine. "capital! she avoids me, therefore she loves me. the end is not far off." viii at the sign of mercury _to madame daniel, la roncière, near bassicourt._ "paris november "my dearest friend,-- "there has been no letter from you for a fortnight; so i don't expect now to receive one for that troublesome date of the th of december, which we fixed as the last day of our partnership. i rather wish it would come, because you will then be released from a contract which no longer seems to give you pleasure. to me the seven battles which we fought and won together were a time of endless delight and enthusiasm. i was living beside you. i was conscious of all the good which that more active and stirring existence was doing you. my happiness was so great that i dared not speak of it to you or let you see anything of my secret feelings except my desire to please you and my passionate devotion. to-day you have had enough of your brother in arms. your will shall be law. "but, though i bow to your decree, may i remind you what it was that i always believed our final adventure would be? may i repeat your words, not one of which i have forgotten? "'i demand,' you said, 'that you shall restore to me a small, antique clasp, made of a cornelian set in a filigree mount. it came to me from my mother; and every one knew that it used to bring her happiness and me too. since the day when it vanished from my jewel-case, i have had nothing but unhappiness. restore it to me, my good genius.' "and, when i asked you when the clasp had disappeared, you answered, with a laugh: "'seven years ago ... or eight ... or nine: i don't know exactly.... i don't know when ... i don't know how ... i know nothing about it....' "you were challenging me, were you not, and you set me that condition because it was one which i could not fulfil? nevertheless, i promised and i should like to keep my promise. what i have tried to do, in order to place life before you in a more favourable light, would seem purposeless, if your confidence feels the lack of this talisman to which you attach so great a value. we must not laugh at these little superstitions. they are often the mainspring of our best actions. "dear friend, if you had helped me, i should have achieved yet one more victory. alone and hard pushed by the proximity of the date, i have failed, not however without placing things on such a footing that the undertaking if you care to follow it up, has the greatest chance of success. "and you will follow it up, won't you? we have entered into a mutual agreement which we are bound to honour. it behooves us, within a fixed time, to inscribe in the book of our common life eight good stories, to which we shall have brought energy, logic, perseverance, some subtlety and occasionally a little heroism. this is the eighth of them. it is for you to act so that it may be written in its proper place on the th of december, before the clock strikes eight in the evening. "and, on that day, you will act as i shall now tell you. "first of all--and above all, my dear, do not complain that my instructions are fanciful: each of them is an indispensable condition of success--first of all, cut in your cousin's garden three slender lengths of rush. plait them together and bind up the two ends so as to make a rude switch, like a child's whip-lash. "when you get to paris, buy a long necklace of jet beads, cut into facets, and shorten it so that it consists of seventy-five beads, of almost equal size. "under your winter cloak, wear a blue woollen gown. on your head, a toque with red leaves on it. round your neck, a feather boa. no gloves. no rings. "in the afternoon, take a cab along the left bank of the river to the church of saint-Étienne-du-mont. at four o'clock exactly, there will be, near the holy-water basin, just inside the church, an old woman dressed in black, saying her prayers on a silver rosary. she will offer you holy water. give her your necklace. she will count the beads and hand it back to you. after this, you will walk behind her, you will cross an arm of the seine and she will lead you, down a lonely street in the ile saint-louis, to a house which you will enter by yourself. "on the ground-floor of this house, you will find a youngish man with a very pasty complexion. take off your cloak and then say to him: "'i have come to fetch my clasp.' "do not be astonished by his agitation or dismay. keep calm in his presence. if he questions you, if he wants to know your reason for applying to him or what impels you to make that request, give him no explanation. your replies must be confined to these brief formulas: "'i have come to fetch what belongs to me. i don't know you, i don't know your name; but i am obliged to come to you like this. i must have my clasp returned to me. i must.' "i honestly believe that, if you have the firmness not to swerve from that attitude, whatever farce the man may play, you will be completely successful. but the contest must be a short one and the issue will depend solely on your confidence in yourself and your certainty of success. it will be a sort of match in which you must defeat your opponent in the first round. if you remain impassive, you will win. if you show hesitation or uneasiness, you can do nothing against him. he will escape you and regain the upper hand after a first moment of distress; and the game will be lost in a few minutes. there is no midway house between victory or ... defeat. "in the latter event, you would be obliged--i beg you to pardon me for saying so--again to accept my collaboration. i offer it you in advance, my dear, and without any conditions, while stating quite plainly that all that i have been able to do for you and all that i may yet do gives me no other right than that of thanking you and devoting myself more than ever to the woman who represents my joy, my whole life." * * * * * hortense, after reading the letter, folded it up and put it away at the back of a drawer, saying, in a resolute voice: "i sha'n't go." to begin with, although she had formerly attached some slight importance to this trinket, which she had regarded as a mascot, she felt very little interest in it now that the period of her trials was apparently at an end. she could not forget that figure eight, which was the serial number of the next adventure. to launch herself upon it meant taking up the interrupted chain, going back to rénine and giving him a pledge which, with his powers of suggestion, he would know how to turn to account. two days before the th of december, she was still in the same frame of mind. so she was on the morning of the th; but suddenly, without even having to contend against preliminary subterfuges, she ran out into the garden, cut three lengths of rush, plaited them as she used to do in her childhood and at twelve o'clock had herself driven to the station. she was uplifted by an eager curiosity. she was unable to resist all the amusing and novel sensations which the adventure, proposed by rénine, promised her. it was really too tempting. the jet necklace, the toque with the autumn leaves, the old woman with the silver rosary: how could she resist their mysterious appeal and how could she refuse this opportunity of showing rénine what she was capable of doing? "and then, after all," she said to herself, laughing, "he's summoning me to paris. now eight o'clock is dangerous to me at a spot three hundred miles from paris, in that old deserted château de halingre, but nowhere else. the only clock that can strike the threatening hour is down there, under lock and key, a prisoner!" she reached paris that evening. on the morning of the th she went out and bought a jet necklace, which she reduced to seventy-five beads, put on a blue gown and a toque with red leaves and, at four o'clock precisely, entered the church of saint-Étienne-du-mont. her heart was throbbing violently. this time she was alone; and how acutely she now felt the strength of that support which, from unreflecting fear rather than any reasonable motive, she had thrust aside! she looked around her, almost hoping to see him. but there was no one there ... no one except an old lady in black, standing beside the holy water basin. hortense went up to her. the old lady, who held a silver rosary in her hands, offered her holy water and then began to count the beads of the necklace which hortense gave her. she whispered: "seventy-five. that's right. come." without another word, she toddled along under the light of the street-lamps, crossed the pont des tournelles to the ile saint-louis and went down an empty street leading to a cross-roads, where she stopped in front of an old house with wrought-iron balconies: "go in," she said. and the old lady went away. * * * * * hortense now saw a prosperous-looking shop which occupied almost the whole of the ground-floor and whose windows, blazing with electric light, displayed a huddled array of old furniture and antiquities. she stood there for a few seconds, gazing at it absently. a sign-board bore the words "the mercury," together with the name of the owner of the shop, "pancaldi." higher up, on a projecting cornice which ran on a level with the first floor, a small niche sheltered a terra-cotta mercury poised on one foot, with wings to his sandals and the caduceus in his hand, who, as hortense noted, was leaning a little too far forward in the ardour of his flight and ought logically to have lost his balance and taken a header into the street. "now!" she said, under her breath. she turned the handle of the door and walked in. despite the ringing of the bells actuated by the opening door, no one came to meet her. the shop seemed to be empty. however, at the extreme end there was a room at the back of the shop and after that another, both crammed with furniture and knick-knacks, many of which looked very valuable. hortense followed a narrow gangway which twisted and turned between two walls built up of cupboards, cabinets and console-tables, went up two steps and found herself in the last room of all. a man was sitting at a writing-desk and looking through some account-books. without turning his head, he said: "i am at your service, madam.... please look round you...." this room contained nothing but articles of a special character which gave it the appearance of some alchemist's laboratory in the middle ages: stuffed owls, skeletons, skulls, copper alembics, astrolabes and all around, hanging on the walls, amulets of every description, mainly hands of ivory or coral with two fingers pointing to ward off ill-luck. "are you wanting anything in particular, madam?" asked m. pancaldi, closing his desk and rising from his chair. "it's the man," thought hortense. he had in fact an uncommonly pasty complexion. a little forked beard, flecked with grey, lengthened his face, which was surmounted by a bald, pallid forehead, beneath which gleamed a pair of small, prominent, restless, shifty eyes. hortense, who had not removed her veil or cloak, replied: "i want a clasp." "they're in this show-case," he said, leading the way to the connecting room. hortense glanced over the glass case and said: "no, no, ... i don't see what i'm looking for. i don't want just any clasp, but a clasp which i lost out of a jewel-case some years ago and which i have to look for here." she was astounded to see the commotion displayed on his features. his eyes became haggard. "here?... i don't think you are in the least likely.... what sort of clasp is it?..." "a cornelian, mounted in gold filigree ... of the period." "i don't understand," he stammered. "why do you come to me?" she now removed her veil and laid aside her cloak. he stepped back, as though terrified by the sight of her, and whispered: "the blue gown!... the toque!... and--can i believe my eyes?--the jet necklace!..." it was perhaps the whip-lash formed of three rushes that excited him most violently. he pointed his finger at it, began to stagger where he stood and ended by beating the air with his arms, like a drowning man, and fainting away in a chair. hortense did not move. "whatever farce he may play," rénine had written, "have the courage to remain impassive." perhaps he was not playing a farce. nevertheless she forced herself to be calm and indifferent. this lasted for a minute or two, after which m. pancaldi recovered from his swoon, wiped away the perspiration streaming down his forehead and, striving to control himself, resumed, in a trembling voice: "why do you apply to me?" "because the clasp is in your possession." "who told you that?" he said, without denying the accusation. "how do you know?" "i know because it is so. nobody has told me anything. i came here positive that i should find my clasp and with the immovable determination to take it away with me." "but do you know me? do you know my name?" "i don't know you. i did not know your name before i read it over your shop. to me you are simply the man who is going to give me back what belongs to me." he was greatly agitated. he kept on walking to and fro in a small empty space surrounded by a circle of piled-up furniture, at which he hit out idiotically, at the risk of bringing it down. hortense felt that she had the whip hand of him; and, profiting by his confusion, she said, suddenly, in a commanding and threatening tone: "where is the thing? you must give it back to me. i insist upon it." pancaldi gave way to a moment of despair. he folded his hands and mumbled a few words of entreaty. then, defeated and suddenly resigned, he said, more distinctly: "you insist?..." "i do. you must give it to me." "yes, yes, i must ... i agree." "speak!" she ordered, more harshly still. "speak, no, but write: i will write my secret.... and that will be the end of me." he turned to his desk and feverishly wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper, which he put into an envelope and sealed it: "see," he said, "here's my secret.... it was my whole life...." and, so saying, he suddenly pressed against his temple a revolver which he had produced from under a pile of papers and fired. with a quick movement, hortense struck up his arm. the bullet struck the mirror of a cheval-glass. but pancaldi collapsed and began to groan, as though he were wounded. hortense made a great effort not to lose her composure: "rénine warned me," she reflected. "the man's a play-actor. he has kept the envelope. he has kept his revolver, i won't be taken in by him." nevertheless, she realized that, despite his apparent calmness, the attempt at suicide and the revolver-shot had completely unnerved her. all her energies were dispersed, like the sticks of a bundle whose string has been cut; and she had a painful impression that the man, who was grovelling at her feet, was in reality slowly getting the better of her. she sat down, exhausted. as rénine had foretold, the duel had not lasted longer than a few minutes but it was she who had succumbed, thanks to her feminine nerves and at the very moment when she felt entitled to believe that she had won. the man pancaldi was fully aware of this; and, without troubling to invent a transition, he ceased his jeremiads, leapt to his feet, cut a sort of agile caper before hortense' eyes and cried, in a jeering tone: "now we are going to have a little chat; but it would be a nuisance to be at the mercy of the first passing customer, wouldn't it?" he ran to the street-door, opened it and pulled down the iron shutter which closed the shop. then, still hopping and skipping, he came back to hortense: "oof! i really thought i was done for! one more effort, madam, and you would have pulled it off. but then i'm such a simple chap! it seemed to me that you had come from the back of beyond, as an emissary of providence, to call me to account; and, like a fool, i was about to give the thing back.... ah, mlle. hortense--let me call you so: i used to know you by that name--mlle. hortense, what you lack, to use a vulgar expression, is gut." he sat down beside her and, with a malicious look, said, savagely: "the time has come to speak out. who contrived this business? not you; eh? it's not in your style. then who?... i have always been honest in my life, scrupulously honest ... except once ... in the matter of that clasp. and, whereas i thought the story was buried and forgotten, here it is suddenly raked up again. why? that's what i want to know." hortense was no longer even attempting to fight. he was bringing to bear upon her all his virile strength, all his spite, all his fears, all the threats expressed in his furious gestures and on his features, which were both ridiculous and evil: "speak, i want to know. if i have a secret foe, let me defend myself against him! who is he? who sent you here? who urged you to take action? is it a rival incensed by my good luck, who wants in his turn to benefit by the clasp? speak, can't you, damn it all ... or, i swear by heaven, i'll make you!..." she had an idea that he was reaching out for his revolver and stepped back, holding her arms before her, in the hope of escaping. they thus struggled against each other; and hortense, who was becoming more and more frightened, not so much of the attack as of her assailant's distorted face, was beginning to scream, when pancaldi suddenly stood motionless, with his arms before him, his fingers outstretched and his eyes staring above hortense's head: "who's there? how did you get in?" he asked, in a stifled voice. hortense did not even need to turn round to feel assured that rénine was coming to her assistance and that it was his inexplicable appearance that was causing the dealer such dismay. as a matter of fact, a slender figure stole through a heap of easy chairs and sofas: and rénine came forward with a tranquil step. "who are you?" repeated pancaldi. "where do you come from?" "from up there," he said, very amiably, pointing to the ceiling. "from up there?" "yes, from the first floor. i have been the tenant of the floor above this for the past three months. i heard a noise just now. some one was calling out for help. so i came down." "but how did you get in here?" "by the staircase." "what staircase?" "the iron staircase, at the end of the shop. the man who owned it before you had a flat on my floor and used to go up and down by that hidden staircase. you had the door shut off. i opened it." "but by what right, sir? it amounts to breaking in." "breaking in is allowed, when there's a fellow-creature to be rescued." "once more, who are you?" "prince rénine ... and a friend of this lady's," said rénine, bending over hortense and kissing her hand. pancaldi seemed to be choking, and mumbled: "oh, i understand!... you instigated the plot ... it was you who sent the lady...." "it was, m. pancaldi, it was!" "and what are your intentions?" "my intentions are irreproachable. no violence. simply a little interview. when that is over, you will hand over what i in my turn have come to fetch." "what?" "the clasp." "that, never!" shouted the dealer. "don't say no. it's a foregone conclusion." "no power on earth, sir, can compel me to do such a thing!" "shall we send for your wife? madame pancaldi will perhaps realize the position better than you do." the idea of no longer being alone with this unexpected adversary seemed to appeal to pancaldi. there was a bell on the table beside him. he struck it three times. "capital!" exclaimed rénine "you see, my dear, m. pancaldi is becoming quite amiable. not a trace left of the devil broken loose who was going for you just now. no, m. pancaldi only has to find himself dealing with a man to recover his qualities of courtesy and kindness. a perfect sheep! which does not mean that things will go quite of themselves. far from it! there's no more obstinate animal than a sheep...." right at the end of the shop, between the dealer's writing-desk and the winding staircase, a curtain was raised, admitting a woman who was holding a door open. she might have been thirty years of age. very simply dressed, she looked, with the apron on her, more like a cook than like the mistress of a household. but she had an attractive face and a pleasing figure. hortense, who had followed rénine, was surprised to recognize her as a maid whom she had had in her service when a girl: "what! is that you, lucienne? are you madame pancaldi?" the newcomer looked at her, recognized her also and seemed embarrassed. rénine said to her: "your husband and i need your assistance, madame pancaldi, to settle a rather complicated matter a matter in which you played an important part...." she came forward without a word, obviously ill at ease, asking her husband, who did not take his eyes off her: "what is it?... what do they want with me?... what is he referring to?" "it's about the clasp!" pancaldi whispered, under his breath. these few words were enough to make madame pancaldi realize to the full the seriousness of her position. and she did not try to keep her countenance or to retort with futile protests. she sank into a chair, sighing: "oh, that's it!... i understand.... mlle. hortense has found the track.... oh, it's all up with us!" there was a moment's respite. the struggle between the adversaries had hardly begun, before the husband and wife adopted the attitude of defeated persons whose only hope lay in the victor's clemency. staring motionless before her, madame pancaldi began to cry. rénine bent over her and said: "do you mind if we go over the case from the beginning? we shall then see things more clearly; and i am sure that our interview will lead to a perfectly natural solution.... this is how things happened: nine years ago, when you were lady's maid to mlle. hortense in the country, you made the acquaintance of m. pancaldi, who soon became your lover. you were both of you corsicans, in other words, you came from a country where superstitions are very strong and where questions of good and bad luck, the evil eye, and spells and charms exert a profound influence over the lives of one and all. now it was said that your young mistress' clasp had always brought luck to its owners. that was why, in a weak moment prompted by m. pancaldi, you stole the clasp. six months afterwards, you became madame pancaldi.... that is your whole story, is it not, told in a few sentences? the whole story of two people who would have remained honest members of society, if they had been able to resist that casual temptation?... i need not tell you how you both succeeded in life and how, possessing the talisman, believing its powers and trusting in yourselves, you rose to the first rank of antiquarians. to-day, well-off, owning this shop, "the mercury," you attribute the success of your undertakings to that clasp. to lose it would to your eyes spell bankruptcy and poverty. your whole life has been centred upon it. it is your fetish. it is the little household god who watches over you and guides your steps. it is there, somewhere, hidden in this jungle; and no one of course would ever have suspected anything--for i repeat, you are decent people, but for this one lapse--if an accident had not led me to look into your affairs." rénine paused and continued: "that was two months ago, two months of minute investigations, which presented no difficulty to me, because, having discovered your trail, i hired the flat overhead and was able to use that staircase ... but, all the same, two months wasted to a certain extent because i have not yet succeeded. and heaven knows how i have ransacked this shop of yours! there is not a piece of furniture that i have left unsearched, not a plank in the floor that i have not inspected. all to no purpose. yes, there was one thing, an incidental discovery. in a secret recess in your writing-table, pancaldi, i turned up a little account-book in which you have set down your remorse, your uneasiness, your fear of punishment and your dread of god's wrath.... it was highly imprudent of you, pancaldi! people don't write such confessions! and, above all, they don't leave them lying about! be this as it may, i read them and i noted one passage, which struck me as particularly important and was of use to me in preparing my plan of campaign: 'should she come to me, the woman whom i robbed, should she come to me as i saw her in her garden, while lucienne was taking the clasp; should she appear to me wearing the blue gown and the toque of red leaves, with the jet necklace and the whip of three plaited rushes which she was carrying that day; should she appear to me thus and say: "i have come to claim my property," then i shall understand that her conduct is inspired from on high and that i must obey the decree of providence.' that is what is written in your book, pancaldi, and it explains the conduct of the lady whom you call mlle. hortense. acting on my instructions and in accordance with the setting thought out by yourself, she came to you, from the back of beyond, to use your own expression. a little more self-possession on her part; and you know that she would have won the day. unfortunately, you are a wonderful actor; your sham suicide put her out; and you understood that this was not a decree of providence, but simply an offensive on the part of your former victim. i had no choice, therefore, but to intervene. here i am.... and now let's finish the business. pancaldi, that clasp!" "no," said the dealer, who seemed to recover all his energy at the very thought of restoring the clasp. "and you, madame pancaldi." "i don't know where it is," the wife declared. "very well. then let us come to deeds. madame pancaldi, you have a son of seven whom you love with all your heart. this is thursday and, as on every thursday, your little boy is to come home alone from his aunt's. two of my friends are posted on the road by which he returns and, in the absence of instructions to the contrary, will kidnap him as he passes." madame pancaldi lost her head at once: "my son! oh, please, please ... not that!... i swear that i know nothing. my husband would never consent to confide in me." rénine continued: "next point. this evening, i shall lodge an information with the public prosecutor. evidence: the confessions in the account-book. consequences: action by the police, search of the premises and the rest." pancaldi was silent. the others had a feeling that all these threats did not affect him and that, protected by his fetish, he believed himself to be invulnerable. but his wife fell on her knees at rénine's feet and stammered: "no, no ... i entreat you!... it would mean going to prison and i don't want to go!... and then my son!... oh, i entreat you!..." hortense, seized with compassion, took rénine to one side: "poor woman! let me intercede for her." "set your mind at rest," he said. "nothing is going to happen to her son." "but your two friends?" "sheer bluff." "your application to the public prosecutor?" "a mere threat." "then what are you trying to do?" "to frighten them out of their wits, in the hope of making them drop a remark, a word, which will tell us what we want to know. we've tried every other means. this is the last; and it is a method which, i find, nearly always succeeds. remember our adventures." "but if the word which you expect to hear is not spoken?" "it must be spoken," said rénine, in a low voice. "we must finish the matter. the hour is at hand." his eyes met hers; and she blushed crimson at the thought that the hour to which he was alluding was the eighth and that he had no other object than to finish the matter before that eighth hour struck. "so you see, on the one hand, what you are risking," he said to the pancaldi pair. "the disappearance of your child ... and prison: prison for certain, since there is the book with its confessions. and now, on the other hand, here's my offer: twenty thousand francs if you hand over the clasp immediately, this minute. remember, it isn't worth three louis." no reply. madame pancaldi was crying. rénine resumed, pausing between each proposal: "i'll double my offer.... i'll treble it.... hang it all, pancaldi, you're unreasonable!... i suppose you want me to make it a round sum? all right: a hundred thousand francs." he held out his hand as if there was no doubt that they would give him the clasp. madame pancaldi was the first to yield and did so with a sudden outburst of rage against her husband: "well, confess, can't you?... speak up!... where have you hidden it?... look here, you aren't going to be obstinate, what? if you are, it means ruin ... and poverty.... and then there's our boy!... speak out, do!" hortense whispered: "rénine, this is madness; the clasp has no value...." "never fear," said rénine, "he's not going to accept.... but look at him.... how excited he is! exactly what i wanted.... ah, this, you know, is really exciting!... to make people lose their heads! to rob them of all control over what they are thinking and saying!... and, in the midst of this confusion, in the storm that tosses them to and fro, to catch sight of the tiny spark which will flash forth somewhere or other!... look at him! look at the fellow! a hundred thousand francs for a valueless pebble ... if not, prison: it's enough to turn any man's head!" pancaldi, in fact, was grey in the face; his lips were trembling and a drop of saliva was trickling from their corners. it was easy to guess the seething turmoil of his whole being, shaken by conflicting emotions, by the clash between greed and fear. suddenly he burst out; and it was obvious that his words were pouring forth at random, without his knowing in the least what he was saying: "a hundred thousand francs! two hundred thousand! five hundred thousand! a million! a two fig for your millions! what's the use of millions? one loses them. they disappear.... they go.... there's only one thing that counts: luck. it's on your side or else against you. and luck has been on my side these last nine years. it has never betrayed me; and you expect me to betray it? why? out of fear? prison? my son? bosh!... no harm will come to me so long as i compel luck to work on my behalf. it's my servant, it's my friend. it clings to the clasp. how? how can i tell? it's the cornelian, no doubt.... there are magic stones, which hold happiness, as others hold fire, or sulphur, or gold...." rénine kept his eyes fixed upon him, watching for the least word, the least modulation of the voice. the curiosity-dealer was now laughing, with a nervous laugh, while resuming the self-control of a man who feels sure of himself: and he walked up to rénine with jerky movements that revealed an increasing resolution: "millions? my dear sir, i wouldn't have them as a gift. the little bit of stone which i possess is worth much more than that. and the proof of it lies in all the pains which you are at to take it from me. aha! months devoted to looking for it, as you yourself confess! months in which you turned everything topsy-turvy, while i, who suspected nothing, did not even defend myself! why should i? the little thing defended itself all alone.... it does not want to be discovered and it sha'n't be.... it likes being here.... it presides over a good, honest business that satisfies it.... pancaldi's luck! why, it's known to all the neighbourhood, among all the dealers! i proclaim it from the house-tops: 'i'm a lucky man!' i even made so bold as to take the god of luck, mercury, as my patron! he too protects me. see, i've got mercuries all over my shop! look up there, on that shelf, a whole row of statuettes, like the one over the front-door, proofs signed by a great sculptor who went smash and sold them to me.... would you like one, my dear sir? it will bring you luck too. take your pick! a present from pancaldi, to make up to you for your defeat! does that suit you?" he put a stool against the wall, under the shelf, took down a statuette and plumped it into rénine's arms. and, laughing heartily, growing more and more excited as his enemy seemed to yield ground and to fall back before his spirited attack, he explained: "well done! he accepts! and the fact that he accepts shows that we are all agreed! madame pancaldi, don't distress yourself. your son's coming back and nobody's going to prison! good-bye, mlle. hortense! good-day, sir! hope to see you again! if you want to speak to me at any time, just give three thumps on the ceiling. good-bye ... don't forget your present ... and may mercury be kind to you! good-bye, my dear prince! good-bye, mlle. hortense!..." he hustled them to the iron staircase, gripped each of them by the arm in turn and pushed them up to the little door hidden at the top of the stairs. and the strange thing was that rénine made no protest. he did not attempt to resist. he allowed himself to be led along like a naughty child that is taken up to bed. less than five minutes had elapsed between the moment when he made his offer to pancaldi and the moment when pancaldi turned him out of the shop with a statuette in his arms. * * * * * the dining-room and drawing-room of the flat which rénine had taken on the first floor looked out upon the street. the table in the dining-room was laid for two. "forgive me, won't you?" said rénine, as he opened the door of the drawing-room for hortense. "i thought that, whatever happened, i should most likely see you this evening and that we might as well dine together. don't refuse me this kindness, which will be the last favour granted in our last adventure." hortense did not refuse him. the manner in which the battle had ended was so different from everything that she had seen hitherto that she felt disconcerted. at any rate, why should she refuse, seeing that the terms of the contract had not been fulfilled? rénine left the room to give an order to his manservant. two minutes later, he came back for hortense. it was then a little past seven. there were flowers on the table; and the statue of mercury, pancaldi's present, stood overtopping them. "may the god of luck preside over our repast," said rénine. he was full of animation and expressed his great delight at having her sitting opposite him: "yes," he exclaimed, "i had to resort to powerful means and attract you by the bait of the most fabulous enterprises. you must confess that my letter was jolly smart! the three rushes, the blue gown; simply irresistible! and, when i had thrown in a few puzzles of my own invention, such as the seventy-five beads of the necklace and the old woman with the silver rosary, i knew that you were bound to succumb to the temptation. don't be angry with me. i wanted to see you and i wanted it to be today. you have come and i thank you." he next told her how he had got on the track of the stolen trinket: "you hoped, didn't you, in laying down that condition, that i shouldn't be able to fulfil it? you made a mistake, my dear. the test, at least at the beginning, was easy enough, because it was based upon an undoubted fact: the talismanic character attributed to the clasp. i had only to hunt about and see whether among the people around you, among your servants, there was ever any one upon whom that character may have exercised some attraction. now, on the list of persons which i succeeded in drawing up. i at once noticed the name of mlle. lucienne, as coming from corsica. this was my starting-point. the rest was a mere concatenation of events." hortense stared at him in amazement. how was it that he was accepting his defeat with such a careless air and even talking in a tone of triumph, whereas really he had been soundly beaten by pancaldi and even made to look just a trifle ridiculous? she could not help letting him feel this; and the fashion in which she did so betrayed a certain disappointment, a certain humiliation: "everything is a concatenation of events: very well. but the chain is broken, because, when all is said, though you know the thief, you did not succeed in laying hands upon the stolen clasp." the reproach was obvious. rénine had not accustomed her to failure. and furthermore she was irritated to see how heedlessly he was accepting a blow which, after all, entailed the ruin of any hopes that he might have entertained. he did not reply. he had filled their two glasses with champagne and was slowly emptying his own, with his eyes fixed on the statuette of mercury. he turned it about on its pedestal and examined it with the eye of a delighted connoisseur: "what a beautiful thing is a harmonious line! colour does not uplift me so much as outline, proportion, symmetry and all the wonderful properties of form. look at this little statue. pancaldi's right: it's the work of a great artist. the legs are both slender and muscular; the whole figure gives an impression of buoyancy and speed. it is very well done. there's only one fault, a very slight one: perhaps you've not noticed it?" "yes, i have," said hortense. "it struck me the moment i saw the sign, outside. you mean, don't you, a certain lack of balance? the god is leaning over too far on the leg that carries him. he looks as though he were going to pitch forward." "that's very clever of you," said rénine. "the fault is almost imperceptible and it needs a trained eye to see it. really, however, as a matter of logic, the weight of the body ought to have its way and, in accordance with natural laws, the little god ought to take a header." after a pause he continued: "i noticed that flaw on the first day. how was it that i did not draw an inference at once? i was shocked because the artist had sinned against an aesthetic law, whereas i ought to have been shocked because he had overlooked a physical law. as though art and nature were not blended together! and as though the laws of gravity could be disturbed without some fundamental reason!" "what do you mean?" asked hortense, puzzled by these reflections, which seemed so far removed from their secret thoughts. "what do you mean?" "oh, nothing!" he said. "i am only surprised that i didn't understand sooner why mercury did not plump forward, as he should have done." "and what is the reason?" "the reason? i imagine that pancaldi, when pulling the statuette about to make it serve his purpose, must have disturbed its balance, but that this balance was restored by something which holds the little god back and which makes up for his really too dangerous posture." "something, you say?" "yes, a counterweight." hortense gave a start. she too was beginning to see a little light. she murmured: "a counterweight?... are you thinking that it might be ... in the pedestal?" "why not?" "is that possible? but, if so, how did pancaldi come to give you this statuette?" "he never gave me _this_ one," rénine declared. "i took this one myself." "but where? and when?" "just now, while you were in the drawing-room. i got out of that window, which is just over the signboard and beside the niche containing the little god. and i exchanged the two, that is to say, i took the statue which was outside and put the one which pancaldi gave me in its place." "but doesn't that one lean forward?" "no, no more than the others do, on the shelf in his shop. but pancaldi is not an artist. a lack of equilibrium does not impress him; he will see nothing wrong; and he will continue to think himself favoured by luck, which is another way of saying that luck will continue to favour him. meanwhile, here's the statuette, the one used for the sign. am i to break the pedestal and take your clasp out of the leaden sheath, soldered to the back of the pedestal, which keeps mercury steady?" "no, no, there's no need for that," hortense hurriedly murmured. rénine's intuition, his subtlety, the skill with which he had managed the whole business: to her, for the moment, all these things remained in the background. but she suddenly remembered that the eighth adventure was completed, that rénine had surmounted every obstacle, that the test had turned to his advantage and that the extreme limit of time fixed for the last of the adventures was not yet reached. he had the cruelty to call attention to the fact: "a quarter to eight," he said. an oppressive silence fell between them. both felt its discomfort to such a degree that they hesitated to make the least movement. in order to break it, rénine jested: "that worthy m. pancaldi, how good it was of him to tell me what i wished to know! i knew, however, that by exasperating him, i should end by picking up the missing clue in what he said. it was just as though one were to hand some one a flint and steel and suggest to him that he was to use it. in the end, the spark is obtained. in my case, what produced the spark was the unconscious but inevitable comparison which he drew between the cornelian clasp, the element of luck, and mercury, the god of luck. that was enough. i understood that this association of ideas arose from his having actually associated the two factors of luck by embodying one in the other, or, to speak more plainly, by hiding the trinket in the statuette. and i at once remembered the mercury outside the door and its defective poise...." rénine suddenly interrupted himself. it seemed to him that all his remarks were falling on deaf ears. hortense had put her hand to her forehead and, thus veiling her eyes, sat motionless and remote. she was indeed not listening. the end of this particular adventure and the manner in which rénine had acted on this occasion no longer interested her. what she was thinking of was the complex series of adventures amid which she had been living for the past three months and the wonderful behaviour of the man who had offered her his devotion. she saw, as in a magic picture, the fabulous deeds performed by him, all the good that he had done, the lives saved, the sorrows assuaged, the order restored wherever his masterly will had been brought to bear. nothing was impossible to him. what he undertook to do he did. every aim that he set before him was attained in advance. and all this without excessive effort, with the calmness of one who knows his own strength and knows that nothing can resist it. then what could she do against him? why should she defend herself and how? if he demanded that she should yield, would he not know how to make her do so and would this last adventure be any more difficult for him than the others? supposing that she ran away: did the wide world contain a retreat in which she would be safe from his pursuit? from the first moment of their first meeting, the end was certain, since rénine had decreed that it should be so. however, she still cast about for weapons, for protection of some sort; and she said to herself that, though he had fulfilled the eight conditions and restored the cornelian clasp to her before the eighth hour had struck, she was nevertheless protected by the fact that this eighth hour was to strike on the clock of the château de halingre and not elsewhere. it was a formal compact. rénine had said that day, gazing on the lips which he longed to kiss: "the old brass pendulum will start swinging again; and, when, on the fixed date, the clock once more strikes eight, then...." she looked up. he was not moving either, but sat solemnly, patiently waiting. she was on the point of saying, she was even preparing her words: "you know, our agreement says it must be the halingre clock. all the other conditions have been fulfilled ... but not this one. so i am free, am i not? i am entitled not to keep my promise, which, moreover, i never made, but which in any case falls to the ground?... and i am perfectly free ... released from any scruple of conscience?..." she had not time to speak. at that precise moment, there was a click behind her, like that of a clock about to strike. a first stroke sounded, then a second, then a third. hortense moaned. she had recognized the very sound of the old clock, the halingre clock, which three months ago, by breaking in a supernatural manner the silence of the deserted château, had set both of them on the road of the eight adventures. she counted the strokes. the clock struck eight. "ah!" she murmured, half swooning and hiding her face in her hands. "the clock ... the clock is here ... the one from over there ... i recognize its voice...." she said no more. she felt that rénine had his eyes fixed upon her and this sapped all her energies. besides, had she been able to recover them, she would have been no better off nor sought to offer him the least resistance, for the reason that she did not wish to resist. all the adventures were over, but one remained to be undertaken, the anticipation of which wiped out the memory of all the rest. it was the adventure of love, the most delightful, the most bewildering, the most adorable of all adventures. she accepted fate's decree, rejoicing in all that might come, because she was in love. she smiled in spite of herself, as she reflected that happiness was again to enter her life at the very moment when her well-beloved was bringing her the cornelian clasp. the clock struck the hour for the second time. hortense raised her eyes to rénine. she struggled a few seconds longer. but she was like a charmed bird, incapable of any movement of revolt; and at the eighth stroke she fell upon his breast and offered him her lips.... the end http://www.freeliterature.org (images generously made available by the internet archive.) the extraordinary adventures of arsène lupin arsÈne lupin versus herlock sholmes by maurice leblanc translated from the french by george morehead m.a. donohue & co. chicago contents chapter i. lottery ticket no. chapter ii. the blue diamond chapter iii. herlock sholmes opens hostilities chapter iv. light in the darkness chapter v. an abduction chapter vi. second arrest of arsène lupin chapter vii. the jewish lamp chapter viii. the shipwreck chapter i. lottery ticket no. . on the eighth day of last december, mon. gerbois, professor of mathematics at the college of versailles, while rummaging in an old curiosity-shop, unearthed a small mahogany writing-desk which pleased him very much on account of the multiplicity of its drawers. "just the thing for suzanne's birthday present," thought he. and as he always tried to furnish some simple pleasures for his daughter, consistent with his modest income, he enquired the price, and, after some keen bargaining, purchased it for sixty-five francs. as he was giving his address to the shopkeeper, a young man, dressed with elegance and taste, who had been exploring the stock of antiques, caught sight of the writing-desk, and immediately enquired its price. "it is sold," replied the shopkeeper. "ah! to this gentleman, i presume?" monsieur gerbois bowed, and left the store, quite proud to be the possessor of an article which had attracted the attention of a gentleman of quality. but he had not taken a dozen steps in the street, when he was overtaken by the young man who, hat in hand and in a tone of perfect courtesy, thus addressed him: "i beg your pardon, monsieur; i am going to ask you a question that you may deem impertinent. it is this: did you have any special object in view when you bought that writing-desk?" "no, i came across it by chance and it struck my fancy." "but you do not care for it particularly?" "oh! i shall keep it--that is all." "because it is an antique, perhaps?" "no; because it is convenient," declared mon. gerbois. "in that case, you would consent to exchange it for another desk that would be quite as convenient and in better condition?" "oh! this one is in good condition, and i see no object in making an exchange." "but----" mon. gerbois is a man of irritable disposition and hasty temper. so he replied, testily: "i beg of you, monsieur, do not insist." but the young man firmly held his ground. "i don't know how much you paid for it, monsieur, but i offer you double." "no." "three times the amount." "oh! that will do," exclaimed the professor, impatiently; "i don't wish to sell it." the young man stared at him for a moment in a manner that mon. gerbois would not readily forget, then turned and walked rapidly away. an hour later, the desk was delivered at the professor's house on the viroflay road. he called his daughter, and said: "here is something for you, suzanne, provided you like it." suzanne was a pretty girl, with a gay and affectionate nature. she threw her arms around her father's neck and kissed him rapturously. to her, the desk had all the semblance of a royal gift. that evening, assisted by hortense, the servant, she placed the desk in her room; then she dusted it, cleaned the drawers and pigeon-holes, and carefully arranged within it her papers, writing material, correspondence, a collection of post-cards, and some souvenirs of her cousin philippe that she kept in secret. next morning, at half past seven, mon. gerbois went to the college. at ten o'clock, in pursuance of her usual custom, suzanne went to meet him, and it was a great pleasure for him to see her slender figure and childish smile waiting for him at the college gate. they returned home together. "and your writing desk--how is it this morning?" "marvellous! hortense and i have polished the brass mountings until they look like gold." "so you are pleased with it?" "pleased with it! why, i don't see how i managed to get on without it for such a long time." as they were walking up the pathway to the house, mon. gerbois said: "shall we go and take a look at it before breakfast?" "oh! yes, that's a splendid idea!" she ascended the stairs ahead of her father, but, on arriving at the door of her room, she uttered a cry of surprise and dismay. "what's the matter?" stammered mon. gerbois. "the writing-desk is gone!" * * * * * when the police were called in, they were astonished at the admirable simplicity of the means employed by the thief. during suzanne's absence, the servant had gone to market, and while the house was thus left unguarded, a drayman, wearing a badge--some of the neighbors saw it--stopped his cart in front of the house and rang twice. not knowing that hortense was absent, the neighbors were not suspicious; consequently, the man carried on his work in peace and tranquility. apart from the desk, not a thing in the house had been disturbed. even suzanne's purse, which she had left upon the writing-desk, was found upon an adjacent table with its contents untouched. it was obvious that the thief had come with a set purpose, which rendered the crime even more mysterious; because, why did he assume so great a risk for such a trifling object? the only clue the professor could furnish was the strange incident of the preceding evening. he declared: "the young man was greatly provoked at my refusal, and i had an idea that he threatened me as he went away." but the clue was a vague one. the shopkeeper could not throw any light on the affair. he did not know either of the gentlemen. as to the desk itself, he had purchased it for forty francs at an executor's sale at chevreuse, and believed he had resold it at its fair value. the police investigation disclosed nothing more. but mon. gerbois entertained the idea that he had suffered an enormous loss. there must have been a fortune concealed in a secret drawer, and that was the reason the young man had resorted to crime. "my poor father, what would we have done with that fortune?" asked suzanne. "my child! with such a fortune, you could make a most advantageous marriage." suzanne sighed bitterly. her aspirations soared no higher than her cousin philippe, who was indeed a most deplorable object. and life, in the little house at versailles, was not so happy and contented as of yore. two months passed away. then came a succession of startling events, a strange blending of good luck and dire misfortune! on the first day of february, at half-past five, mon. gerbois entered the house, carrying an evening paper, took a seat, put on his spectacles, and commenced to read. as politics did not interest him, he turned to the inside of the paper. immediately his attention was attracted by an article entitled: "third drawing of the press association lottery. "no. , series , draws a million." the newspaper slipped from his fingers. the walls swam before his eyes, and his heart ceased to beat. he held no. , series . he had purchased it from a friend, to oblige him, without any thought of success, and behold, it was the lucky number! quickly, he took out his memorandum-book. yes, he was quite right. the no. , series , was written there, on the inside of the cover. but the ticket? he rushed to his desk to find the envelope-box in which he had placed the precious ticket; but the box was not there, and it suddenly occurred to him that it had not been there for several weeks. he heard footsteps on the gravel walk leading from the street. he called: "suzanne! suzanne!" she was returning from a walk. she entered hastily. he stammered, in a choking voice: "suzanne ... the box ... the box of envelopes?" "what box?" "the one i bought at the louvre ... one saturday ... it was at the end of that table." "don't you remember, father, we put all those things away together." "when?" "the evening ... you know ... the same evening...." "but where?... tell me, quick!... where?" "where? why, in the writing-desk." "in the writing-desk that was stolen?" "yes." "oh, mon dieu!... in the stolen desk!" he uttered the last sentence in a low voice, in a sort of stupor. then he seized her hand, and in a still lower voice, he said: "it contained a million, my child." "ah! father, why didn't you tell me?" she murmured, naively. "a million!" he repeated. "it contained the ticket that drew the grand prize in the press lottery." the colossal proportions of the disaster overwhelmed them, and for a long time they maintained a silence that they feared to break. at last, suzanne said: "but, father, they will pay you just the same." "how? on what proof?" "must you have proof?" "of course." "and you haven't any?" "it was in the box." "in the box that has disappeared." "yes; and now the thief will get the money." "oh! that would be terrible, father. you must prevent it." for a moment he was silent; then, in an outburst of energy, he leaped up, stamped on the floor, and exclaimed: "no, no, he shall not have that million; he shall not have it! why should he have it? ah! clever as he is, he can do nothing. if he goes to claim the money, they will arrest him. ah! now, we will see, my fine fellow!" "what will you do, father?" "defend our just rights, whatever happens! and we will succeed. the million francs belong to me, and i intend to have them." a few minutes later, he sent this telegram: "governor crédit foncier "rue capucines, paris. "am holder of no. , series . oppose by all legal means any other claimant. "gerbois." almost at the same moment, the crédit foncier received the following telegram: "no. , series , is in my possession. "arsÈne lupin." * * * * * every time i undertake to relate one of the many extraordinary adventures that mark the life of arsène lupin, i experience a feeling of embarrassment, as it seems to me that the most commonplace of those adventures is already well known to my readers. in fact, there is not a movement of our "national thief," as he has been so aptly described, that has not been given the widest publicity, not an exploit that has not been studied in all its phases, not an action that has not been discussed with that particularity usually reserved for the recital of heroic deeds. for instance, who does not know the strange history of "the blonde lady," with those curious episodes which were proclaimed by the newspapers with heavy black headlines, as follows: "lottery ticket no. !" ... "the crime on the avenue henri-martin!" ... "the blue diamond!" ... the interest created by the intervention of the celebrated english detective, herlock sholmes! the excitement aroused by the various vicissitudes which marked the struggle between those famous artists! and what a commotion on the boulevards, the day on which the newsboys announced: "arrest of arsène lupin!" my excuse for repeating these stories at this time is the fact that i produce the key to the enigma. those adventures have always been enveloped in a certain degree of obscurity, which i now remove. i reproduce old newspaper articles, i relate old-time interviews, i present ancient letters; but i have arranged and classified all that material and reduced it to the exact truth. my collaborators in this work have been arsène lupin himself, and also the ineffable wilson, the friend and confidant of herlock sholmes. every one will recall the tremendous burst of laughter which greeted the publication of those two telegrams. the name "arsène lupin" was in itself a stimulus to curiosity, a promise of amusement for the gallery. and, in this case, the gallery means the entire world. an investigation was immediately commenced by the crédit foncier, which established these facts: that ticket no. , series , had been sold by the versailles branch office of the lottery to an artillery officer named bessy, who was afterward killed by a fall from his horse. some time before his death, he informed some of his comrades that he had transferred his ticket to a friend. "and i am that friend," affirmed mon. gerbois. "prove it," replied the governor of the crédit foncier. "of course i can prove it. twenty people can tell you that i was an intimate friend of monsieur bessy, and that we frequently met at the café de la place-d'armes. it was there, one day, i purchased the ticket from him for twenty francs--simply as an accommodation to him. "have you any witnesses to that transaction?" "no." "well, how do you expect to prove it?" "by a letter he wrote to me." "what letter?" "a letter that was pinned to the ticket." "produce it." "it was stolen at the same time as the ticket." "well, you must find it." it was soon learned that arsène lupin had the letter. a short paragraph appeared in the _echo de france_--which has the honor to be his official organ, and of which, it is said, he is one of the principal shareholders--the paragraph announced that arsène lupin had placed in the hands of monsieur detinan, his advocate and legal adviser, the letter that monsieur bessy had written to him--to him personally. this announcement provoked an outburst of laughter. arsène lupin had engaged a lawyer! arsène lupin, conforming to the rules and customs of modern society, had appointed a legal representative in the person of a well-known member of the parisian bar! mon. detinan had never enjoyed the pleasure of meeting arsène lupin--a fact he deeply regretted--but he had actually been retained by that mysterious gentleman and felt greatly honored by the choice. he was prepared to defend the interests of his client to the best of his ability. he was pleased, even proud, to exhibit the letter of mon. bessy, but, although it proved the transfer of the ticket, it did not mention the name of the purchaser. it was simply addressed to "my dear friend." "my dear friend! that is i," added arsène lupin, in a note attached to mon. bessy's letter. "and the best proof of that fact is that i hold the letter." the swarm of reporters immediately rushed to see mon. gerbois, who could only repeat: "my dear friend! that is i.... arsène lupin stole the letter with the lottery ticket." "let him prove it!" retorted lupin to the reporters. "he must have done it, because he stole the writing-desk!" exclaimed mon. gerbois before the same reporters. "let him prove it!" replied lupin. such was the entertaining comedy enacted by the two claimants of ticket no. ; and the calm demeanor of arsène lupin contrasted strangely with the nervous perturbation of poor mon. gerbois. the newspapers were filled with the lamentations of that unhappy man. he announced his misfortune with pathetic candor. "understand, gentlemen, it was suzanne's dowry that the rascal stole! personally, i don't care a straw for it,... but for suzanne! just think of it, a whole million! ten times one hundred thousand francs! ah! i knew very well that the desk contained a treasure!" it was in vain to tell him that his adversary, when stealing the desk, was unaware that the lottery ticket was in it, and that, in any event, he could not foresee that the ticket would draw the grand prize. he would reply; "nonsense! of course, he knew it ... else why would he take the trouble to steal a poor, miserable desk?" "for some unknown reason; but certainly not for a small scrap of paper which was then worth only twenty francs." "a million francs! he knew it;... he knows everything! ah! you do not know him--the scoundrel!... he hasn't robbed you of a million francs!" the controversy would have lasted for a much longer time, but, on the twelfth day, mon. gerbois received from arsène lupin a letter, marked "confidential," which read as follows: "monsieur, the gallery is being amused at our expense. do you not think it is time for us to be serious? the situation is this: i possess a ticket to which i have no legal right, and you have the legal right to a ticket you do not possess. neither of us can do anything. you will not relinquish your rights to me; i will not deliver the ticket to you. now, what is to be done? "i see only one way out of the difficulty: let us divide the spoils. a half-million for you; a half-million for me. is not that a fair division? in my opinion, it is an equitable solution, and an immediate one. i will give you three days' time to consider the proposition. on thursday morning i shall expect to read in the personal column of the echo de france a discreet message addressed to _m. ars. lup_, expressing in veiled terms your consent to my offer. by so doing you will recover immediate possession of the ticket; then you can collect the money and send me half a million in a manner that i will describe to you later. "in case of your refusal, i shall resort to other measures to accomplish the same result. but, apart from the very serious annoyances that such obstinacy on your part will cause you, it will cost you twenty-five thousand francs for supplementary expenses. "believe me, monsieur, i remain your devoted servant, arsÈne lupin." in a fit of exasperation mon. gerbois committed the grave mistake of showing that letter and allowing a copy of it to be taken. his indignation overcame his discretion. "nothing! he shall have nothing!" he exclaimed, before a crowd of reporters. "to divide my property with him? never! let him tear up the ticket if he wishes!" "yet five hundred thousand francs is better than nothing." "that is not the question. it is a question of my just right, and that right i will establish before the courts." "what! attack arsène lupin? that would be amusing." "no; but the crédit foncier. they must pay me the million francs." "without producing the ticket, or, at least, without proving that you bought it?" "that proof exists, since arsène lupin admits that he stole the writing-desk." "but would the word of arsène lupin carry any weight with the court?" "no matter; i will fight it out." the gallery shouted with glee; and wagers were freely made upon the result with the odds in favor of lupin. on the following thursday the personal column in the _echo de france_ was eagerly perused by the expectant public, but it contained nothing addressed to _m. ars. lup_. mon. gerbois had not replied to arsène lupin's letter. that was the declaration of war. that evening the newspapers announced the abduction of mlle. suzanne gerbois. * * * * * the most entertaining feature in what might be called the arsène lupin dramas is the comic attitude displayed by the parisian police. arsène lupin talks, plans, writes, commands, threatens and executes as if the police did not exist. they never figure in his calculations. and yet the police do their utmost. but what can they do against such a foe--a foe that scorns and ignores them? suzanne had left the house at twenty minutes to ten; such was the testimony of the servant. on leaving the college, at five minutes past ten, her father did not find her at the place she was accustomed to wait for him. consequently, whatever had happened must have occurred during the course of suzanne's walk from the house to the college. two neighbors had met her about three hundred yards from the house. a lady had seen, on the avenue, a young girl corresponding to suzanne's description. no one else had seen her. inquiries were made in all directions; the employees of the railways and street-car lines were questioned, but none of them had seen anything of the missing girl. however, at ville-d'avray, they found a shopkeeper who had furnished gasoline to an automobile that had come from paris on the day of the abduction. it was occupied by a blonde woman--extremely blonde, said the witness. an hour later, the automobile again passed through ville-d'avray on its way from versailles to paris. the shopkeeper declared that the automobile now contained a second woman who was heavily veiled. no doubt, it was suzanne gerbois. the abduction must have taken place in broad daylight, on a frequented street, in the very heart of the town. how? and at what spot? not a cry was heard; not a suspicious action had been seen. the shopkeeper described the automobile as a royal-blue limousine of twenty-four horse-power made by the firm of peugeon & co. inquiries were then made at the grand-garage, managed by madame bob-walthour, who made a specialty of abductions by automobile. it was learned that she had rented a peugeon limousine on that day to a blonde woman whom she had never seen before nor since. "who was the chauffeur?" "a young man named ernest, whom i had engaged only the day before. he came well recommended." "is he here now?" "no. he brought back the machine, but i haven't seen him since," said madame bob-walthour. "do you know where we can find him?" "you might see the people who recommended him to me. here are the names." upon inquiry, it was learned that none of these people knew the man called ernest. the recommendations were forged. such was the fate of every clue followed by the police. it ended nowhere. the mystery remained unsolved. mon. gerbois had not the strength or courage to wage such an unequal battle. the disappearance of his daughter crushed him; he capitulated to the enemy. a short announcement in the _echo de france_ proclaimed his unconditional surrender. two days later, mon. gerbois visited the office of the crédit foncier and handed lottery ticket number , series , to the governor, who exclaimed, with surprise: "ah! you have it! he has returned it to you!" "it was mislaid. that was all," replied mon. gerbois. "but you pretended that it had been stolen." "at first, i thought it had ... but here it is." "we will require some evidence to establish your right to the ticket." "will the letter of the purchaser, monsieur bessy, be sufficient!" "yes, that will do." "here it is," said mon. gerbois, producing the letter. "very well. leave these papers with us. the rules of the lottery allow us fifteen days' time to investigate your claim. i will let you know when to call for your money. i presume you desire, as much as i do, that this affair should be closed without further publicity." "quite so." mon. gerbois and the governor henceforth maintained a discreet silence. but the secret was revealed in some way, for it was soon commonly known that arsène lupin had returned the lottery ticket to mon. gerbois. the public received the news with astonishment and admiration. certainly, he was a bold gamester who thus threw upon the table a trump card of such importance as the precious ticket. but, it was true, he still retained a trump card of equal importance. however, if the young girl should escape? if the hostage held by arsène lupin should be rescued? the police thought they had discovered the weak spot of the enemy, and now redoubled their efforts. arsène lupin disarmed by his own act, crushed by the wheels of his own machination, deprived of every sou of the coveted million ... public interest now centered in the camp of his adversary. but it was necessary to find suzanne. and they did not find her, nor did she escape. consequently, it must be admitted, arsène lupin had won the first hand. but the game was not yet decided. the most difficult point remained. mlle. gerbois is in his possession, and he will hold her until he receives five hundred thousand francs. but how and where will such an exchange be made? for that purpose, a meeting must be arranged, and then what will prevent mon. gerbois from warning the police and, in that way, effecting the rescue of his daughter and, at the same time, keeping his money? the professor was interviewed, but he was extremely reticent. his answer was: "i have nothing to say." "and mlle. gerbois?" "the search is being continued." "but arsène lupin has written to you?" "no." "do you swear to that?" "no." "then it is true. what are his instructions?" "i have nothing to say." then the interviewers attacked mon. detinan, and found him equally discreet. "monsieur lupin is my client, and i cannot discuss his affairs," he replied, with an affected air of gravity. these mysteries served to irritate the gallery. obviously, some secret negotiations were in progress. arsène lupin had arranged and tightened the meshes of his net, while the police maintained a close watch, day and night, over mon. gerbois. and the three and only possible dénouements--the arrest, the triumph, or the ridiculous and pitiful abortion--were freely discussed; but the curiosity of the public was only partially satisfied, and it was reserved for these pages to reveal the exact truth of the affair. * * * * * on monday, march th, mon. gerbois received a notice from the crédit foncier. on wednesday, he took the one o'clock train for paris. at two o'clock, a thousand bank-notes of one thousand francs each were delivered to him. whilst he was counting them, one by one, in a state of nervous agitation--that money, which represented suzanne's ransom--a carriage containing two men stopped at the curb a short distance from the bank. one of the men had grey hair and an unusually shrewd expression which formed a striking contrast to his shabby make-up. it was detective ganimard, the relentless enemy of arsène lupin. ganimard said to his companion, folenfant: "in five minutes, we will see our clever friend lupin. is everything ready?" "yes." "how many men have we?" "eight--two of them on bicycles." "enough, but not too many. on no account, must gerbois escape us; if he does, it is all up. he will meet lupin at the appointed place, give half a million in exchange for the girl, and the game will be over." "but why doesn't gerbois work with us? that would be the better way, and he could keep all the money himself." "yes, but he is afraid that if he deceives the other, he will not get his daughter." "what other?" "lupin." ganimard pronounced the word in a solemn tone, somewhat timidly, as if he were speaking of some supernatural creature whose claws he already felt. "it is very strange," remarked folenfant, judiciously, "that we are obliged to protect this gentleman contrary to his own wishes." "yes, but lupin always turns the world upside down," said ganimard, mournfully. a moment later, mon. gerbois appeared, and started up the street. at the end of the rue des capucines, he turned into the boulevards, walking slowly, and stopping frequently to gaze at the shop-windows. "much too calm, too self-possessed," said ganimard. "a man with a million in his pocket would not have that air of tranquillity." "what is he doing?" "oh! nothing, evidently.... but i have a suspicion that it is lupin--yes, lupin!" at that moment, mon. gerbois stopped at a news-stand, purchased a paper, unfolded it and commenced to read it as he walked slowly away. a moment later, he gave a sudden bound into an automobile that was standing at the curb. apparently, the machine had been waiting for him, as it started away rapidly, turned at the madeleine and disappeared. "nom de nom!" cried ganimard, "that's one of his old tricks!" ganimard hastened after the automobile around the madeleine. then, he burst into laughter. at the entrance to the boulevard malesherbes, the automobile had stopped and mon. gerbois had alighted. "quick, folenfant, the chauffeur! it may be the man ernest." folenfant interviewed the chauffeur. his name was gaston; he was an employee of the automobile cab company; ten minutes ago, a gentleman had engaged him and told him to wait near the news-stand for another gentleman. "and the second man--what address did he give?" asked folenfant. "no address. 'boulevard malesherbes ... avenue de messine ... double pourboire.' that is all." but, during this time, mon. gerbois had leaped into the first passing carriage. "to the concorde station, metropolitan," he said to the driver. he left the underground at the place du palais-royal, ran to another carriage and ordered it to go to the place de la bourse. then a second journey by the underground to the avenue de villiers, followed by a third carriage drive to number rue clapeyron. number rue clapeyron is separated from the boulevard des batignolles by the house which occupies the angle formed by the two streets. he ascended to the first floor and rang. a gentleman opened the door. "does monsieur detinan live here?" "yes, that is my name. are you monsieur gerbois?" "yes." "i was expecting you. step in." as mon. gerbois entered the lawyer's office, the clock struck three. he said: "i am prompt to the minute. is he here?" "not yet." mon. gerbois took a seat, wiped his forehead, looked at his watch as if he did not know the time, and inquired, anxiously: "will he come?" "well, monsieur," replied the lawyer, "that i do not know, but i am quite as anxious and impatient as you are to find out. if he comes, he will run a great risk, as this house has been closely watched for the last two weeks. they distrust me." "they suspect me, too. i am not sure whether the detectives lost sight of me or not on my way here." "but you were--" "it wouldn't be my fault," cried the professor, quickly. "you cannot reproach me. i promised to obey his orders, and i followed them to the very letter. i drew the money at the time fixed by him, and i came here in the manner directed by him. i have faithfully performed my part of the agreement--let him do his!" after a short silence, he asked, anxiously: "he will bring my daughter, won't he?" "i expect so." "but ... you have seen him?" "i? no, not yet. he made the appointment by letter, saying both of you would be here, and asking me to dismiss my servants before three o'clock and admit no one while you were here. if i would not consent to that arrangement, i was to notify him by a few words in _the echo de france_. but i am only too happy to oblige mon. lupin, and so i consented." "ah! how will this end?" moaned mon. gerbois. he took the bank-notes from his pocket, placed them on the table and divided them into two equal parts. then the two men sat there in silence. from time to time, mon. gerbois would listen. did someone ring?... his nervousness increased every minute, and monsieur detinan also displayed considerable anxiety. at last, the lawyer lost his patience. he rose abruptly, and said: "he will not come.... we shouldn't expect it. it would be folly on his part. he would run too great a risk." and mon. gerbois, despondent, his hands resting on the bank-notes, stammered: "oh! mon dieu! i hope he will come. i would give the whole of that money to see my daughter again." the door opened. "half of it will be sufficient, monsieur gerbois." these words were spoken by a well-dressed young man who now entered the room and was immediately recognized by mon. gerbois as the person who had wished to buy the desk from him at versailles. he rushed toward him. "where is my daughter--my suzanne?" arsène lupin carefully closed the door, and, while slowly removing his gloves, said to the lawyer: "my dear maître, i am indebted to you very much for your kindness in consenting to defend my interests. i shall not forget it." mon. detinan murmured: "but you did not ring. i did not hear the door--" "doors and bells are things that should work without being heard. i am here, and that is the important point." "my daughter! suzanne! where is she!" repeated the professor. "mon dieu, monsieur," said lupin, "what's your hurry? your daughter will be here in a moment." lupin walked to and fro for a minute, then, with the pompous air of an orator, he said: "monsieur gerbois, i congratulate you on the clever way in which you made the journey to this place." then, perceiving the two piles of bank-notes, he exclaimed: "ah! i see! the million is here. we will not lose any time. permit me." "one moment," said the lawyer, placing himself before the table. "mlle. gerbois has not yet arrived." "well?" "is not her presence indispensable?" "i understand! i understand! arsène lupin inspires only a limited confidence. he might pocket the half-million and not restore the hostage. ah! monsieur, people do not understand me. because i have been obliged, by force of circumstances, to commit certain actions a little ... out of the ordinary, my good faith is impugned ... i, who have always observed the utmost scrupulosity and delicacy in business affairs. besides, my dear monsieur if you have any fear, open the window and call. there are at least a dozen detectives in the street." "do you think so?" arsène lupin raised the curtain. "i think that monsieur gerbois could not throw ganimard off the scent.... what did i tell you? there he is now." "is it possible!" exclaimed the professor. "but i swear to you--" "that you have not betrayed me?... i do not doubt you, but those fellows are clever--sometimes. ah! i can see folenfant, and greaume, and dieuzy--all good friends of mine!" mon. detinan looked at lupin in amazement. what assurance! he laughed as merrily as if engaged in some childish sport, as if no danger threatened him. this unconcern reassured the lawyer more than the presence of the detectives. he left the table on which the bank-notes were lying. arsène lupin picked up one pile of bills after the other, took from each of them twenty-five bank-notes which he offered to mon. detinan, saying: "the reward of your services to monsieur gerbois and arsène lupin. you well deserve it." "you owe me nothing," replied the lawyer. "what! after all the trouble we have caused you!" "and all the pleasure you have given me!" "that means, my dear monsieur, that you do not wish to accept anything from arsène lupin. see what it is to have a bad reputation." he then offered the fifty thousand francs to mon. gerbois, saying: "monsieur, in memory of our pleasant interview, permit me to return you this as a wedding-gift to mlle. gerbois." mon. gerbois took the money, but said: "my daughter will not marry." "she will not marry if you refuse your consent; but she wishes to marry." "what do you know about it?" "i know that young girls often dream of such things unknown to their parents. fortunately, there are sometimes good genii like arsène lupin who discover their little secrets in the drawers of their writing desks." "did you find anything else?" asked the lawyer. "i confess i am curious to know why you took so much trouble to get possession of that desk." "on account of its historic interest, my friend. although despite the opinion of monsieur gerbois, the desk contained no treasure except the lottery ticket--and that was unknown to me--i had been seeking it for a long time. that writing-desk of yew and mahogany was discovered in the little house in which marie walêwska once lived in boulogne, and, on one of the drawers there is this inscription: '_dedicated to napoleon i, emperor of the french, by his very faithful servant, mancion_.' and above it, these words, engraved with the point of a knife: 'to you, marie.' afterwards, napoleon had a similar desk made for the empress josephine; so that the secretary that was so much admired at the malmaison was only an imperfect copy of the one that will henceforth form part of my collection." "ah! if i had known, when in the shop, i would gladly have given it up to you," said the professor. arsène lupin smiled, as he replied: "and you would have had the advantage of keeping for your own use lottery ticket number ." "and you would not have found it necessary to abduct my daughter." "abduct your daughter?" "yes." "my dear monsieur, you are mistaken. mlle. gerbois was not abducted." "no?" "certainly not. abduction means force or violence. and i assure you that she served as hostage of her own free will." "of her own free will!" repeated mon. gerbois, in amazement. "in fact, she almost asked to be taken. why, do you suppose that an intelligent young girl like mlle. gerbois, and who, moreover, nourishes an unacknowledged passion, would hesitate to do what was necessary to secure her dowry. ah! i swear to you it was not difficult to make her understand that it was the only way to overcome your obstinacy." mon. detinan was greatly amused. he replied to lupin: "but i should think it was more difficult to get her to listen to you. how did you approach her?" "oh! i didn't approach her myself. i have not the honor of her acquaintance. a friend of mine, a lady, carried on the negotiations." "the blonde woman in the automobile, no doubt." "precisely. all arrangements were made at the first interview near the college. since then, mlle. gerbois and her new friend have been travelling in belgium and holland in a manner that should prove most pleasing and instructive to a young girl. she will tell you all about it herself--" the bell of the vestibule door rang, three rings in quick succession, followed by two isolated rings. "it is she," said lupin. "monsieur detinan, if you will be so kind--" the lawyer hastened to the door. two young women entered. one of them threw herself into the arms of mon. gerbois. the other approached lupin. the latter was a tall woman of a good figure, very pale complexion, and with blond hair, parted over her forehead in undulating waves, that glistened and shone like the setting sun. she was dressed in black, with no display of jewelled ornaments; but, on the contrary, her appearance indicated good taste and refined elegance. arsène lupin spoke a few words to her; then, bowing to mlle. gerbois, he said: "i owe you an apology, mademoiselle, for all your troubles, but i hope you have not been too unhappy--" "unhappy! why, i should have been very happy, indeed, if it hadn't been for leaving my poor father." "then all is for the best. kiss him again, and take advantage of the opportunity--it is an excellent one--to speak to him about your cousin." "my cousin! what do you mean? i don't understand." "of course, you understand. your cousin philippe. the young man whose letters you kept so carefully." suzanne blushed; but, following lupin's advice, she again threw herself into her father's arms. lupin gazed upon them with a tender look. "ah! such is my reward for a virtuous act! what a touching picture! a happy father and a happy daughter! and to know that their joy is your work, lupin! hereafter these people will bless you, and reverently transmit your name unto their descendants, even unto the fourth generation. what a glorious reward, lupin, for one act of kindness!" he walked to the window. "is dear old ganimard still waiting?... he would like very much to be present at this charming domestic scene!... ah! he is not there.... nor any of the others.... i don't see anyone. the deuce! the situation is becoming serious. i dare say they are already under the porte-cochere ... talking to the concierge, perhaps ... or, even, ascending the stairs!" mon. gerbois made a sudden movement. now, that his daughter had been restored to him, he saw the situation in a different light. to him, the arrest of his adversary meant half-a-million francs. instinctively, he made a step forward. as if by chance, lupin stood in his way. "where are you going, monsieur gerbois? to defend me against them! that is very kind of you, but i assure you it is not necessary. they are more worried than i." then he continued to speak, with calm deliberation: "but, really, what do they know? that you are here, and, perhaps, that mlle. gerbois is here, for they may have seen her arrive with an unknown lady. but they do not imagine that i am here. how is it possible that i could be in a house that they ran-sacked from cellar to garret this morning? they suppose that the unknown lady was sent by me to make the exchange, and they will be ready to arrest her when she goes out--" at that moment, the bell rang. with a brusque movement, lupin seized mon. gerbois, and said to him, in an imperious tone: "do not move! remember your daughter, and be prudent--otherwise--as to you, monsieur detinan, i have your promise." mon. gerbois was rooted to the spot. the lawyer did not stir. without the least sign of haste, lupin picked up his hat and brushed the dust from off it with his sleeve. "my dear monsieur detinan, if i can ever be of service to you.... my best wishes, mademoiselle suzanne, and my kind regards to monsieur philippe." he drew a heavy gold watch from his pocket. "monsieur gerbois, it is now forty-two minutes past three. at forty-six minutes past three, i give you permission to leave this room. not one minute sooner than forty-six minutes past three." "but they will force an entrance," suggested mon. detinan. "you forget the law, my dear monsieur! ganimard would never venture to violate the privacy of a french citizen. but, pardon me, time flies, and you are all slightly nervous." he placed his watch on the table, opened the door of the room and addressing the blonde lady he said: "are you ready my dear?" he drew back to let her pass, bowed respectfully to mlle. gerbois, and went out, closing the door behind him. then they heard him in the vestibule, speaking, in a loud voice: "good-day, ganimard, how goes it? remember me to madame ganimard. one of these days, i shall invite her to breakfast. au revoir, ganimard." the bell rang violently, followed by repeated rings, and voices on the landing. "forty-five minutes," muttered mon. gerbois. after a few seconds, he left the room and stepped into the vestibule. arsène lupin and the blonde lady had gone. "papa!... you mustn't! wait!" cried suzanne. "wait! you are foolish!... no quarter for that rascal!... and the half-million?" he opened the outer door. ganimard rushed in. "that woman--where is she? and lupin?" "he was here ... he is here." ganimard uttered a cry of triumph. "we have him. the house is surrounded." "but the servant's stairway?" suggested mon. detinan. "it leads to the court," said ganimard. "there is only one exit--the street-door. ten men are guarding it." "but he didn't come in by the street-door, and he will not go out that way." "what way, then?" asked ganimard. "through the air?" he drew aside a curtain and exposed a long corridor leading to the kitchen. ganimard ran along it and tried the door of the servants' stairway. it was locked. from the window he called to one of his assistants: "seen anyone?" "no." "then they are still in the house!" he exclaimed. "they are hiding in one of the rooms! they cannot have escaped. ah! lupin, you fooled me before, but, this time, i get my revenge." * * * * * at seven o'clock in the evening, mon. dudonis, chief of the detective service, astonished at not receiving any news, visited the rue clapeyron. he questioned the detectives who were guarding the house, then ascended to mon. detinan's apartment. the lawyer led him into his room. there, mon. dudonis beheld a man, or rather two legs kicking in the air, while the body to which they belonged was hidden in the depths of the chimney. "ohé!... ohé!" gasped a stifled voice. and a more distant voice, from on high, replied: "ohé!... ohé!" mon. dudonis laughed, and exclaimed: "here! ganimard, have you turned chimney-sweep?" the detective crawled out of the chimney. with his blackened face, his sooty clothes, and his feverish eyes, he was quite unrecognizable. "i am looking for _him_," he growled. "who?" "arsène lupin ... and his friend." "well, do you suppose they are hiding in the chimney?" ganimard arose, laid his sooty hand on the sleeve of his superior officer's coat, and exclaimed, angrily: "where do you think they are, chief? they must be somewhere! they are flesh and blood like you and me, and can't fade away like smoke." "no, but they have faded away just the same." "but how? how? the house is surrounded by our men--even on the roof." "what about the adjoining house?" "there's no communication with it." "and the apartments on the other floors?" "i know all the tenants. they have not seen anyone." "are you sure you know all of them?" "yes. the concierge answers for them. besides, as an extra precaution, i have placed a man in each apartment. they can't escape. if i don't get them to-night, i will get them to-morrow. i shall sleep here." he slept there that night and the two following nights. three days and nights passed away without the discovery of the irrepressible lupin or his female companion; more than that, ganimard did not unearth the slightest clue on which to base a theory to explain their escape. for that reason, he adhered to his first opinion. "there is no trace of their escape; therefore, they are here." it may be that, at the bottom of his heart, his conviction was less firmly established, but he would not confess it. no, a thousand times, no! a man and a woman could not vanish like the evil spirits in a fairy tale. and, without losing his courage, he continued his searches, as if he expected to find the fugitives concealed in some impenetrable retreat, or embodied in the stone walls of the house. chapter ii. the blue diamond. on the evening of march , at number avenue henri-martin, in the house that he had inherited from his brother six months before, the old general baron d'hautrec, ambassador at berlin under the second empire, was asleep in a comfortable armchair, while his secretary was reading to him, and the sister auguste was warming his bed and preparing the night-lamp. at eleven o'clock, the sister, who was obliged to return to the convent of her order at that hour, said to the secretary: "mademoiselle antoinette, my work is finished; i am going." "very well, sister." "do not forget that the cook is away, and that you are alone in the house with the servant." "have no fear for the baron. i sleep in the adjoining room and always leave the door open." the sister left the house. a few moments later, charles, the servant, came to receive his orders. the baron was now awake, and spoke for himself. "the usual orders, charles: see that the electric bell rings in your room, and, at the first alarm, run for the doctor. now, mademoiselle antoinette, how far did we get in our reading?" "is monsieur not going to bed now?" "no, no, i will go later. besides, i don't need anyone." twenty minutes later, he was sleeping again, and antoinette crept away on tiptoe. at that moment, charles was closing the shutters on the lower floor. in the kitchen, he bolted the door leading to the garden, and, in the vestibule, he not only locked the door but hooked the chain as well. then he ascended to his room on the third floor, went to bed, and was soon asleep. probably an hour had passed, when he leaped from his bed in alarm. the bell was ringing. it rang for some time, seven or eight seconds perhaps, without intermission. "well?" muttered charles, recovering his wits, "another of the baron's whims." he dressed himself quickly, descended the stairs, stopped in front of the door, and rapped, according to his custom. he received no reply. he opened the door and entered. "ah! no light," he murmured. "what is that for?" then, in a low voice, he called: "mademoiselle?" no reply. "are you there, mademoiselle? what's the matter? is monsieur le baron ill?" no reply. nothing but a profound silence that soon became depressing. he took two steps forward; his foot struck a chair, and, having touched it, he noticed that it was overturned. then, with his hand, he discovered other objects on the floor--a small table and a screen. anxiously, he approached the wall, felt for the electric button, and turned on the light. in the centre of the room, between the table and dressing-case, lay the body of his master, the baron d'hautrec. "what!... it can't be possible!" he stammered. he could not move. he stood there, with bulging eyes, gazing stupidly at the terrible disorder, the overturned chairs, a large crystal candelabra shattered in a thousand pieces, the clock lying on the marble hearthstone, all evidence of a fearful and desperate struggle. the handle of a stiletto glittered, not far from the corpse; the blade was stained with blood. a handkerchief, marked with red spots, was lying on the edge of the bed. charles recoiled with horror: the body lying at his feet extended itself for a moment, then shrunk up again; two or three tremors, and that was the end. he stooped over the body. there was a clean-cut wound on the neck from which the blood was flowing and then congealing in a black pool on the carpet. the face retained an expression of extreme terror. "some one has killed him!" he muttered, "some one has killed him!" then he shuddered at the thought that there might be another dreadful crime. did not the baron's secretary sleep in the adjoining room! had not the assassin killed her also! he opened the door; the room was empty. he concluded that antoinette had been abducted, or else she had gone away before the crime. he returned to the baron's chamber, his glance falling on the secretary, he noticed that that article of furniture remained intact. then, he saw upon a table, beside a bunch of keys and a pocketbook that the baron placed there every night, a handful of golden louis. charles seized the pocketbook, opened it, and found some bank-notes. he counted them; there were thirteen notes of one hundred francs each. instinctively, mechanically, he put the bank-notes in his pocket, rushed down the stairs, drew the bolt, unhooked the chain, closed the door behind him, and fled to the street. * * * * * charles was an honest man. he had scarcely left the gate, when, cooled by the night air and the rain, he came to a sudden halt. now, he saw his action in its true light, and it filled him with horror. he hailed a passing cab, and said to the driver: "go to the police-office, and bring the commissary. hurry! there has been a murder in that house." the cab-driver whipped his horse. charles wished to return to the house, but found the gate locked. he had closed it himself when he came out, and it could not be opened from the outside. on the other hand, it was useless to ring, as there was no one in the house. it was almost an hour before the arrival of the police. when they came, charles told his story and handed the bank-notes to the commissary. a locksmith was summoned, and, after considerable difficulty, he succeeded in forcing open the garden gate and the vestibule door. the commissary of police entered the room first, but, immediately, turned to charles and said: "you told me that the room was in the greatest disorder." charles stood at the door, amazed, bewildered; all the furniture had been restored to its accustomed place. the small table was standing between the two windows, the chairs were upright, and the clock was on the centre of the mantel. the debris of the candelabra had been removed. "where is.... monsieur le baron?" stammered charles. "that's so!" exclaimed the officer, "where is the victim?" he approached the bed, and drew aside a large sheet, under which reposed the baron d'hautrec, formerly french ambassador at berlin. over him, lay his military coat, adorned with the cross of honor. his features were calm. his eyes were closed. "some one has been here," said charles. "how did they get in?" "i don't know, but some one has been here during my absence. there was a stiletto on the floor--there! and a handkerchief, stained with blood, on the bed. they are not here now. they have been carried away. and some one has put the room in order." "who would do that?" "the assassin." "but we found all the doors locked." "he must have remained in the house." "then he must be here yet, as you were in front of the house all the time." charles reflected a moment, then said, slowly: "yes ... of course.... i didn't go away from the gate." "who was the last person you saw with the baron?" "mademoiselle antoinette, his secretary." "what has become of her?" "i don't know. her bed wasn't occupied, so she must have gone out. i am not surprised at that, as she is young and pretty." "but how could she leave the house?" "by the door," said charles. "but you had bolted and chained it." "yes, but she must have left before that." "and the crime was committed after her departure?" "of course," said the servant. the house was searched from cellar to garret, but the assassin had fled. how? and when? was it he or an accomplice who had returned to the scene of the crime and removed everything that might furnish a clue to his identity? such were the questions the police were called upon to solve. the coroner came at seven o'clock; and, at eight o'clock, mon. dudouis, the head of the detective service, arrived on the scene. they were followed by the procureur of the republic and the investigating magistrate. in addition to these officials, the house was overrun with policemen, detectives, newspaper reporters, photographers, and relatives and acquaintances of the murdered man. a thorough search was made; they studied out the position of the corpse according to the information furnished by charles; they questioned sister auguste when she arrived; but they discovered nothing new. sister auguste was astonished to learn of the disappearance of antoinette bréhat. she had engaged the young girl twelve days before, on excellent recommendations, and refused to believe that she would neglect her duty by leaving the house during the night. "but, you see, she hasn't returned yet," said the magistrate, "and we are still confronted with the question: what has become of her?" "i think she was abducted by the assassin," said charles. the theory was plausible, and was borne out by certain facts. mon. dudouis agreed with it. he said: "abducted? ma foi! that is not improbable." "not only improbable," said a voice, "but absolutely opposed to the facts. there is not a particle of evidence to support such a theory." the voice was harsh, the accent sharp, and no one was surprised to learn that the speaker was ganimard. in no one else, would they tolerate such a domineering tone. "ah! it is you, ganimard!" exclaimed mon. dudouis. "i had not seen you before." "i have been here since two o'clock." "so you are interested in some things outside of lottery ticket number , the affair of the rue clapeyron, the blonde lady and arsène lupin?" "ha-ha!" laughed the veteran detective. "i would not say that lupin is a stranger to the present case. but let us forget the affair of the lottery ticket for a few moments, and try to unravel this new mystery." * * * * * ganimard is not one of those celebrated detectives whose methods will create a school, or whose name will be immortalized in the criminal annals of his country. he is devoid of those flashes of genius which characterize the work of dupin, lecoq and sherlock holmes. yet, it must be admitted, he possesses superior qualities of observation, sagacity, perseverance and even intuition. his merit lies in his absolute independence. nothing troubles or influences him, except, perhaps, a sort of fascination that arsène lupin holds over him. however that may be, there is no doubt that his position on that morning, in the house of the late baron d'hautrec, was one of undoubted superiority, and his collaboration in the case was appreciated and desired by the investigating magistrate. "in the first place," said ganimard, "i will ask monsieur charles to be very particular on one point: he says that, on the occasion of his first visit to the room, various articles of furniture were overturned and strewn about the place; now, i ask him whether, on his second visit to the room, he found all those articles restored to their accustomed places--i mean, of course, correctly placed." "yes, all in their proper places," replied charles. "it is obvious, then, that the person who replaced them must have been familiar with the location of those articles." the logic of this remark was apparent to his hearers. ganimard continued: "one more question, monsieur charles. you were awakened by the ringing of your bell. now, who, do you think, rang it?" "monsieur le baron, of course." "when could he ring it?" "after the struggle ... when he was dying." "impossible; because you found him lying, unconscious, at a point more than four metres from the bell-button." "then he must have rung during the struggle." "impossible," declared ganimard, "since the ringing, as you have said, was continuous and uninterrupted, and lasted seven or eight seconds. do you think his antagonist would have permitted him to ring the bell in that leisurely manner?" "well, then, it was before the attack." "also, quite impossible, since you have told us that the lapse of time between the ringing of the bell and your entrance to the room was not more than three minutes. therefore, if the baron rang before the attack, we are forced to the conclusion that the struggle, the murder and the flight of the assassin, all occurred within the short space of three minutes. i repeat: that is impossible." "and yet," said the magistrate, "some one rang. if it were not the baron, who was it?" "the murderer." "for what purpose?" "i do not know. but the fact that he did ring proves that he knew that the bell communicated with the servant's room. now, who would know that, except an inmate of the house?" ganimard was drawing the meshes of his net closer and tighter. in a few clear and logical sentences, he had unfolded and defined his theory of the crime, so that it seemed quite natural when the magistrate said: "as i understand it, ganimard, you suspect the girl antoinette bréhat?" "i do not suspect her; i accuse her." "you accuse her of being an accomplice?" "i accuse her of having killed baron d'hautrec." "nonsense! what proof have you?" "the handful of hair i found in the right hand of the victim." he produced the hair; it was of a beautiful blond color, and glittered like threads of gold. charles looked at it, and said: "that is mademoiselle antoinette's hair. there can be no doubt of it. and, then, there is another thing. i believe that the knife, which i saw on my first visit to the room, belonged to her. she used it to cut the leaves of books." a long, dreadful silence followed, as if the crime had acquired an additional horror by reason of having been committed by a woman. at last, the magistrate said: "let us assume, until we are better informed, that the baron was killed by antoinette bréhat. we have yet to learn where she concealed herself after the crime, how she managed to return after charles left the house, and how she made her escape after the arrival of the police. have you formed any opinion on those points ganimard?" "none." "well, then, where do we stand?" ganimard was embarrassed. finally, with a visible effort, he said: "all i can say is that i find in this case the same method of procedure as we found in the affair of the lottery ticket number ; the same phenomena, which might be termed the faculty of disappearing. antoinette bréhat has appeared and disappeared in this house as mysteriously as arsène lupin entered the house of monsieur detinan and escaped therefrom in the company of the blonde lady. "does that signify anything?" "it does to me. i can see a probable connection between those two strange incidents. antoinette bréhat was hired by sister auguste twelve days ago, that is to say, on the day after the blonde lady so cleverly slipped through my fingers. in the second place, the hair of the blonde lady was exactly of the same brilliant golden hue as the hair found in this case." "so that, in your opinion, antoinette bréhat--" "is the blonde lady--precisely." "and that lupin had a hand in both cases?" "yes, that is my opinion." this statement was greeted with an outburst of laughter. it came from mon. dudouis. "lupin! always lupin! lupin is into everything; lupin is everywhere!" "yes, lupin is into everything of any consequence," replied ganimard, vexed at the ridicule of his superior. "well, so far as i see," observed mon. dudouis, "you have not discovered any motive for this crime. the secretary was not broken into, nor the pocketbook carried away. even, a pile of gold was left upon the table." "yes, that is so," exclaimed ganimard, "but the famous diamond?" "what diamond?" "the blue diamond! the celebrated diamond which formed part of the royal crown of france, and which was given by the duke d'aumale to leonide lebrun, and, at the death of leonide lebrun, was purchased by the baron d'hautrec as a souvenir of the charming comedienne that he had loved so well. that is one of those things that an old parisian, like i, does not forget." "it is obvious that if the blue diamond is not found, the motive for the crime is disclosed," said the magistrate. "but where should we search for it?" "on the baron's finger," replied charles. "he always wore the blue diamond on his left hand." "i saw that hand, and there was only a plain gold ring on it," said ganimard, as he approached the corpse. "look in the palm of the hand," replied the servant. ganimard opened the stiffened hand. the bezel was turned inward, and, in the centre of that bezel, the blue diamond shone with all its glorious splendor. "the deuce!" muttered ganimard, absolutely amazed, "i don't understand it." "you will now apologize to lupin for having suspected him, eh?" said mon. dudouis, laughing. ganimard paused for a moment's reflection, and then replied, sententiously: "it is only when i do not understand things that i suspect arsène lupin." such were the facts established by the police on the day after the commission of that mysterious crime. facts that were vague and incoherent in themselves, and which were not explained by any subsequent discoveries. the movements of antoinette bréhat remained as inexplicable as those of the blonde lady, and the police discovered no trace of that mysterious creature with the golden hair who had killed baron d'hautrec and had failed to take from his finger the famous diamond that had once shone in the royal crown of france. * * * * * the heirs of the baron d'hautrec could not fail to benefit by such notoriety. they established in the house an exhibition of the furniture and other objects which were to be sold at the auction rooms of drouot & co. modern furniture of indifferent taste, various objects of no artistic value ... but, in the centre of the room, in a case of purple velvet, protected by a glass globe, and guarded by two officers, was the famous blue diamond ring. a large magnificent diamond of incomparable purity, and of that indefinite blue which the clear water receives from an unclouded sky, of that blue which can be detected in the whiteness of linen. some admired, some enthused ... and some looked with horror on the chamber of the victim, on the spot where the corpse had lain, on the floor divested of its blood-stained carpet, and especially the walls, the unsurmountable walls over which the criminal must have passed. some assured themselves that the marble mantel did not move, others imagined gaping holes, mouths of tunnels, secret connections with the sewers, and the catacombs-- the sale of the blue diamond took place at the salesroom of drouot & co. the place was crowded to suffocation, and the bidding was carried to the verge of folly. the sale was attended by all those who usually appear at similar events in paris; those who buy, and those who make a pretense of being able to buy; bankers, brokers, artists, women of all classes, two cabinet ministers, an italian tenor, an exiled king who, in order to maintain his credit, bid, with much ostentation, and in a loud voice, as high as one hundred thousand francs. one hundred thousand francs! he could offer that sum without any danger of his bid being accepted. the italian tenor risked one hundred and fifty thousand, and a member of the comédie-française bid one hundred and seventy-five thousand francs. when the bidding reached two hundred thousand francs, the smaller competitors fell out of the race. at two hundred and fifty thousand, only two bidders remained in the field: herschmann, the well-known capitalist, the king of gold mines; and the countess de crozon, the wealthy american, whose collection of diamonds and precious stones is famed throughout the world. "two hundred and sixty thousand ... two hundred and seventy thousand ... seventy-five ... eighty...." exclaimed the auctioneer, as he glanced at the two competitors in succession. "two hundred and eighty thousand for madame.... do i hear any more?" "three hundred thousand," said herschmann. there was a short silence. the countess was standing, smiling, but pale from excitement. she was leaning against the back of the chair in front of her. she knew, and so did everyone present, that the issue of the duel was certain; logically, inevitably, it must terminate to the advantage of the capitalist, who had untold millions with which to indulge his caprices. however, the countess made another bid: "three hundred and five thousand." another silence. all eyes were now directed to the capitalist in the expectation that he would raise the bidding. but herschmann was not paying any attention to the sale; his eyes were fixed on a sheet of paper which he held in his right hand, while the other hand held a torn envelope. "three hundred and five thousand," repeated the auctioneer. "once!... twice!... for the last time.... do i hear any more?... once!... twice!... am i offered any more? last chance!..." herschmann did not move. "third and last time!... sold!" exclaimed the auctioneer, as his hammer fell. "four hundred thousand," cried herschman, starting up, as if the sound of the hammer had roused him from his stupor. too late; the auctioneer's decision was irrevocable. some of herschmann's acquaintances pressed around him. what was the matter? why did he not speak sooner? he laughed, and said: "ma foi! i simply forgot--in a moment of abstraction." "that is strange." "you see, i just received a letter." "and that letter was sufficient--" "to distract my attention? yes, for a moment." ganimard was there. he had come to witness the sale of the ring. he stopped one of the attendants of the auction room, and said: "was it you who carried the letter to monsieur herschmann?" "yes." "who gave it to you?" "a lady." "where is she?" "where is she?... she was sitting down there ... the lady who wore a thick veil." "she has gone?" "yes, just this moment." ganimard hastened to the door, and saw the lady descending the stairs. he ran after her. a crush of people delayed him at the entrance. when he reached the sidewalk, she had disappeared. he returned to the auction room, accosted herschmann, introduced himself, and enquired about the letter. herschmann handed it to him. it was carelessly scribbled in pencil, in a handwriting unknown to the capitalist, and contained these few words: _"the blue diamond brings misfortune. remember the baron d'hautrec."_ * * * * * the vicissitudes of the blue diamond were not yet at an end. although it had become well-known through the murder of the baron d'hautrec and the incidents at the auction-rooms, it was six months later that it attained even greater celebrity. during the following summer, the countess de crozon was robbed of the famous jewel she had taken so much trouble to acquire. let me recall that strange affair, of which the exciting and dramatic incidents sent a thrill through all of us, and over which i am now permitted to throw some light. on the evening of august , the guests of the count and countess de crozon were assembled in the drawing-room of the magnificent château which overlooks the bay de somme. to entertain her friends, the countess seated herself at the piano to play for them, after first placing her jewels on a small table near the piano, and, amongst them, was the ring of the baron d'hautrec. an hour later, the count and the majority of the guests retired, including his two cousins and madame de réal, an intimate friend of the countess. the latter remained in the drawing-room with herr bleichen, the austrian consul, and his wife. they conversed for a time, and then the countess extinguished the large lamp that stood on a table in the centre of the room. at the same moment, herr bleichen extinguished the two piano lamps. there was a momentary darkness; then the consul lighted a candle, and the three of them retired to their rooms. but, as soon as she reached her apartment, the countess remembered her jewels and sent her maid to get them. when the maid returned with the jewels, she placed them on the mantel without the countess looking at them. next day, madame de crozon found that one of her rings was missing; it was the blue diamond ring. she informed her husband, and, after talking it over, they reached the conclusion that the maid was above suspicion, and that the guilty party must be herr bleichen. the count notified the commissary of police at amiens, who commenced an investigation and, discreetly, exercised a strict surveillance over the austrian consul to prevent his disposing of the ring. the château was surrounded by detectives day and night. two weeks passed without incident. then herr bleichen announced his intended departure. that day, a formal complaint was entered against him. the police made an official examination of his luggage. in a small satchel, the key to which was always carried by the consul himself, they found a bottle of dentifrice, and in that bottle they found the ring. madame bleichen fainted. her husband was placed under arrest. everyone will remember the line of defense adopted by the accused man. he declared that the ring must have been placed there by the count de crozen as an act of revenge. he said: "the count is brutal and makes his wife very unhappy. she consulted me, and i advised her to get a divorce. the count heard of it in some way, and, to be revenged on me, he took the ring and placed it in my satchel." the count and countess persisted in pressing the charge. between the explanation which they gave and that of the consul, both equally possible and equally probable, the public had to choose. no new fact was discovered to turn the scale in either direction. a month of gossip, conjectures and investigations failed to produce a single ray of light. wearied of the excitement and notoriety, and incapable of securing the evidence necessary to sustain their charge against the consul, the count and countess at last sent to paris for a detective competent to unravel the tangled threads of this mysterious skein. this brought ganimard into the case. for four days, the veteran detective searched the house from top to bottom, examined every foot of the ground, had long conferences with the maid, the chauffeur, the gardeners, the employees in the neighboring post-offices, visited the rooms that had been occupied by the various guests. then, one morning, he disappeared without taking leave of his host or hostess. but a week later, they received this telegram: "please come to the japanese tea-room, rue boissy d'anglas, to-morrow, friday, evening at five o'clock. ganimard." * * * * * at five o'clock, friday evening, their automobile stopped in front of number nine rue boissy-d'anglas. the old detective was standing on the sidewalk, waiting for them. without a word, he conducted them to the first floor of the japanese tea-room. in one of the rooms, they met two men, whom ganimard introduced in these words: "monsieur gerbois, professor in the college of versailles, from whom, you will remember, arsène lupin stole half a million; monsieur léonce d'hautrec, nephew and sole legatee of the baron d'hautrec." a few minutes later, another man arrived. it was mon. dudouis, head of the detective service, and he appeared to be in a particularly bad temper. he bowed, and then said: "what's the trouble now, ganimard? i received your telephone message asking me to come here. is it anything of consequence?" "yes, chief, it is a very important matter. within an hour, the last two cases to which i was assigned will have their dénouement here. it seemed to me that your presence was indispensable." "and also the presence of dieuzy and folenfant, whom i noticed standing near the door as i came in?" "yes, chief." "for what? are you going to make an arrest, and you wish to do it with a flourish? come, ganimard, i am anxious to hear about it." ganimard hesitated a moment, then spoke with the obvious intention of making an impression on his hearers: "in the first place, i wish to state that herr bleichen had nothing to do with the theft of the ring." "oh! oh!" exclaimed mon. dudouis, "that is a bold statement and a very serious one." "and is that all you have discovered?" asked the count de crozon. "not at all. on the second day after the theft, three of your guests went on an automobile trip as far as crécy. two of them visited the famous battlefield; and, while they were there, the third party paid a hasty visit to the post-office, and mailed a small box, tied and sealed according to the regulations, and declared its value to be one hundred francs." "i see nothing strange in that," said the count. "perhaps you will see something strange in it when i tell you that this person, in place of giving her true name, sent the box under the name of rousseau, and the person to whom it was addressed, a certain monsieur beloux of paris, moved his place of residence immediately after receiving the box, in other words, the ring." "i presume you refer to one of my cousins d'andelle?" "no," replied ganimard. "madame de réal, then?" "yes." "you accuse my friend, madam de réal?" cried the countess, shocked and amazed. "i wish to ask you one question, madame," said ganimard. "was madam de réal present when you purchased the ring?" "yes, but we did not go there together." "did she advise you to buy the ring?" the countess considered for a moment, then said: "yes, i think she mentioned it first--" "thank you, madame. your answer establishes the fact that it was madame de réal who was the first to mention the ring, and it was she who advised you to buy it." "but, i consider my friend is quite incapable--" "pardon me, countess, when i remind you that madame de réal is only a casual acquaintance and not your intimate friend, as the newspapers have announced. it was only last winter that you met her for the first time. now, i can prove that everything she has told you about herself, her past life, and her relatives, is absolutely false; that madame blanche de réal had no actual existence before she met you, and she has now ceased to exist." "well?" "well?" replied ganimard. "your story is a very strange one," said the countess, "but it has no application to our case. if madame de réal had taken the ring, how do you explain the fact that it was found in herr bleichen's tooth-powder? anyone who would take the risk and trouble of stealing the blue diamond would certainly keep it. what do you say to that?" "i--nothing--but madame de réal will answer it." "oh! she does exist, then?" "she does--and does not. i will explain in a few words. three days ago, while reading a newspaper, i glanced over the list of hotel arrivals at trouville, and there i read: 'hôtel beaurivage--madame de réal, etc.' "i went to trouville immediately, and interviewed the proprietor of the hotel. from the description and other information i received from him, i concluded that she was the very madame de réal that i was seeking; but she had left the hotel, giving her address in paris as number three rue de colisée. the day before yesterday i went to that address, and learned that there was no person there called madame de réal, but there was a madame réal, living on the second floor, who acted as a diamond broker and was frequently away from home. she had returned from a journey on the preceding evening. yesterday, i called on her and, under an assumed name, i offered to act as an intermedium in the sale of some diamonds to certain wealthy friends of mine. she is to meet me here to-day to carry out that arrangement." "what! you expect her to come here?" "yes, at half-past five." "are you sure it is she?" "madame de réal of the château de crozon? certainly. i have convincing evidence of that fact. but ... listen!... i hear folenfant's signal." it was a whistle. ganimard arose quickly. "there is no time to lose. monsieur and madame de crozon, will you be kind enough to go into the next room. you also, monsieur d'hautrec, and you, monsieur gerbois. the door will remain open, and when i give the signal, you will come out. of course, chief, you will remain here." "we may be disturbed by other people," said mon. dudouis. "no. this is a new establishment, and the proprietor is one of my friends. he will not let anyone disturb us--except the blonde lady." "the blonde lady! what do you mean?" "yes, the blonde lady herself, chief; the friend and accomplice of arsène lupin, the mysterious blonde lady against whom i hold convincing evidence; but, in addition to that, i wish to confront her with all the people she has robbed." he looked through the window. "i see her. she is coming in the door now. she can't escape: folenfant and dieuzy are guarding the door.... the blonde lady is captured at last, chief!" a moment later a woman appeared at the door; she was tall and slender, with a very pale complexion and bright golden hair. ganimard trembled with excitement; he could not move, nor utter a word. she was there, in front of him, at his mercy! what a victory over arsène lupin! and what a revenge! and, at the same time, the victory was such an easy one that he asked himself if the blonde lady would not yet slip through his fingers by one of those miracles that usually terminated the exploits of arsène lupin. she remained standing near the door, surprised at the silence, and looked about her without any display of suspicion or fear. "she will get away! she will disappear!" thought ganimard. then he managed to get between her and the door. she turned to go out. "no, no!" he said. "why are you going away?" "really, monsieur, i do not understand what this means. allow me--" "there is no reason why you should go, madame, and very good reasons why you should remain." "but--" "it is useless, madame. you cannot go." trembling, she sat on a chair, and stammered: "what is it you want?" ganimard had won the battle and captured the blonde lady. he said to her: "allow me to present the friend i mentioned, who desires to purchase some diamonds. have you procured the stones you promised to bring?" "no--no--i don't know. i don't remember." "come! jog your memory! a person of your acquaintance intended to send you a tinted stone.... 'something like the blue diamond,' i said, laughing; and you replied: 'exactly, i expect to have just what you want.' do you remember?" she made no reply. a small satchel fell from her hand. she picked it up quickly, and held it securely. her hands trembled slightly. "come!" said ganimard, "i see you have no confidence in us, madame de réal. i shall set you a good example by showing you what i have." he took from his pocketbook a paper which he unfolded, and disclosed a lock of hair. "these are a few hairs torn from the head of antoinette bréhat by the baron d'hautrec, which i found clasped in his dead hand. i have shown them to mlle. gerbois, who declares they are of the exact color of the hair of the blonde lady. besides, they are exactly the color of your hair--the identical color." madame réal looked at him in bewilderment, as if she did not understand his meaning. he continued: "and here are two perfume bottles, without labels, it is true, and empty, but still sufficiently impregnated with their odor to enable mlle. gerbois to recognize in them the perfume used by that blonde lady who was her traveling companion for two weeks. now, one of these bottles was found in the room that madame de réal occupied at the château de crozon, and the other in the room that you occupied at the hôtel beaurivage." "what do you say?... the blonde lady ... the château de crozon...." the detective did not reply. he took from his pocket and placed on the table, side by side, four small sheets of paper. then he said: "i have, on these four pieces of paper, various specimens of handwriting; the first is the writing of antoinette bréhat; the second was written by the woman who sent the note to baron herschmann at the auction sale of the blue diamond; the third is that of madame de réal, written while she was stopping at the château de crozon; and the fourth is your handwriting, madame ... it is your name and address, which you gave to the porter of the hôtel beaurivage at trouville. now, compare the four handwritings. they are identical." "what absurdity is this? really, monsieur, i do not understand. what does it mean?" "it means, madame," exclaimed ganimard, "that the blonde lady, the friend and accomplice of arsène lupin, is none other than you, madame réal." ganimard went to the adjoining room and returned with mon. gerbois, whom he placed in front of madame réal, as he said: "monsieur gerbois, is this the person who abducted your daughter, the woman you saw at the house of monsieur detinan?" "no." ganimard was so surprised that he could not speak for a moment; finally, he said: "no?... you must be mistaken...." "i am not mistaken. madame is blonde, it is true, and in that respect resembles the blonde lady; but, in all other respects, she is totally different." "i can't believe it. you must be mistaken." ganimard called in his other witnesses. "monsieur d'hautrec," he said, "do you recognize antoinette bréhat?" "no, this is not the person i saw at my uncle's house." "this woman is not madame de réal," declared the count de crozon. that was the finishing touch. ganimard was crushed. he was buried beneath the ruins of the structure he had erected with so much care and assurance. his pride was humbled, his spirit was broken, by the force of this unexpected blow. mon. dudouis arose, and said: "we owe you an apology, madame, for this unfortunate mistake. but, since your arrival here, i have noticed your nervous agitation. something troubles you; may i ask what it is?" "mon dieu, monsieur, i was afraid. my satchel contains diamonds to the value of a hundred thousand francs, and the conduct of your friend was rather suspicious." "but you were frequently absent from paris. how do you explain that?" "i make frequent journeys to other cities in the course of my business. that is all." mon. dudouis had nothing more to ask. he turned to his subordinate, and said: "your investigation has been very superficial, ganimard, and your conduct toward this lady is really deplorable. you will come to my office to-morrow and explain it." the interview was at an end, and mon. dudouis was about to leave the room when a most annoying incident occurred. madame réal turned to ganimard, and said: "i understand that you are monsieur ganimard. am i right?" "yes." "then, this letter must be for you. i received it this morning. it was addressed to 'mon. justin ganimard, care of madame réal.' i thought it was a joke, because i did not know you under that name, but it appears that your unknown correspondent knew of our rendezvous." ganimard was inclined to put the letter in his pocket unread, but he dared not do so in the presence of his superior, so he opened the envelope and read the letter aloud, in an almost inaudible tone: "once upon a time, there were a blonde lady, a lupin, and a ganimard. now, the wicked ganimard had evil designs on the pretty blonde lady, and the good lupin was her friend and protector. when the good lupin wished the blonde lady to become the friend of the countess de crozon, he caused her to assume the name of madame de réal, which is a close resemblance to the name of a certain diamond broker, a woman with a pale complexion and golden hair. and the good lupin said to himself: if ever the wicked ganimard gets upon the track of the blonde lady, how useful it will be to me if he should be diverted to the track of the honest diamond broker. a wise precaution that has borne good fruit. a little note sent to the newspaper read by the wicked ganimard, a perfume bottle intentionally forgotten by the genuine blonde lady at the hôtel beaurivage, the name and address of madame réal written on the hotel register by the genuine blonde lady, and the trick is played. what do you think of it, ganimard! i wished to tell you the true story of this affair, knowing that you would be the first to laugh over it. really, it is quite amusing, and i have enjoyed it very much. "accept my best wishes, dear friend, and give my kind regards to the worthy mon. dudouis. "arsÈne lupin." "he knows everything," muttered ganimard, but he did not see the humor of the situation as lupin had predicted. "he knows some things i have never mentioned to any one. how could he find out that i was going to invite you here, chief? how could he know that i had found the first perfume bottle? how could he find out those things?" he stamped his feet and tore his hair--a prey to the most tragic despair. mon. dudouis felt sorry for him, and said: "come, ganimard, never mind; try to do better next time." and mon. dudouis left the room, accompanied by madame réal. * * * * * during the next ten minutes, ganimard read and re-read the letter of arsène lupin. monsieur and madame de crozon, monsieur d'hautrec and monsieur gerbois were holding an animated discussion in a corner of the room. at last, the count approached the detective, and said: "my dear monsieur, after your investigation, we are no nearer the truth than we were before." "pardon me, but my investigation has established these facts: that the blonde lady is the mysterious heroine of these exploits, and that arsène lupin directed them." "those facts do not solve the mystery; in fact, they render it more obscure. the blonde lady commits a murder in order to steal the blue diamond, and yet she does not steal it. afterward she steals it and gets rid of it by secretly giving it to another person. how do you explain her strange conduct?" "i cannot explain it." "of course; but, perhaps, someone else can." "who?" the count hesitated, so the countess replied, frankly: "there is only one man besides yourself who is competent to enter the arena with arsène lupin and overcome him. have you any objection to our engaging the services of herlock sholmes in this case?" ganimard was vexed at the question, but stammered a reply: "no ... but ... i do not understand what----" "let me explain. all this mystery annoys me. i wish to have it cleared up. monsieur gerbois and monsieur d'hautrec have the same desire, and we have agreed to send for the celebrated english detective." "you are right, madame," replied the detective, with a loyalty that did him credit, "you are right. old ganimard is not able to overcome arsène lupin. but will herlock sholmes succeed? i hope so, as i have the greatest admiration for him. but ... it is improbable." "do you mean to say that he will not succeed?" "that is my opinion. i can foresee the result of a duel between herlock sholmes and arsène lupin. the englishman will be defeated." "but, in any event, can we count on your assistance?" "quite so, madame. i shall be pleased to render monsieur sholmes all possible assistance." "do you know his address?" "yes; parker street." that evening monsieur and madame de crozon withdrew the charge they had made against herr bleichen, and a joint letter was addressed to herlock sholmes. chapter iii. herlock sholmes opens hostilities. "what does monsieur wish?" "anything," replied arsène lupin, like a man who never worries over the details of a meal; "anything you like, but no meat or alcohol." the waiter walked away, disdainfully. "what! still a vegetarian?" i exclaimed. "more so than ever," replied lupin. "through taste, faith, or habit?" "hygiene." "and do you never fall from grace?" "oh! yes ... when i am dining out ... and wish to avoid being considered eccentric." we were dining near the northern railway station, in a little restaurant to which arsène lupin had invited me. frequently he would send me a telegram asking me to meet him in some obscure restaurant, where we could enjoy a quiet dinner, well served, and which was always made interesting to me by his recital of some startling adventure theretofore unknown to me. on that particular evening he appeared to be in a more lively mood than usual. he laughed and joked with careless animation, and with that delicate sarcasm that was habitual with him--a light and spontaneous sarcasm that was quite free from any tinge of malice. it was a pleasure to find him in that jovial mood, and i could not resist the desire to tell him so. "ah! yes," he exclaimed, "there are days in which i find life as bright and gay as a spring morning; then life seems to be an infinite treasure which i can never exhaust. and yet god knows i lead a careless existence!" "too much so, perhaps." "ah! but i tell you, the treasure is infinite. i can spend it with a lavish hand. i can cast my youth and strength to the four winds of heaven, and it is replaced by a still younger and greater force. besides, my life is so pleasant!... if i wished to do so, i might become--what shall i say?... an orator, a manufacturer, a politician.... but, i assure you, i shall never have such a desire. arsène lupin, i am; arsène lupin, i shall remain. i have made a vain search in history to find a career comparable to mine; a life better filled or more intense.... napoleon? yes, perhaps.... but napoleon, toward the close of his career, when all europe was trying to crush him, asked himself on the eve of each battle if it would not be his last." was he serious? or was he joking? he became more animated as he proceeded: "that is everything, do you understand, the danger! the continuous feeling of danger! to breathe it as you breathe the air, to scent it in every breath of wind, to detect it in every unusual sound.... and, in the midst of the tempest, to remain calm ... and not to stumble! otherwise, you are lost. there is only one sensation equal to it: that of the chauffeur in an automobile race. but that race lasts only a few hours; my race continues until death!" "what fantasy!" i exclaimed. "and you wish me to believe that you have no particular motive for your adoption of that exciting life?" "come," he said, with a smile, "you are a clever psychologist. work it out for yourself." he poured himself a glass of water, drank it, and said: "did you read _'le temps'_ to-day?" "no." "herlock sholmes crossed the channel this afternoon, and arrived in paris about six o'clock." "the deuce! what is he coming for?" "a little journey he has undertaken at the request of the count and countess of crozon, monsieur gerbois, and the nephew of baron d'hautrec. they met him at the northern railway station, took him to meet ganimard, and, at this moment, the six of them are holding a consultation." despite a strong temptation to do so, i had never ventured to question arsène lupin concerning any action of his private life, unless he had first mentioned the subject to me. up to that moment his name had not been mentioned, at least officially, in connection with the blue diamond. consequently, i consumed my curiosity in patience. he continued: "there is also in _'le temps'_ an interview with my old friend ganimard, according to whom a certain blonde lady, who should be my friend, must have murdered the baron d'hautrec and tried to rob madame de crozon of her famous ring. and--what do you think?--he accuses me of being the instigator of those crimes." i could not suppress a slight shudder. was this true? must i believe that his career of theft, his mode of existence, the logical result of such a life, had drawn that man into more serious crimes, including murder? i looked at him. he was so calm, and his eyes had such a frank expression! i observed his hands: they had been formed from a model of exceeding delicacy, long and slender; inoffensive, truly; and the hands of an artist.... "ganimard has pipe-dreams," i said. "no, no!" protested lupin. "ganimard has some cleverness; and, at times, almost inspiration." "inspiration!" "yes. for instance, that interview is a master-stroke. in the first place, he announces the coming of his english rival in order to put me on my guard, and make his task more difficult. in the second place, he indicates the exact point to which he has conducted the affair in order that sholmes will not get credit for the work already done by ganimard. that is good warfare." "whatever it may be, you have two adversaries to deal with, and such adversaries!" "oh! one of them doesn't count." "and the other?" "sholmes? oh! i confess he is a worthy foe; and that explains my present good humor. in the first place, it is a question of self-esteem; i am pleased to know that they consider me a subject worthy the attention of the celebrated english detective. in the next place, just imagine the pleasure a man, such as i, must experience in the thought of a duel with herlock sholmes. but i shall be obliged to strain every muscle; he is a clever fellow, and will contest every inch of the ground." "then you consider him a strong opponent?" "i do. as a detective, i believe, he has never had an equal. but i have one advantage over him; he is making the attack and i am simply defending myself. my rôle is the easier one. besides, i am familiar with his method of warfare, and he does not know mine. i am prepared to show him a few new tricks that will give him something to think about." he tapped the table with his fingers as he uttered the following sentences, with an air of keen delight: "arsène lupin against herlock sholmes.... france against england.... trafalgar will be revenged at last.... ah! the rascal ... he doesn't suspect that i am prepared ... and a lupin warned--" he stopped suddenly, seized with a fit of coughing, and hid his face in his napkin, as if something had stuck in his throat. "a bit of bread?" i inquired. "drink some water." "no, it isn't that," he replied, in a stifled voice. "then, what is it?" "the want of air." "do you wish a window opened?" "no, i shall go out. give me my hat and overcoat, quick! i must go." "what's the matter?" "the two gentlemen who came in just now.... look at the taller one ... now, when we go out, keep to my left, so he will not see me." "the one who is sitting behind you?" "yes. i will explain it to you, outside." "who is it?" "herlock sholmes." he made a desperate effort to control himself, as if he were ashamed of his emotion, replaced his napkin, drank a glass of water, and, quite recovered, said to me, smiling: "it is strange, hein, that i should be affected so easily, but that unexpected sight--" "what have you to fear, since no one can recognize you, on account of your many transformations? every time i see you it seems to me your face is changed; it's not at all familiar. i don't know why." "but _he_ would recognize me," said lupin. "he has seen me only once; but, at that time, he made a mental photograph of me--not of my external appearance but of my very soul--not what i appear to be but just what i am. do you understand? and then ... and then.... i did not expect to meet him here.... such a strange encounter!... in this little restaurant...." "well, shall we go out?" "no, not now," said lupin. "what are you going to do?" "the better way is to act frankly ... to have confidence in him--trust him...." "you will not speak to him?" "why not! it will be to my advantage to do so, and find out what he knows, and, perhaps, what he thinks. at present i have the feeling that his gaze is on my neck and shoulders, and that he is trying to remember where he has seen them before." he reflected a moment. i observed a malicious smile at the corner of his mouth; then, obedient, i think, to a whim of his impulsive nature, and not to the necessities of the situation, he arose, turned around, and, with a bow and a joyous air, he said: "by what lucky chance? ah! i am delighted to see you. permit me to introduce a friend of mine." for a moment the englishman was disconcerted; then he made a movement as if he would seize arsène lupin. the latter shook his head, and said: "that would not be fair; besides, the movement would be an awkward one and ... quite useless." the englishman looked about him, as if in search of assistance. "no use," said lupin. "besides, are you quite sure you can place your hand on me? come, now, show me that you are a real englishman and, therefore, a good sport." this advice seemed to commend itself to the detective, for he partially rose and said, very formally: "monsieur wilson, my friend and assistant--monsieur arsène lupin." wilson's amazement evoked a laugh. with bulging eyes and gaping mouth, he looked from one to the other, as if unable to comprehend the situation. herlock sholmes laughed and said: "wilson, you should conceal your astonishment at an incident which is one of the most natural in the world." "why do you not arrest him?" stammered wilson. "have you not observed, wilson, that the gentleman is between me and the door, and only a few steps from the door. by the time i could move my little finger he would be outside." "don't let that make any difference," said lupin, who now walked around the table and seated himself so that the englishman was between him and the door--thus placing himself at the mercy of the foreigner. wilson looked at sholmes to find out if he had the right to admire this act of wanton courage. the englishman's face was impenetrable; but, a moment later, he called: "waiter!" when the waiter came he ordered soda, beer and whisky. the treaty of peace was signed--until further orders. in a few moments the four men were conversing in an apparently friendly manner. * * * * * herlock sholmes is a man such as you might meet every day in the business world. he is about fifty years of age, and looks as if he might have passed his life in an office, adding up columns of dull figures or writing out formal statements of business accounts. there was nothing to distinguish him from the average citizen of london, except the appearance of his eyes, his terribly keen and penetrating eyes. but then he is herlock sholmes--which means that he is a wonderful combination of intuition, observation, clairvoyance and ingenuity. one could readily believe that nature had been pleased to take the two most extraordinary detectives that the imagination of man has hitherto conceived, the dupin of edgar allen poe and the lecoq of emile gaboriau, and, out of that material, constructed a new detective, more extraordinary and supernatural than either of them. and when a person reads the history of his exploits, which have made him famous throughout the entire world, he asks himself whether herlock sholmes is not a mythical personage, a fictitious hero born in the brain of a great novelist--conan doyle, for instance. when arsène lupin questioned him in regard to the length of his sojourn in france he turned the conversation into its proper channel by saying: "that depends on you, monsieur." "oh!" exclaimed lupin, laughing, "if it depends on me you can return to england to-night." "that is a little too soon, but i expect to return in the course of eight or nine days--ten at the outside." "are you in such a hurry?" "i have many cases to attend to; such as the robbery of the anglo-chinese bank, the abduction of lady eccleston.... but, don't you think, monsieur lupin, that i can finish my business in paris within a week?" "certainly, if you confine your efforts to the case of the blue diamond. it is, moreover, the length of time that i require to make preparations for my safety in case the solution of that affair should give you certain dangerous advantages over me." "and yet," said the englishman, "i expect to close the business in eight or ten days." "and arrest me on the eleventh, perhaps?" "no, the tenth is my limit." lupin shook his head thoughtfully, as he said: "that will be difficult--very difficult." "difficult, perhaps, but possible, therefore certain--" "absolutely certain," said wilson, as if he had clearly worked out the long series of operations which would conduct his collaborator to the desired result. "of course," said herlock sholmes, "i do not hold all the trump cards, as these cases are already several months old, and i lack certain information and clues upon which i am accustomed to base my investigations." "such as spots of mud and cigarette ashes," said wilson, with an air of importance. "in addition to the remarkable conclusions formed by monsieur ganimard, i have obtained all the articles written on the subject, and have formed a few deductions of my own." "some ideas which were suggested to us by analysis or hypothesis," added wilson, sententiously. "i wish to enquire," said arsène lupin, in that deferential tone which he employed in speaking to sholmes, "would i be indiscreet if i were to ask you what opinion you have formed about the case?" really, it was a most exciting situation to see those two men facing each other across the table, engaged in an earnest discussion as if they were obliged to solve some abstruse problem or come to an agreement upon some controverted fact. wilson was in the seventh heaven of delight. herlock sholmes filled his pipe slowly, lighted it, and said: "this affair is much simpler than it appeared to be at first sight." "much simpler," said wilson, as a faithful echo. "i say 'this affair,' for, in my opinion, there is only one," said sholmes. "the death of the baron d'hautrec, the story of the ring, and, let us not forget, the mystery of lottery ticket number , are only different phases of what one might call the mystery of the blonde lady. now, according to my view, it is simply a question of discovering the bond that unites those three episodes in the same story--the fact which proves the unity of the three events. ganimard, whose judgment is rather superficial, finds that unity in the faculty of disappearance; that is, in the power of coming and going unseen and unheard. that theory does not satisfy me." "well, what is your idea?" asked lupin. "in my opinion," said sholmes, "the characteristic feature of the three episodes is your design and purpose of leading the affair into a certain channel previously chosen by you. it is, on your part, more than a plan; it is a necessity, an indispensable condition of success." "can you furnish any details of your theory?" "certainly. for example, from the beginning of your conflict with monsieur gerbois, is it not evident that the apartment of monsieur detinan is the place selected by you, the inevitable spot where all the parties must meet? in your opinion, it was the only safe place, and you arranged a rendezvous there, publicly, one might say, for the blonde lady and mademoiselle gerbois." "the professor's daughter," added wilson. "now, let us consider the case of the blue diamond. did you try to appropriate it while the baron d'hautrec possessed it! no. but the baron takes his brother's house. six months later we have the intervention of antoinette bréhat and the first attempt. the diamond escapes you, and the sale is widely advertised to take place at the drouot auction-rooms. will it be a free and open sale? is the richest amateur sure to carry off the jewel! no. just as the banker herschmann is on the point of buying the ring, a lady sends him a letter of warning, and it is the countess de crozon, prepared and influenced by the same lady, who becomes the purchaser of the diamond. will the ring disappear at once? no; you lack the opportunity. therefore, you must wait. at last the countess goes to her château. that is what you were waiting for. the ring disappears." "to reappear again in the tooth-powder of herr bleichen," remarked lupin. "oh! such nonsense!" exclaimed sholmes, striking the table with his fist, "don't tell me such a fairy tale. i am too old a fox to be led away by a false scent." "what do you mean?" "what do i mean?" said sholmes, then paused a moment as if he wished to arrange his effect. at last he said: "the blue diamond that was found in the tooth-powder was false. you kept the genuine stone." arsène lupin remained silent for a moment; then, with his eyes fixed on the englishman, he replied, calmly: "you are impertinent, monsieur." "impertinent, indeed!" repeated wilson, beaming with admiration. "yes," said lupin, "and, yet, to do you credit, you have thrown a strong light on a very mysterious subject. not a magistrate, not a special reporter, who has been engaged on this case, has come so near the truth. it is a marvellous display of intuition and logic." "oh! a person has simply to use his brains," said herlock sholmes, nattered at the homage of the expert criminal. "and so few have any brains to use," replied lupin. "and, now, that the field of conjectures has been narrowed down, and the rubbish cleared away----" "well, now, i have simply to discover why the three episodes were enacted at rue clapeyron, avenue henri-martin, and within the walls of the château de crozon and my work will be finished. what remains will be child's play. don't you think so?" "yes, i think you are right." "in that case, monsieur lupin, am i wrong in saying that my business will be finished in ten days?" "in ten days you will know the whole truth," said lupin. "and you will be arrested." "no." "no?" "in order that i may be arrested there must occur such a series of improbable and unexpected misfortunes that i cannot admit the possibility of such an event." "we have a saying in england that 'the unexpected always happens.'" they looked at each other for a moment calmly and fearlessly, without any display of bravado or malice. they met as equals in a contest of wit and skill. and this meeting was the formal crossing of swords, preliminary to the duel. "ah!" exclaimed lupin, "at last i shall have an adversary worthy of the name--one whose defeat will be the proudest achievement in my career." "are you not afraid!" asked wilson. "almost, monsieur wilson," replied lupin, rising from his chair, "and the proof is that i am about to make a hasty retreat. then, we will say ten days, monsieur sholmes?" "yes, ten days. this is sunday. a week from next wednesday, at eight o'clock in the evening, it will be all over." "and i shall be in prison?" "no doubt of it." "ha! not a pleasant outlook for a man who gets so much enjoyment out of life as i do. no cares, a lively interest in the affairs of the world, a justifiable contempt for the police, and the consoling sympathy of numerous friends and admirers. and now, behold, all that is about to be changed! it is the reverse side of the medal. after sunshine comes the rain. it is no longer a laughing matter. adieu!" "hurry up!" said wilson, full of solicitude for a person in whom herlock sholmes had inspired so much respect, "do not lose a minute." "not a minute, monsieur wilson; but i wish to express my pleasure at having met you, and to tell you how much i envy the master in having such a valuable assistant as you seem to be." then, after they had courteously saluted each other, like adversaries in a duel who entertain no feeling of malice but are obliged to fight by force of circumstances, lupin seized me by the arm and drew me outside. "what do you think of it, dear boy? the strange events of this evening will form an interesting chapter in the memoirs you are now preparing for me." he closed the door of the restaurant behind us, and, after taking a few steps, he stopped and said: "do you smoke?" "no. nor do you, it seems to me." "you are right, i don't." he lighted a cigarette with a wax-match, which he shook several times in an effort to extinguish it. but he threw away the cigarette immediately, ran across the street, and joined two men who emerged from the shadows as if called by a signal. he conversed with them for a few minutes on the opposite sidewalk, and then returned to me. "i beg your pardon, but i fear that cursed sholmes is going to give me trouble. but, i assure you, he is not yet through with arsène lupin. he will find out what kind of fuel i use to warm my blood. and now--au revoir! the genial wilson is right; there is not a moment to lose." he walked away rapidly. thus ended the events of that exciting evening, or, at least, that part of them in which i was a participant. subsequently, during the course of the evening, other stirring incidents occurred which have come to my knowledge through the courtesy of other members of that unique dinner-party. * * * * * at the very moment in which lupin left me, herlock sholmes rose from the table, and looked at his watch. "twenty minutes to nine. at nine o'clock i am to meet the count and countess at the railway station." "then, we must be off!" exclaimed wilson, between two drinks of whisky. they left the restaurant. "wilson, don't look behind. we may be followed, and, in that case, let us act as if we did not care. wilson, i want your opinion: why was lupin in that restaurant?" "to get something to eat," replied wilson, quickly. "wilson, i must congratulate you on the accuracy of your deduction. i couldn't have done better myself." wilson blushed with pleasure, and sholmes continued: "to get something to eat. very well, and, after that, probably, to assure himself whether i am going to the château de crozon, as announced by ganimard in his interview. i must go in order not to disappoint him. but, in order to gain time on him, i shall not go." "ah!" said wilson, nonplused. "you, my friend, will walk down this street, take a carriage, two, three carriages. return later and get the valises that we left at the station, and make for the elysée-palace at a galop." "and when i reach the elysée-palace?" "engage a room, go to sleep, and await my orders." quite proud of the important rôle assigned to him, wilson set out to perform his task. herlock sholmes proceeded to the railway station, bought a ticket, and repaired to the amiens' express in which the count and countess de crozon were already installed. he bowed to them, lighted his pipe, and had a quiet smoke in the corridor. the train started. ten minutes later he took a seat beside the countess, and said to her: "have you the ring here, madame?" "yes." "will you kindly let me see it?" he took it, and examined it closely. "just as i suspected: it is a manufactured diamond." "a manufactured diamond?" "yes; a new process which consists in submitting diamond dust to a tremendous heat until it melts and is then molded into a single stone." "but my diamond is genuine." "yes, _your_ diamond is; but this is not yours." "where is mine?" "it is held by arsène lupin." "and this stone?" "was substituted for yours, and slipped into herr bleichen's tooth-powder, where it was afterwards found." "then you think this is false?" "absolutely false." the countess was overwhelmed with surprise and grief, while her husband scrutinized the diamond with an incredulous air. finally she stammered: "is it possible? and why did they not merely steal it and be done with it? and how did they steal it?" "that is exactly what i am going to find out." "at the château de crozon?" "no. i shall leave the train at creil and return to paris. it is there the game between me and arsène lupin must be played. in fact, the game has commenced already, and lupin thinks i am on my way to the château." "but--" "what does it matter to you, madame? the essential thing is your diamond, is it not?" "yes." "well, don't worry. i have just undertaken a much more difficult task than that. you have my promise that i will restore the true diamond to you within ten days." the train slackened its speed. he put the false diamond in his pocket and opened the door. the count cried out: "that is the wrong side of the train. you are getting out on the tracks." "that is my intention. if lupin has anyone on my track, he will lose sight of me now. adieu." an employee protested in vain. after the departure of the train, the englishman sought the station-master's office. forty minutes later he leaped into a train that landed him in paris shortly before midnight. he ran across the platform, entered the lunch-room, made his exit at another door, and jumped into a cab. "driver--rue clapeyron." having reached the conclusion that he was not followed, he stopped the carriage at the end of the street, and proceeded to make a careful examination of monsieur detinan's house and the two adjoining houses. he made measurements of certain distances and entered the figures in his notebook. "driver--avenue henri-martin." at the corner of the avenue and the rue de la pompe, he dismissed the carriage, walked down the street to number , and performed the same operations in front of the house of the late baron d'hautrec and the two adjoining houses, measuring the width of the respective façades and calculating the depth of the little gardens that stood in front of them. the avenue was deserted, and was very dark under its four rows of trees, between which, at considerable intervals, a few gas-lamps struggled in vain to light the deep shadows. one of them threw a dim light over a portion of the house, and sholmes perceived the "to-let" sign posted on the gate, the neglected walks which encircled the small lawn, and the large bare windows of the vacant house. "i suppose," he said to himself, "the house has been unoccupied since the death of the baron.... ah! if i could only get in and view the scene of the murder!" no sooner did the idea occur to him than he sought to put it in execution. but how could he manage it? he could not climb over the gate; it was too high. so he took from his pocket an electric lantern and a skeleton key which he always carried. then, to his great surprise, he discovered that the gate was not locked; in fact, it was open about three or four inches. he entered the garden, and was careful to leave the gate as he had found it--partly open. but he had not taken many steps from the gate when he stopped. he had seen a light pass one of the windows on the second floor. he saw the light pass a second window and a third, but he saw nothing else, except a silhouette outlined on the walls of the rooms. the light descended to the first floor, and, for a long time, wandered from room to room. "who the deuce is walking, at one o'clock in the morning, through the house in which the baron d'hautrec was killed?" herlock sholmes asked himself, deeply interested. there was only one way to find out, and that was to enter the house himself. he did not hesitate, but started for the door of the house. however, at the moment when he crossed the streak of gaslight that came from the street-lamp, the man must have seen him, for the light in the house was suddenly extinguished and herlock sholmes did not see it again. softly, he tried the door. it was open, also. hearing no sound, he advanced through the hallway, encountered the foot of the stairs, and ascended to the first floor. here there was the same silence, the same darkness. he entered, one of the rooms and approached a window through which came a feeble light from the outside. on looking through the window he saw the man, who had no doubt descended by another stairway and escaped by another door. the man was threading his way through the shrubbery which bordered the wall that separated the two gardens. "the deuce!" exclaimed sholmes, "he is going to escape." he hastened down the stairs and leaped over the steps in his eagerness to cut off the man's retreat. but he did not see anyone, and, owing to the darkness, it was several seconds before he was able to distinguish a bulky form moving through the shrubbery. this gave the englishman food for reflection. why had the man not made his escape, which he could have done so easily? had he remained in order to watch the movements of the intruder who had disturbed him in his mysterious work? "at all events," concluded sholmes, "it is not lupin; he would be more adroit. it may be one of his men." for several minutes herlock sholmes remained motionless, with his gaze fixed on the adversary who, in his turn was watching the detective. but as that adversary had become passive, and as the englishman was not one to consume his time in idle waiting, he examined his revolver to see if it was in good working order, remove his knife from its sheath, and walked toward the enemy with that cool effrontery and scorn of danger for which he had become famous. he heard a clicking sound; it was his adversary preparing his revolver. herlock sholmes dashed boldly into the thicket, and grappled with his foe. there was a sharp, desperate struggle, in the course of which sholmes suspected that the man was trying to draw a knife. but the englishman, believing his antagonist to be an accomplice of arsène lupin and anxious to win the first trick in the game with that redoubtable foe, fought with unusual strength and determination. he hurled his adversary to the ground, held him there with the weight of his body, and, gripping him by the throat with one hand, he used his free hand to take out his electric lantern, press the button, and throw the light over the face of his prisoner. "wilson!" he exclaimed, in amazement. "herlock sholmes!" stammered a weak, stifled voice. * * * * * for a long time they remained silent, astounded, foolish. the shriek of an automobile rent the air. a slight breeze stirred the leaves. suddenly, herlock sholmes seized his friend by the shoulders and shook him violently, as he cried: "what are you doing here? tell me.... what?... did i tell you to hide in the bushes and spy on me!" "spy on you!" muttered wilson, "why, i didn't know it was you." "but what are you doing here? you ought to be in bed." "i was in bed." "you ought to be asleep." "i was asleep." "well, what brought you here?" asked sholmes. "your letter." "my letter? i don't understand." "yes, a messenger brought it to me at the hotel." "from me? are you crazy?" "it is true--i swear it." "where is the letter?" wilson handed him a sheet of paper, which he read by the light of his lantern. it was as follows: "wilson, come at once to avenue henri-martin. the house is empty. inspect the whole place and make an exact plan. then return to hotel.--herlock sholmes." "i was measuring the rooms," said wilson, "when i saw a shadow in the garden. i had only one idea----" "that was to seize the shadow.... the idea was excellent.... but remember this, wilson, whenever you receive a letter from me, be sure it is my handwriting and not a forgery." "ah!" exclaimed wilson, as the truth dawned on him, "then the letter wasn't from you?" "no." "who sent it, then?" "arsène lupin." "why? for what purpose?" asked wilson. "i don't know, and that's what worries me. i don't understand why he took the trouble to disturb you. of course, if he had sent me on such a foolish errand i wouldn't be surprised; but what was his object in disturbing you?" "i must hurry back to the hotel." "so must i, wilson." they arrived at the gate. wilson, who was ahead, took hold of it and pulled. "ah! you closed it?" he said. "no, i left it partly open." sholmes tried the gate; then, alarmed, he examined the lock. an oath escaped him: "good god! it is locked! locked with a key!" he shook the gate with all his strength; then, realizing the futility of his efforts, he dropped his arms, discouraged, and muttered, in a jerky manner: "i can see it all now--it is lupin. he fore-saw that i would leave the train at creil, and he prepared this neat little trap for me in case i should commence my investigation this evening. moreover, he was kind enough to send me a companion to share my captivity. all done to make me lose a day, and, perhaps, also, to teach me to mind my own business." "do you mean to say we are prisoners?" "exactly. herlock sholmes and wilson are the prisoners of arsène lupin. it's a bad beginning; but he laughs best who laughs last." wilson seized sholmes' arm, and exclaimed: "look!... look up there!... a light...." a light shone through one of the windows of the first floor. both of them ran to the house, and each ascended by the stairs he had used on coming out a short time before, and they met again at the entrance to the lighted chamber. a small piece of a candle was burning in the center of the room. beside it there was a basket containing a bottle, a roasted chicken, and a loaf of bread. sholmes was greatly amused, and laughed heartily. "wonderful! we are invited to supper. it is really an enchanted place, a genuine fairy-land. come, wilson, cheer up! this is not a funeral. it's all very funny." "are you quite sure it is so very funny?" asked wilson, in a lugubrious tone. "am i sure?" exclaimed sholmes, with a gaiety that was too boisterous to be natural, "why, to tell the truth, it's the funniest thing i ever saw. it's a jolly good comedy! what a master of sarcasm this arsène lupin is! he makes a fool of you with the utmost grace and delicacy. i wouldn't miss this feast for all the money in the bank of england. come, wilson, you grieve me. you should display that nobility of character which rises superior to misfortune. i don't see that you have any cause for complaint, really, i don't." after a time, by dint of good humor and sarcasm, he managed to restore wilson to his normal mood, and make him swallow a morsel of chicken and a glass of wine. but when the candle went out and they prepared to spend the night there, with the bare floor for a mattress and the hard wall for a pillow, the harsh and ridiculous side of the situation was impressed upon them. that particular incident will not form a pleasant page in the memoirs of the famous detective. next morning wilson awoke, stiff and cold. a slight noise attracted his attention: herlock sholmes was kneeling on the floor, critically examining some grains of sand and studying some chalk-marks, now almost effaced, which formed certain figures and numbers, which figures he entered in his notebook. accompanied by wilson, who was deeply interested in the work, he examined each room, and found similar chalk-marks in two other apartments. he noticed, also, two circles on the oaken panels, an arrow on a wainscot, and four figures on four steps of the stairs. at the end of an hour wilson said: "the figures are correct, aren't they?" "i don't know; but, at all events, they mean something," replied sholmes, who had forgotten the discomforts of the night in the joy created by his new discoveries. "it is quite obvious," said wilson, "they represent the number of pieces in the floor." "ah!" "yes. and the two circles indicate that the panels are false, as you can readily ascertain, and the arrow points in the direction in which the panels move." herlock sholmes looked at wilson, in astonishment. "ah! my dear friend, how do you know all that? your clairvoyance makes my poor ability in that direction look quite insignificant." "oh! it is very simple," said wilson, inflated with pride; "i examined those marks last night, according to your instructions, or, rather, according to the instructions of arsène lupin, since he wrote the letter you sent to me." at that moment wilson faced a greater danger than he had during his struggle in the garden with herlock sholmes. the latter now felt a furious desire to strangle him. but, dominating his feelings, sholmes made a grimace which was intended for a smile, and said: "quite so, wilson, you have done well, and your work shows commendable progress. but, tell me, have you exercised your powers of observation and analysis on any other points? i might profit by your deductions." "oh! no, i went no farther." "that's a pity. your début was such a promising one. but, since that is all, we may as well go." "go! but how can we get out?" "the way all honest people go out: through the gate." "but it is locked." "it will be opened." "by whom?" "please call the two policemen who are strolling down the avenue." "but----" "but what?" "it is very humiliating. what will be said when it becomes known that herlock sholmes and wilson were the prisoners of arsène lupin?" "of course, i understand they will roar with laughter," replied herlock sholmes, in a dry voice and with frowning features, "but we can't set up housekeeping in this place." "and you will not try to find another way out?" "no." "but the man who brought us the basket of provisions did not cross the garden, coming or going. there is some other way out. let us look for it, and not bother with the police." "your argument is sound, but you forget that all the detectives in paris have been trying to find it for the last six months, and that i searched the house from top to bottom while you were asleep. ah! my dear wilson, we have not been accustomed to pursue such game as arsène lupin. he leaves no trail behind him." * * * * * at eleven o'clock, herlock sholmes and wilson were liberated, and conducted to the nearest police station, where the commissary, after subjecting them to a severe examination, released them with an affectation of good-will that was quite exasperating. "i am very sorry, messieurs, that this unfortunate incident has occurred. you will have a very poor opinion of french hospitality. mon dieu! what a night you must have passed! ah! that rascally lupin is no respecter of persons." they took a carriage to their hotel. at the office wilson asked for the key of his room. after some search the clerk replied, much astonished: "but, monsieur, you have given up the room." "i gave it up? when?" "this morning, by the letter your friend brought here." "what friend?" "the gentleman who brought your letter.... ah! your card is still attached to the letter. here they are." wilson looked at them. certainly, it was one of his cards, and the letter was in his handwriting. "good lord!" he muttered, "this is another of his tricks," and he added, aloud: "where is my luggage?" "your friend took it." "ah!... and you gave it to him?" "certainly; on the strength of your letter and card." "of course ... of course." they left the hotel and walked, slowly and thoughtfully, through the champs-elysées. the avenue was bright and cheerful beneath a clear autumn sun; the air was mild and pleasant. at rond-point, herlock sholmes lighted his pipe. then wilson spoke: "i can't understand you, sholmes. you are so calm and unruffled. they play with you as a cat plays with a mouse, and yet you do not say a word." sholmes stopped, as he replied: "wilson, i was thinking of your card." "well?" "the point is this: here is a man who, in view of a possible struggle with us, procures specimens of our handwriting, and who holds, in his possession, one or more of your cards. now, have you considered how much precaution and skill those facts represent?" "well?" "well, wilson, to overcome an enemy so well prepared and so thoroughly equipped requires the infinite shrewdness of ... of a herlock sholmes. and yet, as you have seen, wilson, i have lost the first round." * * * * * at six o'clock the _echo de france_ published the following article in its evening edition: "this morning mon. thenard, commissary of police in the sixteenth district, released herlock sholmes and his friend wilson, both of whom had been locked in the house of the late baron d'hautrec, where they spent a very pleasant night--thanks to the thoughtful care and attention of arsène lupin." "in addition to their other troubles, these gentlemen have been robbed of their valises, and, in consequence thereof, they have entered a formal complaint against arsène lupin." "arsène lupin, satisfied that he has given them a mild reproof, hopes these gentlemen will not force him to resort to more stringent measures." "bah!" exclaimed herlock sholmes, crushing the paper in his hands, "that is only child's play! and that is the only criticism i have to make of arsène lupin: he plays to the gallery. there is that much of the fakir in him." "ah! sholmes, you are a wonderful man! you have such a command over your temper. nothing ever disturbs you." "no, nothing disturbs me," replied sholmes, in a voice that trembled from rage; "besides, what's the use of losing my temper?... i am quite confident of the final result; i shall have the last word." chapter iv. light in the darkness. however well-tempered a man's character may be--and herlock sholmes is one of those men over whom ill-fortune has little or no hold--there are circumstances wherein the most courageous combatant feels the necessity of marshaling his forces before risking the chances of a battle. "i shall take a vacation to-day," said sholmes. "and what shall i do?" asked wilson. "you, wilson--let me see! you can buy some underwear and linen to replenish our wardrobe, while i take a rest." "very well, sholmes, i will watch while you sleep." wilson uttered these words with all the importance of a sentinel on guard at the outpost, and therefore exposed to the greatest danger. his chest was expanded; his muscles were tense. assuming a shrewd look, he scrutinized, officially, the little room in which they had fixed their abode. "very well, wilson, you can watch. i shall occupy myself in the preparation of a line of attack more appropriate to the methods of the enemy we are called upon to meet. do you see, wilson, we have been deceived in this fellow lupin. my opinion is that we must commence at the very beginning of this affair." "and even before that, if possible. but have we sufficient time?" "nine days, dear boy. that is five too many." the englishman spent the entire afternoon in smoking and sleeping. he did not enter upon his new plan of attack until the following day. then he said: "wilson, i am ready. let us attack the enemy." "lead on, macduff!" exclaimed wilson, full of martial ardor. "i wish to fight in the front rank. oh! have no fear. i shall do credit to my king and country, for i am an englishman." in the first place, sholmes had three long and important interviews: with monsieur detinan, whose rooms he examined with the greatest care and precision; with suzanne gerbois, whom he questioned in regard to the blonde lady; and with sister auguste, who had retired to the convent of the visitandines since the murder of baron d'hautrec. at each of these interviews wilson had remained outside; and each time he asked: "satisfactory?" "quite so." "i was sure we were on the right track." they paid a visit to the two houses adjoining that of the late baron d'hautrec in the avenue henri-martin; then they visited the rue clapeyron, and, while he was examining the front of number , sholmes said: "all these houses must be connected by secret passages, but i can't find them." for the first time in his life, wilson doubted the omnipotence of his famous associate. why did he now talk so much and accomplish so little? "why?" exclaimed sholmes, in answer to wilson's secret thought, "because, with this fellow lupin, a person has to work in the dark, and, instead of deducting the truth from established facts, a man must extract it from his own brain, and afterward learn if it is supported by the facts in the case." "but what about the secret passages?" "they must exist. but even though i should discover them, and thus learn how arsène lupin made his entrance to the lawyer's house and how the blonde lady escaped from the house of baron d'hautrec after the murder, what good would it do? how would it help me? would it furnish me with a weapon of attack?" "let us attack him just the same," exclaimed wilson, who had scarcely uttered these words when he jumped back with a cry of alarm. something had fallen at their feet; it was a bag filled with sand which might have caused them serious injury if it had struck them. sholmes looked up. some men were working on a scaffolding attached to the balcony at the fifth floor of the house. he said: "we were lucky; one step more, and that heavy bag would have fallen on our heads. i wonder if--" moved by a sudden impulse, he rushed into the house, up the five flights of stairs, rang the bell, pushed his way into the apartment to the great surprise and alarm of the servant who came to the door, and made his way to the balcony in front of the house. but there was no one there. "where are the workmen who were here a moment ago?" he asked the servant. "they have just gone." "which way did they go?" "by the servants' stairs." sholmes leaned out of the window. he saw two men leaving the house, carrying bicycles. they mounted them and quickly disappeared around the corner. "how long have they been working on this scaffolding?" "those men?... only since this morning. it's their first day." sholmes returned to the street, and joined wilson. together they returned to the hotel, and thus the second day ended in a mournful silence. on the following day their programme was almost similar. they sat together on a bench in the avenue henri-martin, much to wilson's disgust, who did not find it amusing to spend long hours watching the house in which the tragedy had occurred. "what do you expect, sholmes? that arsène lupin will walk out of the house?" "no." "that the blonde lady will make her appearance?" "no." "what then/" "i am looking for something to occur; some slight incident that will furnish me with a clue to work on." "and if it does not occur!" "then i must, myself, create the spark that will set fire to the powder." a solitary incident--and that of a disagreeable nature--broke the monotony of the forenoon. a gentleman was riding along the avenue when his horse suddenly turned aside in such a manner that it ran against the bench on which they were sitting, and struck sholmes a slight blow on the shoulder. "ha!" exclaimed sholmes, "a little more and i would have had a broken shoulder." the gentleman struggled with his horse. the englishman drew his revolver and pointed it; but wilson seized his arm, and said: "don't be foolish! what are you going to do! kill the man!" "leave me alone, wilson! let go!" during the brief struggle between sholmes and wilson the stranger rode away. "now, you can shoot," said wilson, triumphantly, when the horseman was at some distance. "wilson, you're an idiot! don't you understand that the man is an accomplice of arsène lupin?" sholmes was trembling from rage. wilson stammered pitifully: "what!... that man ... an accomplice?" "yes, the same as the workmen who tried to drop the bag of sand on us yesterday." "it can't be possible!" "possible or not, there was only one way to prove it." "by killing the man?" "no--by killing the horse. if you hadn't grabbed my arm, i should have captured one of lupin's accomplices. now, do you understand the folly of your act?" throughout the afternoon both men were morose. they did not speak a word to each other. at five o'clock they visited the rue clapeyron, but were careful to keep at a safe distance from the houses. however, three young men who were passing through the street, arm in arm, singing, ran against sholmes and wilson and refused to let them pass. sholmes, who was in an ill humor, contested the right of way with them. after a brief struggle, sholmes resorted to his fists. he struck one of the men a hard blow on the chest, another a blow in the face, and thus subdued two of his adversaries. thereupon the three of them took to their heels and disappeared. "ah!" exclaimed sholmes, "that does me good. i needed a little exercise." but wilson was leaning against the wall. sholmes said: "what's the matter, old chap? you're quite pale." wilson pointed to his left arm, which hung inert, and stammered: "i don't know what it is. my arm pains me." "very much?... is it serious?" "yes, i am afraid so." he tried to raise his arm, but it was helpless. sholmes felt it, gently at first, then in a rougher way, "to see how badly it was hurt," he said. he concluded that wilson was really hurt, so he led him to a neighboring pharmacy, where a closer examination revealed the fact that the arm was broken and that wilson was a candidate for the hospital. in the meantime they bared his arm and applied some remedies to ease his suffering. "come, come, old chap, cheer up!" said sholmes, who was holding wilson's arm, "in five or six weeks you will be all right again. but i will pay them back ... the rascals! especially lupin, for this is his work ... no doubt of that. i swear to you if ever----" he stopped suddenly, dropped the arm--which caused wilson such an access of pain that he almost fainted--and, striking his forehead, sholmes said: "wilson, i have an idea. you know, i have one occasionally." he stood for a moment, silent, with staring eyes, and then muttered, in short, sharp phrases: "yes, that's it ... that will explain all ... right at my feet ... and i didn't see it ... ah, parbleu! i should have thought of it before.... wilson, i shall have good news for you." abruptly leaving his old friend, sholmes ran into the street and went directly to the house known as number . on one of the stones, to the right of the door, he read this inscription: "destange, architect, ." there was a similar inscription on the house numbered . of course, there was nothing unusual in that. but what might be read on the houses in the avenue henri-martin? a carriage was passing. he engaged it and directed the driver to take him to no. avenue henri-martin. he was roused to a high pitch of excitement. he stood up in the carriage and urged the horse to greater speed. he offered extra pourboires to the driver. quicker! quicker! how great was his anxiety as they turned from the rue de la pompe! had he caught a glimpse of the truth at last? on one of the stones of the late baron's house he read the words: "destange, architect, ." and a similar inscription appeared on the two adjoining houses. * * * * * the reaction was such that he settled down in the seat of the carriage, trembling from joy. at last, a tiny ray of light had penetrated the dark shadows which encompassed these mysterious crimes! in the vast sombre forest wherein a thousand pathways crossed and re-crossed, he had discovered the first clue to the track followed by the enemy! he entered a branch postoffice and obtained telephonic connection with the château de crozon. the countess answered the telephone call. "hello!... is that you, madame?" "monsieur sholmes, isn't it? everything going all right?" "quite well, but i wish to ask you one question.... hello!" "yes, i hear you." "tell me, when was the château de crozon built?" "it was destroyed by fire and rebuilt about thirty years ago." "who built it, and in what year?" "there is an inscription on the front of the house which reads: 'lucien destange, architect, .'" "thank you, madame, that is all. good-bye." he went away, murmuring: "destange ... lucien destange ... that name has a familiar sound." he noticed a public reading-room, entered, consulted a dictionary of modern biography, and copied the following information: "lucien destange, born , grand-prix de rome, officer of the legion of honor, author of several valuable books on architecture, etc...." then he returned to the pharmacy and found that wilson had been taken to the hospital. there sholmes found him with his arm in splints, and shivering with fever. "victory! victory!" cried sholmes. "i hold one end of the thread." "of what thread?" "the one that leads to victory. i shall now be walking on solid ground, where there will be footprints, clues...." "cigarette ashes?" asked wilson, whose curiosity had overcome his pain. "and many other things! just think, wilson, i have found the mysterious link which unites the different adventures in which the blonde lady played a part. why did lupin select those three houses for the scenes of his exploits?" "yes, why?" "because those three houses were built by the same architect. that was an easy problem, eh? of course ... but who would have thought of it?" "no one but you." "and who, except i, knows that the same architect, by the use of analogous plans, has rendered it possible for a person to execute three distinct acts which, though miraculous in appearance, are, in reality, quite simple and easy?" "that was a stroke of good luck." "and it was time, dear boy, as i was becoming very impatient. you know, this is our fourth day." "out of ten." "oh! after this----" sholmes was excited, delighted, and gayer than usual. "and when i think that these rascals might have attacked me in the street and broken my arm just as they did yours! isn't that so, wilson?" wilson simply shivered at the horrible thought. sholmes continued: "we must profit by the lesson. i can see, wilson, that we were wrong to try and fight lupin in the open, and leave ourselves exposed to his attacks." "i can see it, and feel it, too, in my broken arm," said wilson. "you have one consolation, wilson; that is, that i escaped. now, i must be doubly cautious. in an open fight he will defeat me; but if i can work in the dark, unseen by him, i have the advantage, no matter how strong his forces may be." "ganimard might be of some assistance." "never! on the day that i can truly say: arsène lupin is there; i show you the quarry, and how to catch it; i shall go and see ganimard at one of the two addresses that he gave me--his residence in the rue pergolese, or at the suisse tavern in the place du châtelet. but, until that time, i shall work alone." he approached the bed, placed his hand on wilson's shoulder--on the sore one, of course--and said to him: "take care of yourself, old fellow. henceforth your rôle will be to keep two or three of arsène lupin's men busy watching here in vain for my return to enquire about your health. it is a secret mission for you, eh?" "yes, and i shall do my best to fulfil it conscientiously. then you do not expect to come here any more?" "what for?" asked sholmes. "i don't know ... of course.... i am getting on as well as possible. but, herlock, do me a last service: give me a drink." "a drink?" "yes, i am dying of thirst; and with my fever----" "to be sure--directly----" he made a pretense of getting some water, perceived a package of tobacco, lighted his pipe, and then, as if he had not heard his friend's request, he went away, whilst wilson uttered a mute prayer for the inaccessible water. * * * * * "monsieur destange!" the servant eyed from head to foot the person to whom he had opened the door of the house--the magnificent house that stood at the corner of the place malesherbes and the rue montchanin--and at the sight of the man with gray hairs, badly shaved, dressed in a shabby black coat, with a body as ill-formed and ungracious as his face, he replied with the disdain which he thought the occasion warranted: "monsieur destange may or may not be at home. that depends. has monsieur a card?" monsieur did not have a card, but he had a letter of introduction and, after the servant had taken the letter to mon. destange, he was conducted into the presence of that gentleman who was sitting in a large circular room or rotunda which occupied one of the wings of the house. it was a library, and contained a profusion of books and architectural drawings. when the stranger entered, the architect said to him: "you are monsieur stickmann?" "yes, monsieur." "my secretary tells me that he is ill, and has sent you to continue the general catalogue of the books which he commenced under my direction, and, more particularly, the catalogue of german books. are you familiar with that kind of work?" "yes, monsieur, quite so," he replied, with a strong german accent. under those circumstances the bargain was soon concluded, and mon. destange commenced work with his new secretary. herlock sholmes had gained access to the house. in order to escape the vigilance of arsène lupin and gain admittance to the house occupied by lucien destange and his daughter clotilde, the famous detective had been compelled to resort to a number of stratagems, and, under a variety of names, to ingratiate himself into the good graces and confidence of a number of persons--in short, to live, during forty-eight hours, a most complicated life. during that time he had acquired the following information: mon. destange, having retired from active business on account of his failing health, now lived amongst the many books he had accumulated on the subject of architecture. he derived infinite pleasure in viewing and handling those dusty old volumes. his daughter clotilde was considered eccentric. she passed her time in another part of the house, and never went out. "of course," sholmes said to himself, as he wrote in a register the titles of the books which mon. destange dictated to him, "all that is vague and incomplete, but it is quite a long step in advance. i shall surely solve one of these absorbing problems: is mon. destange associated with arsène lupin? does he continue to see him? are the papers relating to the construction of the three houses still in existence? will those papers not furnish me with the location of other houses of similar construction which arsène lupin and his associates will plunder in the future? "monsieur destange, an accomplice of arsène lupin! that venerable man, an officer of the legion of honor, working in league with a burglar--such an idea was absurd! besides, if we concede that such a complicity exists, how could mon. destange, thirty years ago, have possibly foreseen the thefts of arsène lupin, who was then an infant?" no matter! the englishman was implacable. with his marvellous scent, and that instinct which never fails him, he felt that he was in the heart of some strange mystery. ever since he first entered the house, he had been under the influence of that impression, and yet he could not define the grounds on which he based his suspicions. up to the morning of the second day he had not made any significant discovery. at two o'clock of that day he saw clotilde destange for the first time; she came to the library in search of a book. she was about thirty years of age, a brunette, slow and silent in her movements, with features imbued with that expression of indifference which is characteristic of people who live a secluded life. she exchanged a few words with her father, and then retired, without even looking at sholmes. the afternoon dragged along monotonously. at five o'clock mon. destange announced his intention to go out. sholmes was alone on the circular gallery that was constructed about ten feet above the floor of the rotunda. it was almost dark. he was on the point of going out, when he heard a slight sound and, at the same time, experienced the feeling that there was someone in the room. several minutes passed before he saw or heard anything more. then he shuddered; a shadowy form emerged from the gloom, quite close to him, upon the balcony. it seemed incredible. how long had this mysterious visitor been there? whence did he come? the strange man descended the steps and went directly to a large oaken cupboard. sholmes was a keen observer of the man's movements. he watched him searching amongst the papers with which the cupboard was filled. what was he looking for? then the door opened and mlle. destange entered, speaking to someone who was following her: "so you have decided not to go out, father?... then i will make a light ... one second ... do not move...." the strange man closed the cupboard and hid in the embrasure of a large window, drawing the curtains together. did mlle. destange not see him? did she not hear him? calmly she turned on the electric lights; she and her father sat down close to each other. she opened a book she had brought with her, and commenced to read. after the lapse of a few minutes she said: "your secretary has gone." "yes, i don't see him." "do you like him as well as you did at first?" she asked, as if she were not aware of the illness of the real secretary and his replacement by stickmann. "oh! yes." monsieur destange's head bobbed from one side to the other. he was asleep. the girl resumed her reading. a moment later one of the window curtains was pushed back, and the strange man emerged and glided along the wall toward the door, which obliged him to pass behind mon. destange but in front of clotilde, and brought him into the light so that herlock sholmes obtained a good view of the man's face. it was arsène lupin. the englishman was delighted. his forecast was verified; he had penetrated to the very heart of the mystery, and found arsène lupin to be the moving spirit in it. clotilde had not yet displayed any knowledge of his presence, although it was quite improbable that any movement of the intruder had escaped her notice. lupin had almost reached the door and, in fact, his hand was already seeking the door-knob, when his coat brushed against a small table and knocked something to the floor. monsieur destange awoke with a start. arsène lupin was already standing in front of him, hat in hand, smiling. "maxime bermond," exclaimed mon. destange, joyfully. "my dear maxime, what lucky chance brings you here?" "the wish to see you and mademoiselle destange." "when did you return from your journey?" "yesterday." "you must stay to dinner." "no, thank you, i am sorry, but i have an appointment to dine with some friends at a restaurant." "come, to-morrow, then, clotilde, you must urge him to come to-morrow. ah! my dear maxime.... i thought of you many times during your absence." "really?" "yes, i went through all my old papers in that cupboard, and found our last statement of account." "what account?" "relating to the avenue henri-martin." "ah! do you keep such papers? what for?" then the three of them left the room, and continued their conversation in a small parlor which adjoined the library. "is it lupin?" sholmes asked himself, in a sudden access of doubt. certainly, from all appearances, it was he; and yet it was also someone else who resembled arsène lupin in certain respects, and who still maintained his own individuality, features, and color of hair. sholmes could hear lupin's voice in the adjoining room. he was relating some stories at which mon. destange laughed heartily, and which even brought a smile to the lips of the melancholy clotilde. and each of those smiles appeared to be the reward which arsène lupin was seeking, and which he was delighted to have secured. his success caused him to redouble his efforts and, insensibly, at the sound of that clear and happy voice, clotilde's face brightened and lost that cold and listless expression which usually pervaded it. "they love each other," thought sholmes, "but what the deuce can there be in common between clotilde destange and maxime bermond? does she know that maxime is none other than arsène lupin?" until seven o'clock sholmes was an anxious listener, seeking to profit by the conversation. then, with infinite precaution, he descended from the gallery, crept along the side of the room to the door in such a manner that the people in the adjoining room did not see him. when he reached the street sholmes satisfied himself that there was neither an automobile nor a cab waiting there; then he slowly limped along the boulevard malesherbes. he turned into an adjacent street, donned the overcoat which he had carried on his arm, altered the shape of his hat, assumed an upright carriage, and, thus transformed, returned to a place whence he could watch the door of mon. destange's house. in a few minutes arsène lupin came out, and proceeded to walk toward the center of paris by way of the rues de constantinople and london. herlock sholmes followed at a distance of a hundred paces. exciting moments for the englishman! he sniffed the air, eagerly, like a hound following a fresh scent. it seemed to him a delightful thing thus to follow his adversary. it was no longer herlock sholmes who was being watched, but arsène lupin, the invisible arsène lupin. he held him, so to speak, within the grasp of his eye, by an imperceptible bond that nothing could break. and he was pleased to think that the quarry belonged to him. but he soon observed a suspicious circumstance. in the intervening space between him and arsène lupin he noticed several people traveling in the same direction, particularly two husky fellows in slouch hats on the left side of the street, and two others on the right wearing caps and smoking cigarettes. of course, their presence in that vicinity may have been the result of chance, but sholmes was more astonished when he observed that the four men stopped when lupin entered a tobacco shop; and still more surprised when the four men started again after lupin emerged from the shop, each keeping to his own side of the street. "curse it!" muttered sholmes; "he is being followed." he was annoyed at the idea that others were on the trail of arsène lupin; that someone might deprive him, not of the glory--he cared little for that--but of the immense pleasure of capturing, single-handed, the most formidable enemy he had ever met. and he felt that he was not mistaken; the men presented to sholmes' experienced eye the appearance and manner of those who, while regulating their gait to that of another, wish to present a careless and natural air. "is this some of ganimard's work?" muttered sholmes. "is he playing me false?" he felt inclined to speak to one of the men with a view of acting in concert with him; but as they were now approaching the boulevard the crowd was becoming denser, and he was afraid he might lose sight of lupin. so he quickened his pace and turned into the boulevard just in time to see lupin ascending the steps of the hungarian restaurant at the corner of the rue du helder. the door of the restaurant was open, so that sholmes, while sitting on a bench on the other side of the boulevard, could see lupin take a seat at a table, luxuriously appointed and decorated with flowers, at which three gentlemen and two ladies of elegant appearance were already seated and who extended to lupin a hearty greeting. sholmes now looked about for the four men and perceived them amongst a crowd of people who were listening to a gipsy orchestra that was playing in a neighboring café. it was a curious thing that they were paying no attention to arsène lupin, but seemed to be friendly with the people around them. one of them took a cigarette from his pocket and approached a gentleman who wore a frock coat and silk hat. the gentleman offered the other his cigar for a light, and sholmes had the impression that they talked to each other much longer than the occasion demanded. finally the gentleman approached the hungarian restaurant, entered and looked around. when he caught sight of lupin he advanced and spoke to him for a moment, then took a seat at an adjoining table. sholmes now recognized this gentleman as the horseman who had tried to run him down in the avenue henri-martin. then sholmes understood that these men were not tracking arsène lupin; they were a part of his band. they were watching over his safety. they were his bodyguard, his satellites, his vigilant escort. wherever danger threatened lupin, these confederates were at hand to avert it, ready to defend him. the four men were accomplices. the gentleman in the frock coat was an accomplice. these facts furnished the englishman with food for reflection. would he ever succeed in capturing that inaccessible individual? what unlimited power was possessed by such an organization, directed by such a chief! he tore a leaf from his notebook, wrote a few lines in pencil, which he placed in an envelope, and said to a boy about fifteen years of age who was sitting on the bench beside him: "here, my boy; take a carriage and deliver this letter to the cashier of the suisse tavern, place du châtelet. be quick!" he gave him a five-franc piece. the boy disappeared. a half hour passed away. the crowd had grown larger, and sholmes perceived only at intervals the accomplices of arsène lupin. then someone brushed against him and whispered in his ear: "well? what is it, monsieur sholmes?" "ah! it is you, ganimard?" "yes; i received your note at the tavern. what's the matter?" "he is there." "what do you mean?" "there ... in the restaurant. lean to the right.... do you see him now?" "no." "he is pouring a glass of champagne for the lady." "that is not lupin." "yes, it is." "but i tell you.... ah! yet, it may be. it looks a great deal like him," said ganimard, naively. "and the others--accomplices?" "no; the lady sitting beside him is lady cliveden; the other is the duchess de cleath. the gentleman sitting opposite lupin is the spanish ambassador to london." ganimard took a step forward. sholmes retained him. "be prudent. you are alone." "so is he." "no, he has a number of men on the boulevard mounting guard. and inside the restaurant that gentleman----" "and i, when i take arsène lupin by the collar and announce his name, i shall have the entire room on my side and all the waiters." "i should prefer to have a few policemen." "but, monsieur sholmes, we have no choice. we must catch him when we can." he was right; sholmes knew it. it was better to take advantage of the opportunity and make the attempt. sholmes simply gave this advice to ganimard: "conceal your identity as long as possible." sholmes glided behind a newspaper kiosk, whence he could still watch lupin, who was leaning toward lady cliveden, talking and smiling. ganimard crossed the street, hands in his pockets, as if he were going down the boulevard, but when he reached the opposite sidewalk he turned quickly and bounded up the steps of the restaurant. there was a shrill whistle. ganimard ran against the head waiter, who had suddenly planted himself in the doorway and now pushed ganimard back with a show of indignation, as if he were an intruder whose presence would bring disgrace upon the restaurant. ganimard was surprised. at the same moment the gentleman in the frock coat came out. he took the part of the detective and entered into an exciting argument with the waiter; both of them hung on to ganimard, one pushing him in, the other pushing him out in such a manner that, despite all his efforts and despite his furious protestations, the unfortunate detective soon found himself on the sidewalk. the struggling men were surrounded by a crowd. two policemen, attracted by the noise, tried to force their way through the crowd, but encountered a mysterious resistance and could make no headway through the opposing backs and pressing shoulders of the mob. but suddenly, as if by magic, the crowd parted and the passage to the restaurant was clear. the head waiter, recognizing his mistake, was profuse in his apologies; the gentleman in the frock coat ceased his efforts on behalf of the detective, the crowd dispersed, the policemen passed on, and ganimard hastened to the table at which the six guests were sitting. but now there were only five! he looked around.... the only exit was the door. "the person who was sitting here!" he cried to the five astonished guests. "where is he?" "monsieur destro?" "no; arsène lupin!" a waiter approached and said: "the gentleman went upstairs." ganimard rushed up in the hope of finding him. the upper floor of the restaurant contained private dining-rooms and had a private stairway leading to the boulevard. "no use looking for him now," muttered ganimard. "he is far away by this time." * * * * * he was not far away--two hundred yards at most--in the madeleine-bastille omnibus, which was rolling along very peacefully with its three horses across the place de l'opéra toward the boulevard des capucines. two sturdy fellows were talking together on the platform. on the roof of the omnibus near the stairs an old fellow was sleeping; it was herlock sholmes. with bobbing head, rocked by the movement of the vehicle, the englishman said to himself: "if wilson could see me now, how proud he would be of his collaborator!... bah! it was easy to foresee that the game was lost, as soon as the man whistled; nothing could be done but watch the exits and see that our man did not escape. really, lupin makes life exciting and interesting." at the terminal point herlock sholmes, by leaning over, saw arsène lupin leaving the omnibus, and as he passed in front of the men who formed his bodyguard sholmes heard him say: "a l'etoile." "a l'etoile, exactly, a rendezvous. i shall be there," thought sholmes. "i will follow the two men." lupin took an automobile; but the men walked the entire distance, followed by sholmes. they stopped at a narrow house, no. rue chalgrin, and rang the bell. sholmes took his position in the shadow of a doorway, whence he could watch the house in question. a man opened one of the windows of the ground floor and closed the shutters. but the shutters did not reach to the top of the window. the impost was clear. at the end of ten minutes a gentleman rang at the same door and a few minutes later another man came. a short time afterward an automobile stopped in front of the house, bringing two passengers: arsène lupin and a lady concealed beneath a large cloak and a thick veil. "the blonde lady, no doubt," said sholmes to himself, as the automobile drove away. herlock sholmes now approached the house, climbed to the window-ledge and, by standing on tiptoe, he was able to see through the window above the shutters. what did he see? arsène lupin, leaning against the mantel, was speaking with considerable animation. the others were grouped around him, listening to him attentively. amongst them sholmes easily recognized the gentleman in the frock coat and he thought one of the other men resembled the head-waiter of the restaurant. as to the blonde lady, she was seated in an armchair with her back to the window. "they are holding a consultation," thought sholmes. "they are worried over the incident at the restaurant and are holding a council of war. ah! what a master stroke it would be to capture all of them at one fell stroke!" one of them, having moved toward the door, sholmes leaped to the ground and concealed himself in the shadow. the gentleman in the frock coat and the head-waiter left the house. a moment later a light appeared at the windows of the first floor, but the shutters were closed immediately and the upper part of the house was dark as well as the lower. "lupin and the woman are on the ground floor; the two confederates live on the upper floor," said sholmes. sholmes remained there the greater part of the night, fearing that if he went away arsène lupin might leave during his absence. at four o'clock, seeing two policemen at the end of the street, he approached them, explained the situation and left them to watch the house. he went to ganimard's residence in the rue pergolese and wakened him. "i have him yet," said sholmes. "arsène lupin?" "yes." "if you haven't got any better hold on him than you had a while ago, i might as well go back to bed. but we may as well go to the station-house." they went to the police station in the rue mesnil and from there to the residence of the commissary, mon. decointre. then, accompanied by half a dozen policemen, they went to the rue chalgrin. "anything new?" asked sholmes, addressing the two policemen. "nothing." it was just breaking day when, after taking necessary measures to prevent escape, the commissary rang the bell and commenced to question the concierge. the woman was greatly frightened at this early morning invasion, and she trembled as she replied that there were no tenants on the ground floor. "what! not a tenant?" exclaimed ganimard. "no; but on the first floor there are two men named leroux. they have furnished the apartment on the ground floor for some country relations." "a gentleman and lady." "yes." "who came here last night." "perhaps ... but i don't know ... i was asleep. but i don't think so, for the key is here. they did not ask for it." with that key the commissary opened the door of the ground-floor apartment. it comprised only two rooms and they were empty. "impossible!" exclaimed sholmes. "i saw both of them in this room." "i don't doubt your word," said the commissary; "but they are not here now." "let us go to the first floor. they must be there." "the first floor is occupied by two men named leroux." "we will examine the messieurs leroux." they all ascended the stairs and the commissary rang. at the second ring a man opened the door; he was in his shirt-sleeves. sholmes recognized him as one of lupin's bodyguard. the man assumed a furious air: "what do you mean by making such a row at this hour of the morning ... waking people up...." but he stopped suddenly, astounded. "god forgive me!... really, gentlemen, i didn't notice who it was. why, it is monsieur decointre!... and you, monsieur ganimard. what can i do for you!" ganimard burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, which caused him to bend double and turn black in the face. "ah! it is you, leroux," he stammered. "oh! this is too funny! leroux, an accomplice of arsène lupin! oh, i shall die! and your brother, leroux, where is he?" "edmond!" called the man. "it is ganimard, who has come to visit us." another man appeared and at sight of him ganimard's mirth redoubled. "oh! oh! we had no idea of this! ah! my friends, you are in a bad fix now. who would have ever suspected it?" turning to sholmes, ganimard introduced the man: "victor leroux, a detective from our office, one of the best men in the iron brigade ... edmond leroux, chief clerk in the anthropometric service." chapter v. an abduction. herlock sholmes said nothing. to protest? to accuse the two men? that would be useless. in the absence of evidence which he did not possess and had no time to seek, no one would believe him. moreover, he was stifled with rage, but would not display his feelings before the triumphant ganimard. so he bowed respectfully to the brothers leroux, guardians of society, and retired. in the vestibule he turned toward a low door which looked like the entrance to a cellar, and picked up a small red stone; it was a garnet. when he reached the street he turned and read on the front of the house this inscription: "lucien destange, architect, ." the adjoining house, no. , bore the same inscription. "always the double passage--numbers and have a secret means of communication. why didn't i think of that? i should have remained with the two policemen." he met the policemen near the corner and said to them: "two people came out of house no. during my absence, didn't they?" "yes; a gentleman and lady." ganimard approached. sholmes took his arm, and as they walked down the street he said: "monsieur ganimard, you have had a good laugh and will no doubt forgive me for the trouble i have caused you." "oh! there's no harm done; but it was a good joke." "i admit that; but the best jokes have only a short life, and this one can't last much longer." "i hope not." "this is now the seventh day, and i can remain only three days more. then i must return to london." "oh!" "i wish to ask you to be in readiness, as i may call on you at any hour on tuesday or wednesday night." "for an expedition of the same kind as we had to-night?" "yes, monsieur, the very same." "with what result?" "the capture of arsène lupin," replied sholmes. "do you think so?" "i swear it, on my honor, monsieur." sholmes bade ganimard good-bye and went to the nearest hotel for a few hours' sleep; after which, refreshed and with renewed confidence in himself, he returned to the rue chalgrin, slipped two louis into the hand of the concierge, assured himself that the brothers leroux had gone out, learned that the house belonged to a monsieur harmingeat, and, provided with a candle, descended to the cellar through the low door near which he had found the garnet. at the bottom of the stairs he found another exactly like it. "i am not mistaken," he thought; "this is the means of communication. let me see if my skeleton-key will open the cellar reserved for the tenant of the ground floor. yes; it will. now, i will examine those cases of wine... oh! oh! here are some places where the dust has been cleared away ... and some footprints on the ground...." a slight noise caused him to listen attentively. quickly he pushed the door shut, blew out his candle and hid behind a pile of empty wine cases. after a few seconds he noticed that a portion of the wall swung on a pivot, the light of a lantern was thrown into the cellar, an arm appeared, then a man entered. he was bent over, as if he were searching for something. he felt in the dust with his fingers and several times he threw something into a cardboard box that he carried in his left hand. afterward he obliterated the traces of his footsteps, as well as the footprints left by lupin and the blonde lady, and he was about to leave the cellar by the same way as he had entered, when he uttered a harsh cry and fell to the ground. sholmes had leaped upon him. it was the work of a moment, and in the simplest manner in the world the man found himself stretched on the ground, bound and handcuffed. the englishman leaned over him and said: "have you anything to say?... to tell what you know?" the man replied by such an ironical smile that sholmes realized the futility of questioning him. so he contented himself by exploring the pockets of his captive, but he found only a bunch of keys, a handkerchief and the small cardboard box which contained a dozen garnets similar to those which sholmes had found. then what was he to do with the man? wait until his friends came to his help and deliver all of them to the police? what good would that do? what advantage would that give him over lupin? he hesitated; but an examination of the box decided the question. the box bore this name and address: "leonard, jeweler, rue de la paix." he resolved to abandon the man to his fate. he locked the cellar and left the house. at a branch postoffice he sent a telegram to monsieur destange, saying that he could not come that day. then he went to see the jeweler and, handing him the garnets, said: "madame sent me with these stones. she wishes to have them reset." sholmes had struck the right key. the jeweler replied: "certainly; the lady telephoned to me. she said she would be here to-day." sholmes established himself on the sidewalk to wait for the lady, but it was five o'clock when he saw a heavily-veiled lady approach and enter the store. through the window he saw her place on the counter a piece of antique jewelry set with garnets. she went away almost immediately, walking quickly and passed through streets that were unknown to the englishman. as it was now almost dark, he walked close behind her and followed her into a five-story house of double flats and, therefore, occupied by numerous tenants. at the second floor she stopped and entered. two minutes later the englishman commenced to try the keys on the bunch he had taken from the man in the rue chalgrin. the fourth key fitted the lock. notwithstanding the darkness of the rooms, he perceived that they were absolutely empty, as if unoccupied, and the various doors were standing open so that he could see all the apartments. at the end of a corridor he perceived a ray of light and, by approaching on tiptoe and looking through the glass door, he saw the veiled lady who had removed her hat and dress and was now wearing a velvet dressing-gown. the discarded garments were lying on the only chair in the room and a lighted lamp stood on the mantel. then he saw her approach the fireplace and press what appeared to be the button of an electric bell. immediately the panel to the right of the fireplace moved and slowly glided behind the adjoining panel, thus disclosing an opening large enough for a person to pass through. the lady disappeared through this opening, taking the lamp with her. the operation was a very simple one. sholmes adopted it and followed the lady. he found himself in total darkness and immediately he felt his face brushed by some soft articles. he lighted a match and found that he was in a very small room completely filled with cloaks and dresses suspended on hangers. he picked his way through until he reached a door that was draped with a portiere. he peeped through and, behold, the blonde lady was there, under his eyes, and almost within reach of his hand. she extinguished the lamp and turned on the electric lights. then for the first time herlock sholmes obtained a good look at her face. he was amazed. the woman, whom he had overtaken after so much trouble and after so many tricks and manoeuvres, was none other than clotilde destange. * * * * * clotilde destange, the assassin of the baron d'hautrec and the thief who stole the blue diamond! clotilde destange, the mysterious friend of arsène lupin! and the blonde lady! "yes, i am only a stupid ass," thought herlock sholmes at that moment. "because lupin's friend was a blonde and clotilde is a brunette, i never dreamed that they were the same person. but how could the blonde lady remain a blonde after the murder of the baron and the theft of the diamond?" sholmes could see a portion of the room; it was a boudoir, furnished with the most delightful luxury and exquisite taste, and adorned with beautiful tapestries and costly ornaments. a mahogany couch, upholstered in silk, was located on the side of the room opposite the door at which sholmes was standing. clotilde was sitting on this couch, motionless, her face covered by her hands. then he perceived that she was weeping. great tears rolled down her pale cheeks and fell, drop by drop, on the velvet corsage. the tears came thick and fast, as if their source were inexhaustible. a door silently opened behind her and arsène lupin entered. he looked at her for a long time without making his presence known; then he approached her, knelt at her feet, pressed her head to his breast, folded her in his arms, and his actions indicated an infinite measure of love and sympathy. for a time not a word was uttered, but her tears became less abundant. "i was so anxious to make you happy," he murmured. "i am happy." "no; you are crying.... your tears break my heart, clotilde." the caressing and sympathetic tone of his voice soothed her, and she listened to him with an eager desire for hope and happiness. her features were softened by a smile, and yet how sad a smile! he continued to speak in a tone of tender entreaty: "you should not be unhappy, clotilde; you have no cause to be." she displayed her delicate white hands and said, solemnly: "yes, maxime; so long as i see those hands i shall be sad." "why?" "they are stained with blood." "hush! do not think of that!" exclaimed lupin. "the dead is past and gone. do not resurrect it." and he kissed the long, delicate hand, while she regarded him with a brighter smile as if each kiss effaced a portion of that dreadful memory. "you must love me, maxime; you must--because no woman will ever love you as i do. for your sake, i have done many things, not at your order or request, but in obedience to your secret desires. i have done things at which my will and conscience revolted, but there was some unknown power that i could not resist. what i did i did involuntarily, mechanically, because it helped you, because you wished it ... and i am ready to do it again to-morrow ... and always." "ah, clotilde," he said, bitterly, "why did i draw you into my adventurous life? i should have remained the maxime bermond that you loved five years ago, and not have let you know the ... other man that i am." she replied in a low voice: "i love the other man, also, and i have nothing to regret." "yes, you regret your past life--the free and happy life you once enjoyed." "i have no regrets when you are here," she said, passionately. "all faults and crimes disappear when i see you. when you are away i may suffer, and weep, and be horrified at what i have done; but when you come it is all forgotten. your love wipes it all away. and i am happy again.... but you must love me!" "i do not love you on compulsion, clotilde. i love you simply because ... i love you." "are you sure of it?" "i am just as sure of my own love as i am of yours. only my life is a very active and exciting one, and i cannot spend as much time with you as i would like--just now." "what is it? some new danger? tell me!" "oh! nothing serious. only...." "only what?" she asked. "well, he is on our track." "who? herlock sholmes?" "yes; it was he who dragged ganimard into that affair at the hungarian restaurant. it was he who instructed the two policemen to watch the house in the rue chalgrin. i have proof of it. ganimard searched the house this morning and sholmes was with him. besides----" "besides? what?" "well, there is another thing. one of our men is missing." "who?" "jeanniot." "the concierge?" "yes." "why, i sent him to the rue chalgrin this morning to pick up the garnets that fell out of my brooch." "there is no doubt, then, that sholmes caught him." "no; the garnets were delivered to the jeweler in the rue de la paix." "then, what has become of him!" "oh! maxime, i am afraid." "there is nothing to be afraid of, but i confess the situation is very serious. what does he know? where does he hide himself? his isolation is his strong card. i cannot reach him." "what are you going to do?" "act with extreme prudence, clotilde. some time ago i decided to change my residence to a safer place, and sholmes' appearance on the scene has prompted me to do so at once. when a man like that is on your track, you must be prepared for the worst. well, i am making my preparations. day after to-morrow, wednesday, i shall move. at noon it will be finished. at two o'clock i shall leave the place, after removing the last trace of our residence there, which will be no small matter. until then----" "well?" "until then we must not see each other and no one must see you, clotilde. do not go out. i have no fear for myself, but i have for you." "that englishman cannot possibly reach me." "i am not so sure of that. he is a dangerous man. yesterday i came here to search the cupboard that contains all of monsieur destange's old papers and records. there is danger there. there is danger everywhere. i feel that he is watching us--that he is drawing his net around us closer and closer. it is one of those intuitions which never deceive me." "in that case, maxime, go, and think no more of my tears. i shall be brave, and wait patiently until the danger is past. adieu, maxime." they held one another for some time in a last fond embrace. and it was she that gently pushed him outside. sholmes could hear the sound of their voices in the distance. emboldened by the necessities of the situation and the urgent need of bringing his investigation to a speedy termination, sholmes proceeded to make an examination of the house in which he now found himself. he passed through clotilde's boudoir into a corridor, at the end of which there was a stairway leading to the lower floor; he was about to descend this stairway when he heard voices below, which caused him to change his route. he followed the corridor, which was a circular one, and discovered another stairway, which he descended and found himself amidst surroundings that bore a familiar appearance. he passed through a door that stood partly open and entered a large circular room. it was monsieur destange's library. "ah! splendid!" he exclaimed. "now i understand everything. the boudoir of mademoiselle clotilde--the blonde lady--communicates with a room in the adjoining house, and that house does not front on the place malesherbes, but upon an adjacent street, the rue montchanin, if i remember the name correctly.... and i now understand how clotilde destange can meet her lover and at the same time create the impression that she never leaves the house; and i understand also how arsène lupin was enabled to make his mysterious entrance to the gallery last night. ah! there must be another connection between the library and the adjoining room. one more house full of ways that are dark! and no doubt lucien destange was the architect, as usual!... i should take advantage of this opportunity to examine the contents of the cupboard and perhaps learn the location of other houses with secret passages constructed by monsieur destange." sholmes ascended to the gallery and concealed himself behind some draperies, where he remained until late in the evening. at last a servant came and turned off the electric lights. an hour later the englishman, by the light of his lantern, made his way to the cupboard. as he had surmised, it contained the architect's old papers, plans, specifications and books of account. it also contained a series of registers, arranged according to date, and sholmes, having selected those of the most recent dates, searched in the indexes for the name "harmingeat." he found it in one of the registers with a reference to page . turning to that page, he read: "harmingeat, rue chalgrin." this was followed by a detailed account of the work done in and about the installation of a furnace in the house. and in the margin of the book someone had written these words: "see account m.b." "ah! i thought so!" said sholmes; "the account m.b. is the one i want. i shall learn from it the actual residence of monsieur lupin." it was morning before he found that important account. it comprised sixteen pages, one of which was a copy of the page on which was described the work done for mon. harmingeat of the rue chalgrin. another page described the work performed for mon. vatinel as owner of the house at no. rue clapeyron. another page was reserved for the baron d'hautrec, avenue henri-martin; another was devoted to the château de crozon, and the eleven other pages to various owners of houses in paris. sholmes made a list of those eleven names and addresses; after which he returned the books to their proper places, opened a window, jumped out onto the deserted street and closed the shutters behind him. when he reached his room at the hotel he lighted his pipe with all the solemnity with which he was wont to characterize that act, and amidst clouds of smoke he studied the deductions that might be drawn from the account of m.b., or rather, from the account of maxime bermond alias arsène lupin. at eight o'clock he sent the following message to ganimard: "i expect to pass through the rue pergolese this forenoon and will inform you of a person whose arrest is of the highest importance. in any event, be at home to-night and to-morrow until noon and have at least thirty men at your service." then he engaged an automobile at the stand on the boulevard, choosing one whose chauffeur looked good-natured but dull-witted, and instructed him to drive to the place malesherbes, where he stopped him about one hundred feet from monsieur destange's house. "my boy, close your carriage," he said to the chauffeur; "turn up the collar of your coat, for the wind is cold, and wait patiently. at the end of an hour and a half, crank up your machine. when i return we will go to the rue pergolese." as he was ascending the steps leading to the door a doubt entered his mind. was it not a mistake on his part to be spending his time on the affairs of the blonde lady, while arsène lupin was preparing to move? would he not be better engaged in trying to find the abode of his adversary amongst the eleven houses on his list? "ah!" he exclaimed, "when the blonde lady becomes my prisoner, i shall be master of the situation." and he rang the bell. * * * * * monsieur destange was already in the library. they had been working only a few minutes, when clotilde entered, bade her father good morning, entered the adjoining parlor and sat down to write. from his place sholmes could see her leaning over the table and from time to time absorbed in deep meditation. after a short time he picked up a book and said to monsieur destange: "here is a book that mademoiselle destange asked me to bring to her when i found it." he went into the little parlor, stood before clotilde in such a manner that her father could not see her, and said: "i am monsieur stickmann, your father's new secretary." "ah!" said clotilde, without moving, "my father has changed his secretary? i didn't know it." "yes, mademoiselle, and i desire to speak with you." "kindly take a seat, monsieur; i have finished." she added a few words to her letter, signed it, enclosed it in the envelope, sealed it, pushed her writing material away, rang the telephone, got in communication with her dressmaker, asked the latter to hasten the completion of a traveling dress, as she required it at once, and then, turning to sholmes, she said: "i am at your service, monsieur. but do you wish to speak before my father? would not that be better?" "no, mademoiselle; and i beg of you, do not raise your voice. it is better that monsieur destange should not hear us." "for whose sake is it better?" "yours, mademoiselle." "i cannot agree to hold any conversation with you that my father may not hear." "but you must agree to this. it is imperative." both of them arose, eye to eye. she said: "speak, monsieur." still standing, he commenced: "you will be so good as to pardon me if i am mistaken on certain points of secondary importance. i will guarantee, however, the general accuracy of my statements." "can we not dispense with these preliminaries, monsieur? or are they necessary?" sholmes felt the young woman was on her guard, so he replied: "very well; i will come to the point. five years ago your father made the acquaintance of a certain young man called maxime bermond, who was introduced as a contractor or an architect, i am not sure which it was; but it was one or the other. monsieur destange took a liking to the young man, and as the state of his health compelled him to retire from active business, he entrusted to monsieur bermond the execution of certain orders he had received from some of his old customers and which seemed to come within the scope of monsieur bermond's ability." herlock sholmes stopped. it seemed to him that the girl's pallor had increased. yet there was not the slightest tremor in her voice when she said: "i know nothing about the circumstances to which you refer, monsieur, and i do not see in what way they can interest me." "in this way, mademoiselle: you know, as well as i, that maxime bermond is also known by the name of arsène lupin." she laughed, and said: "nonsense! arsène lupin? maxime bermond is arsène lupin? oh! no! it isn't possible!" "i have the honor to inform you of that fact, and since you refuse to understand my meaning, i will add that arsène lupin has found in this house a friend--more than a friend--and accomplice, blindly and passionately devoted to him." without emotion, or at least with so little emotion that sholmes was astonished at her self-control, she declared: "i do not understand your object, monsieur, and i do not care to; but i command you to say no more and leave this house." "i have no intention of forcing my presence on you," replied sholmes, with equal sang-froid, "but i shall not leave this house alone." "and who will accompany you, monsieur?" "you will." "i?" "yes, mademoiselle, we will leave this house together, and you will follow me without one word of protest." the strange feature of the foregoing interview was the absolute coolness of the two adversaries. it bore no resemblance to an implacable duel between two powerful wills; but, judging solely from their attitude and the tone of their voices, an onlooker would have supposed their conversation to be nothing more serious than a courteous argument over some impersonal subject. clotilde resumed her seat without deigning to reply to the last remark of herlock sholmes, except by a shrug of her shoulders. sholmes looked at his watch and said: "it is half-past ten. we will leave here in five minutes." "perhaps." "if not, i shall go to monsieur destange, and tell him----" "what?" "the truth. i will tell him of the vicious life of maxime bermond, and i will tell him of the double life of his accomplice." "of his accomplice?" "yes, of the woman known as the blonde lady, of the woman who was blonde." "what proofs will you give him?" "i will take him to the rue chalgrin, and show him the secret passage made by arsène lupin's workmen,--while doing the work of which he had the control--between the houses numbered and ; the passage which you and he used two nights ago." "well?" "i will then take monsieur destange to the house of monsieur detinan; we will descend the servant's stairway which was used by you and arsène lupin when you escaped from ganimard, and we will search together the means of communication with the adjoining house, which fronts on the boulevard des batignolles, and not upon the rue clapeyron." "well?" "i will take monsieur destange to the château de crozon, and it will be easy for him, who knows the nature of the work performed by arsène lupin in the restoration of the château, to discover the secret passages constructed there by his workmen. it will thus be established that those passages allowed the blonde lady to make a nocturnal visit to the countess' room and take the blue diamond from the mantel; and, two weeks later, by similar means, to enter the room of herr bleichen and conceal the blue diamond in his tooth-powder--a strange action, i confess; a woman's revenge, perhaps; but i don't know, and i don't care." "well?" "after that," said herlock sholmes, in a more serious tone, "i will take monsieur destange to avenue henri-martin, and we will learn how the baron d'hautrec----" "no, no, keep quiet," stammered the girl, struck with a sudden terror, "i forbid you!... you dare to say that it was i ... you accuse me?..." "i accuse you of having killed the baron d'hautrec." "no, no, it is a lie." "you killed the baron d'hautrec, mademoiselle. you entered his service under the name of antoinette bréhat, for the purpose of stealing the blue diamond and you killed him." "keep quiet, monsieur," she implored him. "since you know so much, you must know that i did not murder the baron." "i did not say that you murdered him, mademoiselle. baron d'hautrec was subject to fits of insanity that only sister auguste could control. she told me so herself. in her absence, he must have attacked you, and in the course of the struggle you struck him in order to save your own life. frightened at your awful situation, you rang the bell, and fled without even taking the blue diamond from the finger of your victim. a few minutes later you returned with one of arsène lupin's accomplices, who was a servant in the adjoining house, you placed the baron on the bed, you put the room in order, but you were afraid to take the blue diamond. now, i have told you what happened on that night. i repeat, you did not murder the baron, and yet it was your hand that struck the blow." she had crossed them over her forehead--those long delicate white hands--and kept them thus for a long time. at last, loosening her fingers, she said, in a voice rent by anguish: "and do you intend to tell all that to my father?" "yes; and i will tell him that i have secured as witnesses: mademoiselle gerbois, who will recognize the blonde lady; sister auguste, who will recognize antoinette bréhat; and the countess de crozon, who will recognize madame de réal. that is what i shall tell him." "you will not dare," she said, recovering her self-possession in the face of an immediate peril. he arose, and made a step toward the library. clotilde stopped him: "one moment, monsieur." she paused, reflected a moment, and then, perfect mistress of herself, said: "you are herlock sholmes?" "yes." "what do you want of me?" "what do i want? i am fighting a duel with arsène lupin, and i must win. the contest is now drawing to a climax, and i have an idea that a hostage as precious as you will give me an important advantage over my adversary. therefore, you will follow me, mademoiselle; i will entrust you to one of my friends. as soon as the duel is ended, you will be set at liberty." "is that all?" "that is all. i do not belong to the police service of this country, and, consequently, i do not consider that i am under any obligation ... to cause your arrest." she appeared to have come to a decision ... yet she required a momentary respite. she closed her eyes, the better to concentrate her thoughts. sholmes looked at her in surprise; she was now so tranquil and, apparently, indifferent to the dangers which threatened her. sholmes thought: does she believe that she is in danger? probably not--since lupin protects her. she has confidence in him. she believes that lupin is omnipotent, and infallible. "mademoiselle," he said, "i told you that we would leave here in five minutes. that time has almost expired." "will you permit me to go to my room, monsieur, to get some necessary articles?" "certainly, mademoiselle; and i will wait for you in the rue montchanin. jeanniot, the concierge, is a friend of mine." "ah! you know...." she said, visibly alarmed. "i know many things." "very well. i will ring for the maid." the maid brought her hat and jacket. then sholmes said: "you must give monsieur destange some reason for our departure, and, if possible, let your excuse serve for an absence of several days." "that shall not be necessary. i shall be back very soon." "they exchanged defiant glances and an ironic smile. "what faith you have in him!" said sholmes. "absolute." "he does everything well, doesn't he? he succeeds in everything he undertakes. and whatever he does receives your approval and cooperation." "i love him," she said, with a touch of passion in her voice. "and you think that he will save you?" she shrugged her shoulders, and, approaching her father, she said: "i am going to deprive you of monsieur stickmann. we are going to the national library." "you will return for luncheon?" "perhaps ... no, i think not ... but don't be uneasy." then she said to sholmes, in a firm voice: "i am at your service, monsieur." "absolutely?" "quite so." "i warn you that if you attempt to escape, i shall call the police and have you arrested. do not forget that the blonde lady is on parole." "i give you my word of honor that i shall not attempt to escape." "i believe you. now, let us go." they left the house together, as he had predicted. the automobile was standing where sholmes had left it. as they approached it, sholmes could hear the rumbling of the motor. he opened the door, asked clotilde to enter, and took a seat beside her. the machine started at once, gained the exterior boulevards, the avenue hoche and the avenue de la grande-armée. sholmes was considering his plans. he thought: "ganimard is at home. i will leave the girl in his care. shall i tell him who she is? no, he would take her to prison at once, and that would spoil everything. when i am alone, i can consult my list of addresses taken from the 'account m.b.,' and run them down. to-night, or to-morrow morning at the latest, i shall go to ganimard, as i agreed, and deliver into his hands arsène lupin and all his band." he rubbed his hand, gleefully, at the thought that his duel with lupin was drawing to a close, and he could not see any serious obstacle in the way of his success. and, yielding to an irrepressible desire to give vent to his feelings--an unusual desire on his part--he exclaimed: "excuse me, mademoiselle, if i am unable to conceal my satisfaction and delight. the battle has been a difficult one, and my success is, therefore, more enjoyable." "a legitimate success, monsieur, of which you have a just right to be proud." "thank you. but where are we going? the chauffeur must have misunderstood my directions." at that moment they were leaving paris by the gate de neuilly. that was strange, as the rue pergolese is not outside the fortifications. sholmes lowered the glass, and said: "chauffeur, you have made a mistake.... rue pergolese!" the man made no reply. sholmes repeated, in a louder voice: "i told you to go to the rue pergolese." still the man did not reply. "ah! but you are deaf, my friend. or is he doing it on purpose? we are very much out of our way.... rue pergolese!... turn back at once!... rue pergolese!" the chauffeur made no sign of having heard the order. the englishman fretted with impatience. he looked at clotilde; a mysterious smile played upon her lips. "why do you laugh?" he said. "it is an awkward mistake, but it won't help you." "of course not," she replied. then an idea occurred to him. he rose and made a careful scrutiny of the chauffeur. his shoulders were not so broad; his bearing was not so stiff and mechanical. a cold perspiration covered his forehead and his hands clenched with sudden fear, as his mind was seized with the conviction that the chauffeur was arsène lupin. "well, monsieur sholmes, what do you think of our little ride?" "delightful, monsieur, really delightful," replied sholmes. never in his life had he experienced so much difficulty in uttering a few simple words without a tremor, or without betraying his feelings in his voice. but quickly, by a sort of reaction, a flood of hatred and rage burst its bounds, overcame his self-control, and, brusquely drawing his revolver, he pointed it at mademoiselle destange. "lupin, stop, this minute, this second, or i fire at mademoiselle." "i advise you to aim at the cheek if you wish to hit the temple," replied lupin, without turning his head. "maxime, don't go so fast," said clotilde, "the pavement is slippery and i am very timid." she was smiling; her eyes were fixed on the pavement, over which the carriage was traveling at enormous speed. "let him stop! let him stop!" said sholmes to her, wild with rage, "i warn you that i am desperate." the barrel of the revolver brushed the waving locks of her hair. she replied, calmly: "maxime is so imprudent. he is going so fast, i am really afraid of some accident." sholmes returned the weapon to his pocket and seized the handle of the door, as if to alight, despite the absurdity of such an act. clotilde said to him: "be careful, monsieur, there is an automobile behind us." he leaned over. there was an automobile close behind; a large machine of formidable aspect with its sharp prow and blood-red body, and holding four men clad in fur coats. "ah! i am well guarded," thought sholmes. "i may as well be patient." he folded his arms across his chest with that proud air of submission so frequently assumed by heroes when fate has turned against them. and while they crossed the river seine and rushed through suresnes, rueil and chatou, motionless and resigned, controlling his actions and his passions, he tried to explain to his own satisfaction by what miracle arsène lupin had substituted himself for the chauffeur. it was quite improbable that the honest-looking fellow he had selected on the boulevard that morning was an accomplice placed there in advance. and yet arsène lupin had received a warning in some way, and it must have been after he, sholmes, had approached clotilde in the house, because no one could have suspected his project prior to that time. since then, sholmes had not allowed clotilde out of his sight. then an idea struck him: the telephone communication desired by clotilde and her conversation with the dressmaker. now, it was all quite clear to him. even before he had spoken to her, simply upon his request to speak to her as the new secretary of monsieur destange, she had scented the danger, surmised the name and purpose of the visitor, and, calmly, naturally, as if she were performing a commonplace action of her every-day life, she had called arsène lupin to her assistance by some preconcerted signal. how arsène lupin had come and caused himself to be substituted for the chauffeur were matters of trifling importance. that which affected sholmes, even to the point of appeasing his fury, was the recollection of that incident whereby an ordinary woman, a sweetheart it is true, mastering her nerves, controlling her features, and subjugating the expression of her eyes, had completely deceived the astute detective herlock sholmes. how difficult to overcome an adversary who is aided by such confederates, and who, by the mere force of his authority, inspires in a woman so much courage and strength! they crossed the seine and climbed the hill at saint-germain; but, some five hundred metres beyond that town, the automobile slackened its speed. the other automobile advanced, and the two stopped, side by side. there was no one else in the neighborhood. "monsieur sholmes," said lupin, "kindly exchange to the other machine. ours is really a very slow one." "indeed!" said sholmes, calmly, convinced that he had no choice. "also, permit me to loan you a fur coat, as we will travel quite fast and the air is cool. and accept a couple of sandwiches, as we cannot tell when we will dine." the four men alighted from the other automobile. one of them approached, and, as he raised his goggles, sholmes recognized in him the gentleman in the frock coat that he had seen at the hungarian restaurant. lupin said to him: "you will return this machine to the chauffeur from whom i hired it. he is waiting in the first wine-shop to the right as you go up the rue legendre. you will give him the balance of the thousand francs i promised him.... ah! yes, kindly give your goggles to monsieur sholmes." he talked to mlle. destange for a moment, then took his place at the wheel and started, with sholmes at his side and one of his men behind him. lupin had not exaggerated when he said "we will travel quite fast." from the beginning he set a breakneck pace. the horizon rushed to meet them, as if attracted by some mysterious force, and disappeared instantly as though swallowed up in an abyss, into which many other things, such as trees, houses, fields and forests, were hurled with the tumultuous fury and haste of a torrent as it approached the cataract. sholmes and lupin did not exchange a word. above their heads the leaves of the poplars made a great noise like the waves of the sea, rhythmically arranged by the regular spacing of the trees. and the towns swept by like spectres: manteo, vernon, gaillon. from one hill to the other, from bon-secours to canteleu, rouen, its suburbs, its harbor, its miles of wharves, rouen seemed like the straggling street of a country village. and this was duclair, caudebec, the country of caux which they skimmed over in their terrific flight, and lillebonne, and quillebeuf. then, suddenly, they found themselves on the banks of the seine, at the extremity of a little wharf, beside which lay a staunch sea-going yacht that emitted great volumes of black smoke from its funnel. the automobile stopped. in two hours they had traveled over forty leagues. a man, wearing a blue uniform and a goldlaced cap, came forward and saluted. lupin said to him: "all ready, captain? did you receive my telegram?" "yes, i got it." "is _the swallow_ ready?" "yes, monsieur." "come, monsieur sholmes." the englishman looked around, saw a group of people on the terrace in front of a café, hesitated a moment, then, realizing that before he could secure any assistance he would be seized, carried aboard and placed in the bottom of the hold, he crossed the gang-plank and followed lupin into the captain's cabin. it was quite a large room, scrupulously clean, and presented a cheerful appearance with its varnished woodwork and polished brass. lupin closed the door and addressed sholmes abruptly, and almost rudely, as he said: "well, what do you know?" "everything." "everything? come, be precise." his voice contained no longer that polite, if ironical, tone, which he had affected when speaking to the englishman. now, his voice had the imperious tone of a master accustomed to command and accustomed to be obeyed--even by a herlock sholmes. they measured each other by their looks, enemies now--open and implacable foes. lupin spoke again, but in a milder tone: "i have grown weary of your pursuit, and do not intend to waste any more time in avoiding the traps you lay for me. i warn you that my treatment of you will depend on your reply. now, what do you know?" "everything, monsieur." arsène lupin controlled his temper and said, in a jerky manner: "i will tell you what you know. you know that, under the name of maxime bermond, i have ... _improved_ fifteen houses that were originally constructed by monsieur destange." "yes." "of those fifteen houses, you have seen four." "yes." "and you have a list of the other eleven." "yes." "you made that list at monsieur destange's house on that night, no doubt." "yes." "and you have an idea that, amongst those eleven houses, there is one that i have kept for the use of myself and my friends, and you have intrusted to ganimard the task of finding my retreat." "no." "what does that signify?" "it signifies that i choose to act alone, and do not want his help." "then i have nothing to fear, since you are in my hands." "you have nothing to fear as long as i remain in your hands." "you mean that you will not remain?" "yes." arsène lupin approached the englishman and, placing his hand on the latter's shoulder, said: "listen, monsieur; i am not in a humor to argue with you, and, unfortunately for you, you are not in a position to choose. so let us finish our business." "very well." "you are going to give me your word of honor that you will not try to escape from this boat until you arrive in english waters." "i give you my word of honor that i shall escape if i have an opportunity," replied the indomitable sholmes. "but, sapristi! you know quite well that at a word from me you would soon be rendered helpless. all these men will obey me blindly. at a sign from me they would place you in irons----" "irons can be broken." "and throw you overboard ten miles from shore." "i can swim." "i hadn't thought of that," said lupin, with a laugh. "excuse me, master ... and let us finish. you will agree that i must take the measures necessary to protect myself and my friends." "certainly; but they will be useless." "and yet you do not wish me to take them." "it is your duty." "very well, then." lupin opened the door and called the captain and two sailors. the latter seized the englishman, bound him hand and foot, and tied him to the captain's bunk. "that will do," said lupin. "it was only on account of your obstinacy and the unusual gravity of the situation, that i ventured to offer you this indignity." the sailors retired. lupin said to the captain: "let one of the crew remain here to look after monsieur sholmes, and you can give him as much of your own company as possible. treat him with all due respect and consideration. he is not a prisoner, but a guest. what time have you, captain?" "five minutes after two." lupin consulted his watch, then looked at the clock that was attached to the wall of the cabin. "five minutes past two is right. how long will it take you to reach southampton?" "nine hours, easy going." "make it eleven. you must not land there until after the departure of the midnight boat, which reaches havre at eight o'clock in the morning. do you understand, captain? let me repeat: as it would be very dangerous for all of us to permit monsieur to return to france by that boat, you must not reach southampton before one o'clock in the morning." "i understand." "au revoir, master; next year, in this world or in the next." "until to-morrow," replied sholmes. a few minutes later sholmes heard the automobile going away, and at the same time the steam puffed violently in the depths of _the swallow_. the boat had started for england. about three o'clock the vessel left the mouth of the river and plunged into the open sea. at that moment sholmes was lying on the captain's bunk, sound asleep. * * * * * next morning--it being the tenth and last day of the duel between sholmes and lupin--the _echo de france_ published this interesting bit of news: "yesterday a judgment of ejectment was entered in the case of arsène lupin against herlock sholmes, the english detective. although signed at noon, the judgment was executed the same day. at one o'clock this morning sholmes was landed at southampton." chapter vi. second arrest of arsÈne lupin. since eight o'clock a dozen moving-vans had encumbered the rue crevaux between the avenue du bois-de-boulogne and the avenue bugeaud. mon. felix davey was leaving the apartment in which he lived on the fourth floor of no. ; and mon. dubreuil, who had united into a single apartment the fifth floor of the same house and the fifth floor of the two adjoining houses, was moving on the same day--a mere coincidence, since the gentlemen were unknown to each other--the vast collection of furniture regarding which so many foreign agents visited him every day. a circumstance which had been noticed by some of the neighbors, but was not spoken of until later, was this: none of the twelve vans bore the name and address of the owner, and none of the men accompanying them visited the neighboring wine shops. they worked so diligently that the furniture was all out by eleven o'clock. nothing remained but those scraps of papers and rags that are always left behind in the corners of the empty rooms. mon. felix davey, an elegant young man, dressed in the latest fashion, carried in his hand a walking-stick, the weight of which indicated that its owner possessed extraordinary biceps--mon. felix davey walked calmly away and took a seat on a bench in the avenue du bois-de-boulogne facing the rue pergolese. close to him a woman, dressed in a neat but inexpensive costume, was reading a newspaper, whilst a child was playing with a shovel in a heap of sand. after a few minutes felix davey spoke to the woman, without turning his head: "ganimard!" "went out at nine o'clock this morning." "where?" "to police headquarters." "alone?" "yes." "no telegram during the night?" "no." "do they suspect you in the house?" "no; i do some little things for madame ganimard, and she tells me everything her husband does. i have been with her all morning." "very well. until further orders come here every day at eleven o'clock." he rose and walked away in the direction of the dauphine gate, stopping at the chinese pavilion, where he partook of a frugal repast consisting of two eggs, with some fruit and vegetables. then he returned to the rue crevaux and said to the concierge: "i will just glance through the rooms and then give you the keys." he finished his inspection of the room that he had used as a library; then he seized the end of a gas-pipe, which hung down the side of the chimney. the pipe was bent and a hole made in the elbow. to this hole he fitted a small instrument in the form of an ear-trumpet and blew into it. a slight whistling sound came by way of reply. placing the trumpet to his mouth, he said: "anyone around, dubreuil?" "no." "may i come up!" "yes." he returned the pipe to its place, saying to himself: "how progressive we are! our century abounds with little inventions which render life really charming and picturesque. and so amusing!... especially when a person knows how to enjoy life as i do." he turned one of the marble mouldings of the mantel, and the entire half of the mantel moved, and the mirror above it glided in invisible grooves, disclosing an opening and the lower steps of a stairs built in the very body of the chimney; all very clean and complete--the stairs were constructed of polished metal and the walls of white tiles. he ascended the steps, and at the fifth floor there was the same opening in the chimney. mon. dubreuil was waiting for him. "have you finished in your rooms?" "yes." "everything cleared out?" "yes." "and the people?" "only the three men on guard." "very well; come on." they ascended to the upper floor by the same means, one after the other, and there found three men, one of whom was looking through the window. "anything new?" "nothing, governor." "all quiet in the street?" "yes." "in ten minutes i will be ready to leave. you will go also. but in the meantime if you see the least suspicious movement in the street, warn me." "i have my finger on the alarm-bell all the time." "dubreuil, did you tell the moving men not to touch the wire of that bell?" "certainly; it is working all right." "that is all i want to know." the two gentlemen then descended to the apartment of felix davey and the latter, after adjusting the marble mantel, exclaimed, joyfully: "dubreuil, i should like to see the man who is able to discover all the ingenious devices, warning bells, net-works of electric wires and acoustic tubes, invisible passages, moving floors and hidden stairways. a real fairy-land!" "what fame for arsène lupin!" "fame i could well dispense with. it's a pity to be compelled to leave a place so well equipped, and commence all over again, dubreuil ... and on a new model, of course, for it would never do to duplicate this. curse herlock sholmes!" "has he returned to paris?" "how could he? there has been only one boat come from southampton and it left there at midnight; only one train from havre, leaving there at eight o'clock this morning and due in paris at eleven fifteen. as he could not catch the midnight boat at southampton--and the instructions to the captain on that point were explicit--he cannot reach france until this evening via newhaven and dieppe." "do you think he will come back?" "yes; he never gives up. he will return to paris; but it will be too late. we will be far away." "and mademoiselle destange?" "i am to see her in an hour." "at her house?" "oh! no; she will not return there for several days. but you, dubreuil, you must hurry. the loading of our goods will take a long time and you should be there to look after them." "are you sure that we are not being watched?" "by whom? i am not afraid of anyone but sholmes." dubreuil retired. felix davey made a last tour of the apartment, picked up two or three torn letters, then, noticing a piece of chalk, he took it and, on the dark paper of the drawing-room, drew a large frame and wrote within it the following: "_arsène lupin, gentleman-burglar, lived here for five years at the beginning of the twentieth century_." this little pleasantry seemed to please him very much. he looked at it for a moment, whistling a lively air, then said to himself: "now that i have placed myself in touch with the historians of future generations, i can go. you must hurry, herlock sholmes, as i shall leave my present abode in three minutes, and your defeat will be an accomplished fact.... two minutes more! you are keeping me waiting, monsieur sholmes.... one minute more! are you not coming? well, then, i proclaim your downfall and my apotheosis. and now i make my escape. farewell, kingdom of arsène lupin! i shall never see you again. farewell to the fifty-five rooms of the six apartments over which i reigned! farewell, my own royal bed chamber!" his outburst of joy was interrupted by the sharp ringing of a bell, which stopped twice, started again and then ceased. it was the alarm bell. what was wrong? what unforeseen danger? ganimard? no; that wasn't possible! he was on the point of returning to his library and making his escape. but, first, he went to the window. there was no one in the street. was the enemy already in the house? he listened and thought he could discern certain confused sounds. he hesitated no longer. he ran to his library, and as he crossed the threshold he heard the noise of a key being inserted in the lock of the vestibule door. "the deuce!" he murmured; "i have no time to lose. the house may be surrounded. the servants' stairway--impossible! fortunately, there is the chimney." he pushed the moulding; it did not move. he made a greater effort--still it refused to move. at the same time he had the impression that the door below opened and that he could hear footsteps. "good god!" he cried; "i am lost if this cursed mechanism--" he pushed with all his strength. nothing moved--nothing! by some incredible accident, by some evil stroke of fortune, the mechanism, which had worked only a few moments ago, would not work now. he was furious. the block of marble remained immovable. he uttered frightful imprecations on the senseless stone. was his escape to be prevented by that stupid obstacle? he struck the marble wildly, madly; he hammered it, he cursed it. "ah! what's the matter, monsieur lupin? you seem to be displeased about something." lupin turned around. herlock sholmes stood before him! * * * * * herlock sholmes!... lupin gazed at him with squinting eyes as if his sight were defective and misleading. herlock sholmes in paris! herlock sholmes, whom he had shipped to england only the day before as a dangerous person, now stood before him free and victorious!... ah! such a thing was nothing less than a miracle; it was contrary to all natural laws; it was the culmination of all that is illogical and abnormal.... herlock sholmes here--before his face! and when the englishman spoke his words were tinged with that keen sarcasm and mocking politeness with which his adversary had so often lashed him. he said: "monsieur lupin, in, the first place i have the honor to inform you that at this time and place i blot from my memory forever all thoughts of the miserable night that you forced me to endure in the house of baron d'hautrec, of the injury done to my friend wilson, of my abduction in the automobile, and of the voyage i took yesterday under your orders, bound to a very uncomfortable couch. but the joy of this moment effaces all those bitter memories. i forgive everything. i forget everything--i wipe out the debt. i am paid--and royally paid." lupin made no reply. so the englishman continued: "don't you think so yourself?" he appeared to insist as if demanding an acquiescence, as a sort of receipt in regard to the part. after a moment's reflection, during which the englishman felt that he was scrutinized to the very depth of his soul, lupin declared: "i presume, monsieur, that your conduct is based upon serious motives?" "very serious." "the fact that you have escaped from my captain and his crew is only a secondary incident of our struggle. but the fact that you are here before me alone--understand, alone--face to face with arsène lupin, leads me to think that your revenge is as complete as possible." "as complete as possible." "this house?" "surrounded." "the two adjoining houses?" "surrounded." "the apartment above this?" "the _three_ apartments on the fifth floor that were formerly occupied by monsieur dubreuil are surrounded." "so that----" "so that you are captured, monsieur lupin--absolutely captured." the feelings that sholmes had experienced during his trip in the automobile were now suffered by lupin, the same concentrated fury, the same revolt, and also, let us admit, the same loyalty of submission to force of circumstances. equally brave in victory or defeat. "our accounts are squared, monsieur," said lupin, frankly. the englishman was pleased with that confession. after a short silence lupin, now quite self-possessed, said smiling: "and i am not sorry! it becomes monotonous to win all the time. yesterday i had only to stretch out my hand to finish you forever. today i belong to you. the game is yours." lupin laughed heartily and then continued: "at last the gallery will be entertained! lupin in prison! how will he get out? in prison!... what an adventure!... ah! sholmes, life is just one damn thing after another!" he pressed his closed hands to his temples as if to suppress the tumultuous joy that surged within him, and his actions indicated that he was moved by an uncontrollable mirth. at last, when he had recovered his self-possession, he approached the detective and said: "and now what are you waiting for?" "what am i waiting for?" "yes; ganimard is here with his men--why don't they come in?" "i asked him not to." "and he consented?" "i accepted his services on condition that he would be guided by me. besides, he thinks that felix davey is only an accomplice of arsène lupin." "then i will repeat my question in another form. why did you come in alone?" "because i wished to speak to you alone." "ah! ah! you have something to say to me." that idea seemed to please lupin immensely. there are certain circumstances in which words are preferable to deeds. "monsieur sholmes, i am sorry i cannot offer you an easy chair. how would you like that broken box? or perhaps you would prefer the window ledge? i am sure a glass of beer would be welcome ... light or dark?... but sit down, please." "thank you; we can talk as well standing up." "very well--proceed." "i will be brief. the object of my sojourn in france was not to accomplish your arrest. if i have been led to pursue you, it was because i saw no other way to achieve my real object." "which was?" "to recover the blue diamond." "the blue diamond!" "certainly; since the one found in herr bleichen's tooth-powder was only an imitation." "quite right; the genuine diamond was taken by the blonde lady. i made an exact duplicate of it and then, as i had designs on other jewels belonging to the countess and as the consul herr bleichen was already under suspicion, the aforesaid blonde lady, in order to avert suspicion, slipped the false stone into the aforesaid consul's luggage." "while you kept the genuine diamond?" "of course." "that diamond--i want it." "i am very sorry, but it is impossible." "i have promised it to the countess de crozon. i must have it." "how will you get it, since it is in my possession?" "that is precisely the reason--because it is in your possession." "oh! i am to give it to you?" "yes." "voluntarily?" "i will buy it." "ah!" exclaimed lupin, in an access of mirth, "you are certainly an englishman. you treat this as a matter of business." "it is a matter of business." "well? what is your offer?" "the liberty of mademoiselle destange." "her liberty?... i didn't know she was under arrest." "i will give monsieur ganimard the necessary information. when deprived of your protection, she can readily be taken." lupin laughed again, and said: "my dear monsieur, you are offering me something you do not possess. mademoiselle destange is in a place of safety, and has nothing to fear. you must make me another offer." the englishman hesitated, visibly embarrassed and vexed. then, placing his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, he said: "and if i should propose to you-" "my liberty?" "no ... but i can leave the room to consult with ganimard." "and leave me alone!" "yes." "ah! mon dieu, what good would that be? the cursed mechanism will not work," said lupin, at the same time savagely pushing the moulding of the mantel. he stifled a cry of surprise; this time fortune favored him--the block of marble moved. it was his salvation; his hope of escape. in that event, why submit to the conditions imposed by sholmes? he paced up and down the room, as if he were considering his reply. then, in his turn, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and said: "all things considered, monsieur sholmes, i prefer to do my own business in my own way." "but--" "no, i don't require anyone's assistance." "when ganimard gets his hand on you, it will be all over. you can't escape from them." "who knows?" "come, that is foolish. every door and window is guarded." "except one." "which?" "_the one i will choose_." "mere words! your arrest is as good as made." "oh! no--not at all." "well?" "i shall keep the blue diamond." sholmes looked at his watch, and said: "it is now ten minutes to three. at three o'clock i shall call ganimard." "well, then, we have ten minutes to chat. and to satisfy my curiosity, monsieur sholmes, i should like to know how you procured my address and my name of felix davey?" although his adversary's easy manner caused sholmes some anxiety, he was willing to give lupin the desired information since it reflected credit on his professional astuteness; so he replied: "your address? i got it from the blonde lady." "clotilde!" "herself. do you remember, yesterday morning, when i wished to take her away in the automobile, she telephoned to her dressmaker." "well?" "well, i understood, later, that you were the dressmaker. and last night, on the boat, by exercising my memory--and my memory is something i have good reason to be proud of--i was able to recollect the last two figures of your telephone number-- . then, as i possessed a list of the houses you had 'improved,' it was an easy matter, on my arrival in paris at eleven o'clock this morning, to search in the telephone directory and find there the name and address of felix davey. having obtained that information, i asked the aid of monsieur ganimard." "admirable! i congratulate you. but bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at havre! how did you escape from _the swallow_?" "i did not escape." "but----" "you ordered the captain not to reach southampton before one o'clock. he landed me there at midnight. i was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for havre." "did the captain betray me? i can't believe it." "no, he did not betray you." "well, what then?" "it was his watch." "his watch?" "yes, i put it ahead one hour." "how?" "in the usual way, by turning the hands. we were sitting side by side, talking, and i was telling him some funny stories.... why! he never saw me do it." "bravo! a very clever trick. i shall not forget it. but the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "he? nonsense! he wouldn't do it." "oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. i told him i must catch the first train for london, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "by means of----" "by means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "what was it!" "a mere trifle." "but what?" "the blue diamond." "the blue diamond!" "yes, the false stone that you substituted for the countess' diamond. she gave it to me." there was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "mon dieu, but it is funny! my false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! and the captain's watch! and the hands of the clock!" sholmes felt that the duel between him and lupin was keener than ever. his marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. gradually lupin approached the englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "it is three o'clock, monsieur lupin." "three o'clock, already! what a pity! we were enjoying our chat so much." "i am waiting for your answer." "my answer? mon dieu! but you are particular!... and so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "or the blue diamond." "very well. it's your play. what are you going to do!" "i play the king," said sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "and i the ace," replied lupin, as he struck at sholmes with his fist. sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to ganimard, whose assistance he required. but lupin's fist had caught sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... too late! the door opened. "surrender, lupin, or i fire!" ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than lupin had thought, ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on lupin. and behind ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "hands down! i surrender!" said lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. everyone was amazed. in the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, arsène lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "i surrender!" ... it seemed incredible. no one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. but he surrendered! ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "i arrest you, arsène lupin." "brrr!" said lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear ganimard. what a lugubrious face! one would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. for heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "i arrest you." "don't let that worry you! in the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, ganimard, the celebrated parisian detective, arrests the wicked arsène lupin. an historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... and it is the second time that it has happened. bravo, ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" and he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. the numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "my poor lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" he pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. the veins in his forehead expanded. the links of the chain cut into his flesh. the chain fell off--broken. "another, comrades, that one was useless." they placed two on him this time. "quite right," he said. "you cannot be too careful." then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "how many are you, my friends? twenty-five? thirty? that's too many. i can't do anything. ah! if there had been only fifteen!" there was something fascinating about lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his rôle with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. and he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. yes, the two sides were well-matched. "well, master," said lupin to the englishman, "this is your work. thanks to you, lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." in spite of himself, sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "it's your own fault." "never! never!" exclaimed lupin. "give you the blue diamond? oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. i intend to keep it. on my occasion of my first visit to you in london--which will probably be next month--i will tell you my reasons. but will you be in london next month? or do you prefer vienna? or saint petersburg?" then lupin received a surprise. a bell commenced to ring. it was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. the telephone! ah! who could it be? who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? arsène lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. but it was ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "hello!... hello!... number . ... yes, this is it." then sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. at that moment he glanced toward lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde lady who was telephoning. she wished to telephone to felix davey, or rather to maxime bermond, and it was to sholmes she was about to speak. the englishman said: "hello ... hello!" then, after a silence, he said: "yes, it is i, maxime." the drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. and sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "hello!... hello!... yes, everything has been moved, and i am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... where?... where you are now.... don't believe that he is here yet!..." sholmes stopped, seeking for words. it was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. moreover, ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! after a momentary pause, sholmes continued: "hello!... hello!... do you hear me?... i can't hear you very well.... can scarcely make out what you say.... are you listening? well, i think you had better return home.... no danger now.... but he is in england! i have received a telegram from southampton announcing his arrival." the sarcasm of those words! sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. and he added: "very well, don't lose any time. i will meet you there." he hung up the receiver. "monsieur ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "for the blonde lady, eh?" "yes." "you know who she is, and where she is?" "yes." "good! that settles monsieur lupin.... folenfant, take two men, and go with monsieur sholmes." the englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. the game was ended. the blonde lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the englishman. thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for lupin. "monsieur sholmes!" the englishman stopped. "monsieur lupin?" lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. his forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. he was sullen and dejected. however, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "you will concede that fate has been against me. a few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde lady. i submit to its decrees." "what do you mean?" "i mean that i am ready to re-open our negotiation." sholmes took ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. then he approached lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "what do you want?" "mademoiselle destange's liberty." "you know the price." "yes." "and you accept?" "yes; i accept your terms." "ah!" said the englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "yes, i can look out for myself, monsieur sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman i love. in france, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. and lupin has the same feelings as other people." he spoke with simplicity and candor. sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "very well, the blue diamond." "take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." holmes took the cane and followed the directions. as he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. he examined it. it was the blue diamond. "monsieur lupin, mademoiselle destange is free." "is her future safety assured? has she nothing to fear from you?" "neither from me, nor anyone else." "how can you manage it?" "quite easily. i have forgotten her name and address." "thank you. and au revoir--for i will see you again, sometime, monsieur sholmes?" "i have no doubt of it." then followed an animated conversation between sholmes and ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the englishman, who said: "i am very sorry, monsieur ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but i have no time to waste trying to convince you. i leave for england within an hour." "but ... the blonde lady?" "i do not know such a person." "and yet, a moment ago----" "you must take the affair as it stands. i have delivered arsène lupin into your hands. here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the countess de crozon. what more do you want?" "the blonde lady." "find her." sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "bon voyage, monsieur," cried lupin, "and, believe me, i shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. my regards to monsieur wilson." not receiving any reply, lupin added, sneeringly: "that is what is called 'taking british leave.' ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. consider for a moment, ganimard, what a charming exit a frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! with what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... but, god bless me, ganimard, what are you doing? making a search? come, what's the use? there is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. i assure you my archives are in a safe place." "i am not so sure of that," replied ganimard. "i must search everything." lupin submitted to the operation. held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "hurry up, ganimard, and finish!" "you are in a hurry." "of course i am. an important appointment." "at the police station?" "no; in the city." "ah! at what time?" "two o'clock." "it is three o'clock now." "just so; i will be late. and punctuality is one of my virtues." "well, give me five minutes." "not a second more," said lupin. "i am doing my best to expedite----" "oh! don't talk so much.... still searching that cupboard? it is empty." "here are some letters." "old invoices, i presume!" "no; a packet tied with a ribbon." "a red ribbon? oh! ganimard, for god's sake, don't untie it!" "from a woman?" "yes." "a woman of the world?" "the best in the world." "her name?" "madame ganimard." "very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. at that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. lupin laughed and said: "parbleu! did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the emperor of germany? but i can tell you what you should investigate, ganimard: all the little mysteries of this apartment. for instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. that chimney contains a stairway. that wall is hollow. and the marvellous system of bells! ah! ganimard, just press that button!" ganimard obeyed. "did you hear anything?" asked lupin. "no." "neither did i. and yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "come!" said ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." he started away, followed by his men. lupin did not move. his guardians pushed him in vain. "well," said ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "not at all. but it depends." "on what?" "where you want to take me." "to the station-house, of course." "then i refuse to go. i have no business there." "are you crazy?" "did i not tell you that i had an important appointment?" "lupin!" "why, ganimard, i have an appointment with the blonde lady, and do you suppose i would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? that would be very ungentlemanly." "listen, lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "i have been very patient with you, but i will endure no more. follow me." "impossible; i have an appointment and i shall keep it." "for the last time--follow me!" "im-pos-sible!" at a sign from ganimard two men seized lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. lupin had thrust two long needles into them. the other men now rushed at lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. a violent blow on the temple felled lupin to the floor. "if you hurt him you will answer to me," growled ganimard, in a rage. he leaned over lupin to ascertain his condition. then, learning that he was breathing freely, ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "go gently, now!... don't jolt him. ah! the brutes would have killed him.... well, lupin, how goes it?" "none too well, ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "it was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied ganimard. "but i hope they didn't hurt you." they had left the apartment and were now on the landing. lupin groaned and stammered: "ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "a good idea, an excellent idea," replied ganimard. "besides, the stairway is too narrow." he summoned the elevator. they placed lupin on the seat with the greatest care. ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "go down the stairs and wait for me below. understand?" ganimard closed the door of the elevator. suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "good god!" cried ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. having found it, he cried: "the fifth floor! watch the door of the fifth floor." his assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. but this strange circumstance happened: the elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. three men were there waiting for it. they opened the door. two of them seized ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. the other man carried off lupin. "i warned you, ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. another time, don't be so tender-hearted. and, moreover, remember that arsène lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. adieu." the door of the elevator was already closed on ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. a long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. on the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue picot. then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. he found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "did four men pass here just now?" "yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "two men named fauvel and their cousins, whose name is provost. they moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "ah!" thought ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! the entire band lived in these houses." and he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the northern railway and hurried to the calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. one of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. the other man was in a jovial mood. "we must hurry, wilson, or we will miss the train.... ah! wilson, i shall never forget these ten days." "neither will i." "ah! it was a great struggle!" "superb!" "a few repulses, here and there--" "of no consequence." "and, at last, victory all along the line. lupin arrested! the blue diamond recovered!" "my arm broken!" "what does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "especially when it is my arm." "ah! yes, don't you remember, wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that i discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "how lucky!" the doors of the carriages were being closed. "all aboard. hurry up, gentlemen!" the porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst sholmes assisted the unfortunate wilson. "what's the matter, wilson? you're not done up, are you? come, pull your nerves together." "my nerves are all right." "well, what is it, then?" "i have only one hand." "what of it?" exclaimed sholmes, cheerfully. "you are not the only one who has had a broken arm. cheer up!" sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "thank you, monsieur sholmes," said the porter. the englishman looked at him; it was arsène lupin. "you!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. and wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "you! you! but you were arrested! sholmes told me so. when he left you ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "did you suppose i would let you go away without bidding you adieu? after the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! that would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." the train whistled. lupin continued: "i beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? you will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, monsieur sholmes. and now, au revoir. am delighted to have made your acquaintance. and if ever i can be of any service to you, i shall be only too happy...." he leaped to the platform and closed the door. "adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "adieu.... i shall write to you.... you will write also, eh? and your arm broken, wilson.... i am truly sorry.... i shall expect to hear from both of you. a postal card, now and then, simply address: lupin, paris. that is sufficient.... adieu.... see you soon." chapter vii. the jewish lamp. herlock sholmes and wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. he knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. was the master going to break the silence? would he reveal to wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? when sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. wilson ventured to speak: "everything seems quiet now. not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by sholmes were better formed, and wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. the lonely street extended between the gloomy façades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. a cab passed; then another. wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. one never knows! "ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." the man entered, shown in by the servant. "two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "it seems to please you," remarked wilson, after a moment's silence. "this letter contains a very interesting proposition. you are anxious for a case--here's one. read----" wilson read: "monsieur, "i desire the benefit of your services and experience. i have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. i am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, i will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "your humble servant, "baron victor d'imblevalle, " rue murillo, paris." "ah!" exclaimed sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to paris ... and why not, wilson? since my famous duel with arsène lupin, i have not had an excuse to go there. i should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." he tore the check into four pieces and, while wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against paris and the parisians, sholmes opened the second envelope. immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "well? what's the matter?" asked wilson, anxiously. he picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "my dear monsieur: "you know full well the admiration i have for you and the interest i take in your renown. well, believe me, when i warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to paris. your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, i implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "my best wishes to monsieur wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted arsÈne lupin." "arsène lupin!" repeated wilson, astounded. sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! he laughs at me as if i were a schoolboy! the public confession of my defeat! didn't i force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "i tell you--he's afraid," suggested wilson. "nonsense! arsène lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "but how did he know that the baron d'imblevalle had written to you?" "what do i know about it? you do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "i thought ... i supposed----" "what? that i am a clairvoyant? or a sorcerer?" "no, but i have seen you do some marvellous things." "no person can perform _marvellous_ things. i no more than you. i reflect, i deduct, i conclude--that is all; but i do not divine. only fools divine." wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. but when sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. the same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "sholmes, you are going to paris." "possibly." "and lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the baron d'imblevalle." "possibly." "sholmes, i shall go with you." "ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "what can happen to me? you will be there." "that's the way to talk, wilson. we will show that clever frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. be quick, wilson, we must catch the first train." "without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "what good are they?" "i will send a telegram." "no; if you do that, arsène lupin will know of my arrival. i wish to avoid that. this time, wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * that afternoon, the two friends embarked at dover. the passage was a delightful one. in the train from calais to paris, sholmes had three hours sound sleep, while wilson guarded the door of the compartment. sholmes awoke in good spirits. he was delighted at the idea of another duel with arsène lupin, and he rubbed his hands with the satisfied air of a man who looks forward to a pleasant vacation. "at last!" exclaimed wilson, "we are getting to work again." and he rubbed his hands with the same satisfied air. at the station, sholmes took the wraps and, followed by wilson, who carried the valises, he gave up his tickets and started off briskly. "fine weather, wilson.... blue sky and sunshine! paris is giving us a royal reception." "yes, but what a crowd!" "so much the better, wilson, we will pass unnoticed. no one will recognize us in such a crowd." "is this monsieur sholmes?" he stopped, somewhat puzzled. who the deuce could thus address him by his name? a woman stood beside him; a young girl whose simple dress outlined her slender form and whose pretty face had a sad and anxious expression. she repeated her enquiry: "you are monsieur sholmes?" as he still remained silent, as much from confusion as from a habit of prudence, the girl asked a third time: "have i the honor of addressing monsieur sholmes?" "what do you want?" he replied, testily, considering the incident a suspicious one. "you must listen to me, monsieur sholmes, as it is a serious matter. i know that you are going to the rue murillo." "what do you say?" "i know ... i know ... rue murillo ... number . well, you must not go ... no, you must not. i assure you that you will regret it. do not think that i have any interest in the matter. i do it because it is right ... because my conscience tells me to do it." sholmes tried to get away, but she persisted: "oh! i beg of you, don't neglect my advice.... ah! if i only knew how to convince you! look at me! look into my eyes! they are sincere ... they speak the truth." she gazed at sholmes, fearlessly but innocently, with those beautiful eyes, serious and clear, in which her very soul seemed to be reflected. wilson nodded his head, as he said: "mademoiselle looks honest." "yes," she implored, "and you must have confidence----" "i have confidence in you, mademoiselle," replied wilson. "oh, how happy you make me! and so has your friend? i feel it ... i am sure of it! what happiness! everything will be all right now!... what a good idea of mine!... ah! yes, there is a train for calais in twenty minutes. you will take it.... quick, follow me ... you must come this way ... there is just time." she tried to drag them along. sholmes seized her arm, and in as gentle a voice as he could assume, said to her: "excuse me, mademoiselle, if i cannot yield to your wishes, but i never abandon a task that i have once undertaken." "i beseech you ... i implore you.... ah if you could only understand!" sholmes passed outside and walked away at a quick pace. wilson said to the girl: "have no fear ... he will be in at the finish. he never failed yet." and he ran to overtake sholmes. herlock sholmes--arsÈne lupin. these words, in great black letters, met their gaze as soon as they left the railway station. a number of sandwich-men were parading through the street, one behind the other, carrying heavy canes with iron ferrules with which they struck the pavement in harmony, and, on their backs, they carried large posters, on which one could read the following notice: the match between herlock sholmes and arsÈne lupin. arrival of the english champion. the great detective attacks the mystery of the rue murillo. read the details in the "echo de france". wilson shook his head, and said: "look at that, sholmes, and we thought we were traveling incognito! i shouldn't be surprised to find the republican guard waiting for us at the rue murillo to give us an official reception with toasts and champagne." "wilson, when you get funny, you get beastly funny," growled sholmes. then he approached one of the sandwich-men with the obvious intention of seizing him in his powerful grip and crushing him, together with his infernal sign-board. there was quite a crowd gathered about the men, reading the notices, and joking and laughing. repressing a furious access of rage, sholmes said to the man: "when did they hire you?" "this morning." "how long have you been parading?" "about an hour." "but the boards were ready before that?" "oh, yes, they were ready when we went to the agency this morning." so then it appears that arsène lupin had foreseen that he, sholmes, would accept the challenge. more than that, the letter written by lupin showed that he was eager for the fray and that he was prepared to measure swords once more with his formidable rival. why? what motive could arsène lupin have in renewing the struggle? sholmes hesitated for a moment. lupin must be very confident of his success to show so much insolence in advance; and was not he, sholmes, falling into a trap by rushing into the battle at the first call for help? however, he called a carriage. "come, wilson!... driver, rue murillo!" he exclaimed, with an outburst of his accustomed energy. with distended veins and clenched fists, as if he were about to engage in a boxing bout, he jumped into the carriage. * * * * * the rue murillo is bordered with magnificent private residences, the rear of which overlook the parc monceau. one of the most pretentious of these houses is number , owned and occupied by the baron d'imblevalle and furnished in a luxurious manner consistent with the owner's taste and wealth. there was a courtyard in front of the house, and, in the rear, a garden well filled with trees whose branches mingle with those of the park. after ringing the bell, the two englishmen were admitted, crossed the courtyard, and were received at the door by a footman who showed them into a small parlor facing the garden in the rear of the house. they sat down and, glancing about, made a rapid inspection of the many valuable objects with which the room was filled. "everything very choice," murmured wilson, "and in the best of taste. it is a safe deduction to make that those who had the leisure to collect these articles must now be at least fifty years of age." the door opened, and the baron d'imblevalle entered, followed by his wife. contrary to the deduction made by wilson, they were both quite young, of elegant appearance, and vivacious in speech and action. they were profuse in their expressions of gratitude. "so kind of you to come! sorry to have caused you so much trouble! the theft now seems of little consequence, since it has procured us this pleasure." "how charming these french people are!" thought wilson, evolving one of his commonplace deductions. "but time is money," exclaimed the baron, "especially your time, monsieur sholmes. so i will come to the point. now, what do you think of the affair? do you think you can succeed in it?" "before i can answer that i must know what it is about." "i thought you knew." "no; so i must ask you for full particulars, even to the smallest detail. first, what is the nature of the case?" "a theft." "when did it take place?" "last saturday," replied the baron, "or, at least, some time during saturday night or sunday morning." "that was six days ago. now, you can tell me all about it." "in the first place, monsieur, i must tell you that my wife and i, conforming to the manner of life that our position demands, go out very little. the education of our children, a few receptions, and the care and decoration of our house--such constitutes our life; and nearly all our evenings are spent in this little room, which is my wife's boudoir, and in which we have gathered a few artistic objects. last saturday night, about eleven o'clock, i turned off the electric lights, and my wife and i retired, as usual, to our room." "where is your room?" "it adjoins this. that is the door. next morning, that is to say, sunday morning, i arose quite early. as suzanne, my wife, was still asleep, i passed into the boudoir as quietly as possible so as not to wake her. what was my astonishment when i found that window open--as we had left it closed the evening before!" "a servant----" "no one enters here in the morning until we ring. besides, i always take the precaution to bolt the second door which communicates with the ante-chamber. therefore, the window must have been opened from the outside. besides, i have some evidence of that: the second pane of glass from the right--close to the fastening--had been cut." "and what does that window overlook?" "as you can see for yourself, it opens on a little balcony, surrounded by a stone railing. here, we are on the first floor, and you can see the garden behind the house and the iron fence which separates it from the parc monceau. it is quite certain that the thief came through the park, climbed the fence by the aid of a ladder, and thus reached the terrace below the window." "that is quite certain, you say!" "well, in the soft earth on either side of the fence, they found the two holes made by the bottom of the ladder, and two similar holes can be seen below the window. and the stone railing of the balcony shows two scratches which were doubtless made by the contact of the ladder." "is the parc monceau closed at night?" "no; but if it were, there is a house in course of erection at number , and a person could enter that way." herlock sholmes reflected for a few minutes, and then said: "let us come down to the theft. it must have been committed in this room?" "yes; there was here, between that twelfth century virgin and that tabernacle of chased silver, a small jewish lamp. it has disappeared." "and is that all?" "that is all." "ah!... and what is a jewish lamp?" "one of those copper lamps used by the ancient jews, consisting of a standard which supported a bowl containing the oil, and from this bowl projected several burners intended for the wicks." "upon the whole, an object of small value." "no great value, of course. but this one contained a secret hiding-place in which we were accustomed to place a magnificent jewel, a chimera in gold, set with rubies and emeralds, which was of great value." "why did you hide it there?" "oh! i can't give any reason, monsieur, unless it was an odd fancy to utilize a hiding-place of that kind." "did anyone know it?" "no." "no one--except the thief," said sholmes. "otherwise he would not have taken the trouble to steal the lamp." "of course. but how could he know it, as it was only by accident that the secret mechanism of the lamp was revealed to us." "a similar accident has revealed it to some one else ... a servant ... or an acquaintance. but let us proceed: i suppose the police have been notified?" "yes. the examining magistrate has completed his investigation. the reporter-detectives attached to the leading newspapers have also made their investigations. but, as i wrote to you, it seems to me the mystery will never be solved." sholmes arose, went to the window, examined the casement, the balcony, the terrace, studied the scratches on the stone railing with his magnifying-glass, and then requested mon. d'imblevalle to show him the garden. outside, sholmes sat down in a rattan chair and gazed at the roof of the house in a dreamy way. then he walked over to the two little wooden boxes with which they had covered the holes made in the ground by the bottom of the ladder with a view of preserving them intact. he raised the boxes, kneeled on the ground, scrutinized the holes and made some measurements. after making a similar examination of the holes near the fence, he and the baron returned to the boudoir where madame d'imblevalle was waiting for them. after a short silence sholmes said: "at the very outset of your story, baron, i was surprised at the very simple methods employed by the thief. to raise a ladder, cut a window-pane, select a valuable article, and walk out again--no, that is not the way such things are done. all that is too plain, too simple." "well, what do you think?" "that the jewish lamp was stolen under the direction of arsène lupin." "arsène lupin!" exclaimed the baron. "yes, but he did not do it himself, as no one came from the outside. perhaps a servant descended from the upper floor by means of a waterspout that i noticed when i was in the garden." "what makes you think so?" "arsène lupin would not leave this room empty-handed." "empty-handed! but he had the lamp." "but that would not have prevented his taking that snuff-box, set with diamonds, or that opal necklace. when he leaves anything, it is because he can't carry it away." "but the marks of the ladder outside?" "a false scent. placed there simply to avert suspicion." "and the scratches on the balustrade?" "a farce! they were made with a piece of sandpaper. see, here are scraps of the paper that i picked up in the garden." "and what about the marks made by the bottom of the ladder?" "counterfeit! examine the two rectangular holes below the window, and the two holes near the fence. they are of a similar form, but i find that the two holes near the house are closer to each other than the two holes near the fence. what does that fact suggest? to me, it suggested that the four holes were made by a piece of wood prepared for the purpose." "the better proof would be the piece of wood itself." "here it is," said sholmes, "i found it in the garden, under the box of a laurel tree." the baron bowed to sholmes in recognition of his skill. only forty minutes had elapsed since the englishman had entered the house, and he had already exploded all the theories theretofore formed, and which had been based on what appeared to be obvious and undeniable facts. but what now appeared to be the real facts of the case rested upon a more solid foundation, to-wit, the astute reasoning of a herlock sholmes. "the accusation which you make against one of our household is a very serious matter," said the baroness. "our servants have been with us a long time and none of them would betray our trust." "if none of them has betrayed you, how can you explain the fact that i received this letter on the same day and by the same mail as the letter you wrote to me?" he handed to the baroness the letter that he had received from arsène lupin. she exclaimed, in amazement: "arsène lupin! how could he know?" "did you tell anyone that you had written to me?" "no one," replied the baron. "the idea occurred to us the other evening at the dinner-table." "before the servants?" "no, only our two children. oh, no ... sophie and henriette had left the table, hadn't they, suzanne?" madame d'imblevalle, after a moment's reflection, replied: "yes, they had gone to mademoiselle." "mademoiselle?" queried sholmes. "the governess, mademoiselle alice demun." "does she take her meals with you?" "no. her meals are served in her room." wilson had an idea. he said: "the letter written to my friend herlock sholmes was posted?" "of course." "who posted it?" "dominique, who has been my valet for twenty years," replied the baron. "any search in that direction would be a waste of time." "one never wastes his time when engaged in a search," said wilson, sententiously. this preliminary investigation now ended, and sholmes asked permission to retire. at dinner, an hour later, he saw sophie and henriette, the two children of the family, one was six and the other eight years of age. there was very little conversation at the table. sholmes responded to the friendly advances of his hosts in such a curt manner that they were soon reduced to silence. when the coffee was served, sholmes swallowed the contents of his cup, and rose to take his leave. at that moment, a servant entered with a telephone message addressed to sholmes. he opened it, and read: "you have my enthusiastic admiration. the results attained by you in so short a time are simply marvellous. i am dismayed. "arsÈne lupin." sholmes made a gesture of indignation and handed the message to the baron, saying: "what do you think now, monsieur? are the walls of your house furnished with eyes and ears?" "i don't understand it," said the baron, in amazement. "nor do i; but i do understand that lupin has knowledge of everything that occurs in this house. he knows every movement, every word. there is no doubt of it. but how does he get his information? that is the first mystery i have to solve, and when i know that i will know everything." * * * * * that night, wilson retired with the clear conscience of a man who has performed his whole duty and thus acquired an undoubted right to sleep and repose. so he fell asleep very quickly, and was soon enjoying the most delightful dreams in which he pursued lupin and captured him single-handed; and the sensation was so vivid and exciting that it woke him from his sleep. someone was standing at his bedside. he seized his revolver, and cried: "don't move, lupin, or i'll fire." "the deuce! wilson, what do you mean?" "oh! it is you, sholmes. do you want me?" "i want to show you something. get up." sholmes led him to the window, and said: "look!... on the other side of the fence...." "in the park?" "yes. what do you see?" "i don't see anything." "yes, you do see something." "ah! of course, a shadow ... two of them." "yes, close to the fence. see, they are moving. come, quick!" quickly they descended the stairs, and reached a room which opened into the garden. through the glass door they could see the two shadowy forms in the same place. "it is very strange," said sholmes, "but it seems to me i can hear a noise inside the house." "inside the house? impossible! everybody is asleep." "well, listen----" at that moment a low whistle came from the other side of the fence, and they perceived a dim light which appeared to come from the house. "the baron must have turned on the light in his room. it is just above us." "that must have been the noise you heard," said wilson. "perhaps they are watching the fence also." then there was a second whistle, softer than before. "i don't understand it; i don't understand," said sholmes, irritably. "no more do i," confessed wilson. sholmes turned the key, drew the bolt, and quietly opened the door. a third whistle, louder than before, and modulated to another form. and the noise above their heads became more pronounced. sholmes said: "it seems to be on the balcony outside the boudoir window." he put his head through the half-opened door, but immediately recoiled, with a stifled oath. then wilson looked. quite close to them there was a ladder, the upper end of which was resting on the balcony. "the deuce!" said sholmes, "there is someone in the boudoir. that is what we heard. quick, let us remove the ladder." but at that instant a man slid down the ladder and ran toward the spot where his accomplices were waiting for him outside the fence. he carried the ladder with him. sholmes and wilson pursued the man and overtook him just as he was placing the ladder against the fence. from the other side of the fence two shots were fired. "wounded?" cried sholmes. "no," replied wilson. wilson seized the man by the body and tried to hold him, but the man turned and plunged a knife into wilson's breast. he uttered a groan, staggered and fell. "damnation!" muttered sholmes, "if they have killed him i will kill them." he laid wilson on the grass and rushed toward the ladder. too late--the man had climbed the fence and, accompanied by his confederates, had fled through the bushes. "wilson, wilson, it is not serious, hein? merely a scratch." the house door opened, and monsieur d'imblevalle appeared, followed by the servants, carrying candles. "what's the matter?" asked the baron. "is monsieur wilson wounded?" "oh! it's nothing--a mere scratch," repeated sholmes, trying to deceive himself. the blood was flowing profusely, and wilson's face was livid. twenty minutes later the doctor ascertained that the point of the knife had penetrated to within an inch and a half of the heart. "an inch and a half of the heart! wilson always was lucky!" said sholmes, in an envious tone. "lucky ... lucky...." muttered the doctor. "of course! why, with his robust constitution he will soon be out again." "six weeks in bed and two months of convalescence." "not more?" "no, unless complications set in." "oh! the devil! what does he want complications for?" fully reassured, sholmes joined the baron in the boudoir. this time the mysterious visitor had not exercised the same restraint. ruthlessly, he had laid his vicious hand upon the diamond snuff-box, upon the opal necklace, and, in a general way, upon everything that could find a place in the greedy pockets of an enterprising burglar. the window was still open; one of the window-panes had been neatly cut; and, in the morning, a summary investigation showed that the ladder belonged to the house then in course of construction. "now, you can see," said mon. d'imblevalle, with a touch of irony, "it is an exact repetition of the affair of the jewish lamp." "yes, if we accept the first theory adopted by the police." "haven't you adopted it yet? doesn't this second theft shatter your theory in regard to the first?" "it only confirms it, monsieur." "that is incredible! you have positive evidence that last night's theft was committed by an outsider, and yet you adhere to your theory that the jewish lamp was stolen by someone in the house." "yes, i am sure of it." "how do you explain it?" "i do not explain anything, monsieur; i have established two facts which do not appear to have any relation to each other, and yet i am seeking the missing link that connects them." his conviction seemed to be so earnest and positive that the baron submitted to it, and said: "very well, we will notify the police----" "not at all!" exclaimed the englishman, quickly, "not at all! i intend to ask for their assistance when i need it--but not before." "but the attack on your friend?" "that's of no consequence. he is only wounded. secure the license of the doctor. i shall be responsible for the legal side of the affair." * * * * * the next two days proved uneventful. yet sholmes was investigating the case with a minute care, and with a sense of wounded pride resulting from that audacious theft, committed under his nose, in spite of his presence and beyond his power to prevent it. he made a thorough investigation of the house and garden, interviewed the servants, and paid lengthy visits to the kitchen and stables. and, although his efforts were fruitless, he did not despair. "i will succeed," he thought, "and the solution must be sought within the walls of this house. this affair is quite different from that of the blonde lady, where i had to work in the dark, on unknown ground. this time i am on the battlefield itself. the enemy is not the elusive and invisible lupin, but the accomplice, in flesh and blood, who lives and moves within the confines of this house. let me secure the slightest clue and the game is mine!" that clue was furnished to him by accident. on the afternoon of the third day, when he entered a room located above the boudoir, which served as a study for the children, he found henriette, the younger of the two sisters. she was looking for her scissors. "you know," she said to sholmes, "i make papers like that you received the other evening." "the other evening?" "yes, just as dinner was over, you received a paper with marks on it ... you know, a telegram.... well, i make them, too." she left the room. to anyone else these words would seem to be nothing more than the insignificant remark of a child, and sholmes himself listened to them with a distracted air and continued his investigation. but, suddenly, he ran after the child, and overtook her at the head of the stairs. he said to her: "so you paste stamps and marks on papers?" henriette, very proudly, replied: "yes, i cut them out and paste them on." "who taught you that little game?" "mademoiselle ... my governess ... i have seen her do it often. she takes words out of the newspapers and pastes them----" "what does she make out of them?" "telegrams and letters that she sends away." herlock sholmes returned to the study, greatly puzzled by the information and seeking to draw from it a logical deduction. there was a pile of newspapers on the mantel. he opened them and found that many words and, in some places, entire lines had been cut out. but, after reading a few of the word's which preceded or followed, he decided that the missing words had been cut out at random--probably by the child. it was possible that one of the newspapers had been cut by mademoiselle; but how could he assure himself that such was the case? mechanically, sholmes turned over the school-books on the table; then others which were lying on the shelf of a bookcase. suddenly he uttered a cry of joy. in a corner of the bookcase, under a pile of old exercise books, he found a child's alphabet-book, in which the letters were ornamented with pictures, and on one of the pages of that book he discovered a place where a word had been removed. he examined it. it was a list of the days of the week. monday, tuesday, wednesday, etc. the word "saturday" was missing. now, the theft of the jewish lamp had occurred on a saturday night. sholmes experienced that slight fluttering of the heart which always announced to him, in the clearest manner, that he had discovered the road which leads to victory. that ray of truth, that feeling of certainty, never deceived him. with nervous fingers he hastened to examine the balance of the book. very soon he made another discovery. it was a page composed of capital letters, followed by a line of figures. nine of those letters and three of those figures had been carefully cut out. sholmes made a list of the missing letters and figures in his memorandum book, in alphabetical and numerical order, and obtained the following result: cdehnopez-- . "well? at first sight, it is a rather formidable puzzle," he murmured, "but, by transposing the letters and using all of them, is it possible to form one, two or three complete words?" sholmes tried it, in vain. only one solution seemed possible; it constantly appeared before him, no matter which way he tried to juggle the letters, until, at length, he was satisfied it was the true solution, since it harmonized with the logic of the facts and the general circumstances of the case. as that page of the book did not contain any duplicate letters it was probable, in fact quite certain, that the words he could form from those letters would be incomplete, and that the original words had been completed with letters taken from other pages. under those conditions he obtained the following solution, errors and omissions excepted: repond z--ch-- . the first word was quite clear: répondez [reply], a letter e is missing because it occurs twice in the word, and the book furnished only one letter of each kind. as to the second incomplete word, no doubt it formed, with the aid of the number , an address to which the reply was to be sent. they appointed saturday as the time, and requested a reply to be sent to the address ch. . or, perhaps, ch. was an address for a letter to be sent to the "general delivery" of some postoffice, or, again, they might form a part of some incomplete word. sholmes searched the book once more, but did not discover that any other letters had been removed. therefore, until further orders, he decided to adhere to the foregoing interpretation. henriette returned and observed what he was doing. "amusing, isn't it?" "yes, very amusing," he replied. "but, have you any other papers?... or, rather, words already cut out that i can paste?" "papers?... no.... and mademoiselle wouldn't like it." "mademoiselle?" "yes, she has scolded me already." "why?" "because i have told you some things ... and she says that a person should never tell things about those they love." "you are quite right." henriette was delighted to receive his approbation, in fact so highly pleased that she took from a little silk bag that was pinned to her dress some scraps of cloth, three buttons, two cubes of sugar and, lastly, a piece of paper which she handed to sholmes. "see, i give it to you just the same." it was the number of a cab-- , . "where did this number come from?" "it fell out of her pocketbook." "when?" "sunday, at mass, when she was taking out some sous for the collection." "exactly! and now i shall tell you how to keep from being scolded again. do not tell mademoiselle that you saw me." sholmes then went to mon. d'imblevalle and questioned him in regard to mademoiselle. the baron replied, indignantly: "alice demun! how can you imagine such a thing? it is utterly impossible!" "how long has she been in your service?" "only a year, but there is no one in the house in whom i have greater confidence." "why have i not seen her yet?" "she has been away for a few days." "but she is here now." "yes; since her return she has been watching at the bedside of your friend. she has all the qualities of a nurse ... gentle ... thoughtful ... monsieur wilson seems much pleased...." "ah!" said sholmes, who had completely neglected to inquire about his friend. after a moment's reflection he asked: "did she go out on sunday morning?" "the day after the theft?" "yes." the baron called his wife and asked her. she replied: "mademoiselle went to the eleven o'clock mass with the children, as usual." "but before that?" "before that? no.... let me see!... i was so upset by the theft ... but i remember now that, on the evening before, she asked permission to go out on sunday morning ... to see a cousin who was passing through paris, i think. but, surely, you don't suspect her?" "of course not ... but i would like to see her." he went to wilson's room. a woman dressed in a gray cloth dress, as in the hospitals, was bending over the invalid, giving him a drink. when she turned her face sholmes recognized her as the young girl who had accosted him at the railway station. alice demun smiled sweetly; her great serious, innocent eyes showed no sign of embarrassment. the englishman tried to speak, muttered a few syllables, and stopped. then she resumed her work, acting quite naturally under sholmes' astonished gaze, moved the bottles, unrolled and rolled cotton bandages, and again regarded sholmes with her charming smile of pure innocence. he turned on his heels, descended the stairs, noticed mon. d'imblevalle's automobile in the courtyard, jumped into it, and went to levallois, to the office of the cab company whose address was printed on the paper he had received from henriette. the man who had driven carriage number , on sunday morning not being there, sholmes dismissed the automobile and waited for the man's return. he told sholmes that he had picked up a woman in the vicinity of the parc monceau, a young woman dressed in black, wearing a heavy veil, and, apparently, quite nervous. "did she have a package?" "yes, quite a long package." "where did you take her?" "avenue des ternes, corner of the place saint-ferdinand. she remained there about ten minutes, and then returned to the parc monceau." "could you recognize the house in the avenue des ternes?" "parbleu! shall i take you there?" "presently. first take me to quai des orfèvres." at the police office he saw detective ganimard. "monsieur ganimard, are you at liberty?" "if it has anything to do with lupin--no!" "it has something to do with lupin." "then i do not go." "what! you surrender----" "i bow to the inevitable. i am tired of the unequal struggle, in which we are sure to be defeated. lupin is stronger than i am--stronger than the two of us; therefore, we must surrender." "i will not surrender." "he will make you, as he has all others." "and you would be pleased to see it--eh, ganimard?" "at all events, it is true," said ganimard, frankly. "and since you are determined to pursue the game, i will go with you." together they entered the carriage and were driven to the avenue des ternes. upon their order the carriage stopped on the other side of the street, at some distance from the house, in front of a little café, on the terrace of which the two men took seats amongst the shrubbery. it was commencing to grow dark. "waiter," said sholmes, "some writing material." he wrote a note, recalled the waiter and gave him the letter with instructions to deliver it to the concierge of the house which he pointed out. in a few minutes the concierge stood before them. sholmes asked him if, on the sunday morning, he had seen a young woman dressed in black. "in black? yes, about nine o'clock. she went to the second floor." "have you seen her often?" "no, but for some time--well, during the last few weeks, i have seen her almost every day." "and since sunday?" "only once ... until to-day." "what! did she come to-day?" "she is here now." "here now?" "yes, she came about ten minutes ago. her carriage is standing in the place saint-ferdinand, as usual. i met her at the door." "who is the occupant of the second floor?" "there are two: a modiste, mademoiselle langeais, and a gentleman who rented two furnished rooms a month ago under the name of bresson." "why do you say 'under the name'?" "because i have an idea that it is an assumed name. my wife takes care of his rooms, and ... well, there are not two shirts there with the same initials." "is he there much of the time?" "no; he is nearly always out. he has not been here for three days." "was he here on saturday night?" "saturday night?... let me think.... yes, saturday night, he came in and stayed all night." "what sort of a man is he?" "well, i can scarcely answer that. he is so changeable. he is, by turns, big, little, fat, thin ... dark and light. i do not always recognize him." ganimard and sholmes exchanged looks. "that is he, all right," said ganimard. "ah!" said the concierge, "there is the girl now." mademoiselle had just emerged from the house and was walking toward her carriage in the place saint-ferdinand. "and there is monsieur bresson." "monsieur bresson? which is he?" "the man with the parcel under his arm." "but he is not looking after the girl. she is going to her carriage alone." "yes, i have never seen them together." the two detectives had arisen. by the light of the street-lamps they recognized the form of arsène lupin, who had started off in a direction opposite to that taken by the girl. "which will you follow?" asked ganimard. "i will follow him, of course. he's the biggest game." "then i will follow the girl," proposed ganimard. "no, no," said sholmes, quickly, who did not wish to disclose the girl's identity to ganimard, "i know where to find her. come with me." they followed lupin at a safe distance, taking care to conceal themselves as well as possible amongst the moving throng and behind the newspaper kiosks. they found the pursuit an easy one, as he walked steadily forward without turning to the right or left, but with a slight limp in the right leg, so slight as to require the keen eye of a professional observer to detect it. ganimard observed it, and said: "he is pretending to be lame. ah! if we could only collect two or three policemen and pounce on our man! we run a chance to lose him." but they did not meet any policemen before they reached the porte des ternes, and, having passed the fortifications, there was no prospect of receiving any assistance. "we had better separate," said sholmes, "as there are so few people on the street." they were now on the boulevard victor-hugo. they walked one on each side of the street, and kept well in the shadow of the trees. they continued thus for twenty minutes, when lupin turned to the left and followed the seine. very soon they saw him descend to the edge of the river. he remained there only a few seconds, but they could not observe his movements. then lupin retraced his steps. his pursuers concealed themselves in the shadow of a gateway. lupin passed in front of them. his parcel had disappeared. and as he walked away another man emerged from the shelter of a house and glided amongst the trees. "he seems to be following him also," said sholmes, in a low voice. the pursuit continued, but was now embarrassed by the presence of the third man. lupin returned the same way, passed through the porte des ternes, and re-entered the house in the avenue des ternes. the concierge was closing the house for the night when ganimard presented himself. "did you see him?" "yes," replied the concierge, "i was putting out the gas on the landing when he closed and bolted his door." "is there any person with him?" "no; he has no servant. he never eats here." "is there a servants' stairway?" "no." ganimard said to sholmes: "i had better stand at the door of his room while you go for the commissary of police in the rue demours." "and if he should escape during that time?" said sholmes. "while i am here! he can't escape." "one to one, with lupin, is not an even chance for you." "well, i can't force the door. i have no right to do that, especially at night." sholmes shrugged his shoulders and said: "when you arrest lupin no one will question the methods by which you made the arrest. however, let us go up and ring, and see what happens then." they ascended to the second floor. there was a double door at the left of the landing. ganimard rang the bell. no reply. he rang again. still no reply. "let us go in," said sholmes. "all right, come on," replied ganimard. yet, they stood still, irresolute. like people who hesitate when they ought to accomplish a decisive action they feared to move, and it seemed to them impossible that arsène lupin was there, so close to them, on the other side of that fragile door that could be broken down by one blow of the fist. but they knew lupin too well to suppose that he would allow himself to be trapped in that stupid manner. no, no--a thousand times, no--lupin was no longer there. through the adjoining houses, over the roofs, by some conveniently prepared exit, he must have already made his escape, and, once more, it would only be lupin's shadow that they would seize. they shuddered as a slight noise, coming from the other side of the door, reached their ears. then they had the impression, amounting almost to a certainty, that he was there, separated from them by that frail wooden door, and that he was listening to them, that he could hear them. what was to be done? the situation was a serious one. in spite of their vast experience as detectives, they were so nervous and excited that they thought they could hear the beating of their own hearts. ganimard questioned sholmes by a look. then he struck the door a violent blow with his fist. immediately they heard the sound of footsteps, concerning which there was no attempt at concealment. ganimard shook the door. then he and sholmes, uniting their efforts, rushed at the door, and burst it open with their shoulders. then they stood still, in surprise. a shot had been fired in the adjoining room. another shot, and the sound of a falling body. when they entered they saw the man lying on the floor with his face toward the marble mantel. his revolver had fallen from his hand. ganimard stooped and turned the man's head. the face was covered with blood, which was flowing from two wounds, one in the cheek, the other in the temple. "you can't recognize him for blood." "no matter!" said sholmes. "it is not lupin." "how do you know? you haven't even looked at him." "do you think that arsène lupin is the kind of a man that would kill himself?" asked sholmes, with a sneer. "but we thought we recognized him outside." "we thought so, because the wish was father to the thought. that man has us bewitched." "then it must be one of his accomplices." "the accomplices of arsène lupin do not kill themselves." "well, then, who is it?" they searched the corpse. in one pocket herlock sholmes found an empty pocketbook; in another ganimard found several louis. there were no marks of identification on any part of his clothing. in a trunk and two valises they found nothing but wearing apparel. on the mantel there was a pile of newspapers. ganimard opened them. all of them contained articles referring to the theft of the jewish lamp. an hour later, when ganimard and sholmes left the house, they had acquired no further knowledge of the strange individual who had been driven to suicide by their untimely visit. who was he? why had he killed himself? what was his connection with the affair of the jewish lamp? who had followed him on his return from the river? the situation involved many complex questions--many mysteries---- * * * * * herlock sholmes went to bed in a very bad humor. early next morning he received the following telephonic message: "arsène lupin has the honor to inform you of his tragic death in the person of monsieur bresson, and requests the honor of your presence at the funeral service and burial, which will be held at the public expense on thursday, june." chapter viii. the shipwreck. "that's what i don't like, wilson," said herlock sholmes, after he had read arsène lupin's message; "that is what exasperates me in this affair--to feel that the cunning, mocking eye of that fellow follows me everywhere. he sees everything; he knows everything; he reads my inmost thoughts; he even foresees my slightest movement. ah! he is possessed of a marvellous intuition, far surpassing that of the most instinctive woman, yes, surpassing even that of herlock sholmes himself. nothing escapes him. i resemble an actor whose every step and movement are directed by a stage-manager; who says this and does that in obedience to a superior will. that is my position. do you understand, wilson?" certainly wilson would have understood if his faculties had not been deadened by the profound slumber of a man whose temperature varies between one hundred and one hundred and three degrees. but whether he heard or not was a matter of no consequence to herlock sholmes, who continued: "i have to concentrate all my energy and bring all my resources into action in order to make the slightest progress. and, fortunately for me, those petty annoyances are like so many pricks from a needle and serve only to stimulate me. as soon as the heat of the wound is appeased and the shock to my vanity has subsided i say to myself: 'amuse yourself, my dear fellow, but remember that he who laughs last laughs best. sooner or later you will betray yourself.' for you know, wilson, it was lupin himself, who, by his first dispatch and the observation that it suggested to little henriette, disclosed to me the secret of his correspondence with alice hemun. have you forgotten that circumstance, dear boy?" but wilson was asleep; and sholmes, pacing to and fro, resumed his speech: "and, now, things are not in a bad shape; a little obscure, perhaps, but the light is creeping in. in the first place, i must learn all about monsieur bresson. ganimard and i will visit the bank of the river, at the spot where bresson threw away the package, and the particular rôle of that gentleman will be known to me. after that the game will be played between me and alice demun. rather a light-weight opponent, hein, wilson? and do you not think that i will soon know the phrase represented by the letters clipped from the alphabet-book, and what the isolated letters--the 'c' and the 'h'--mean? that is all i want to know, wilson." mademoiselle entered at that moment, and, observing sholmes gesticulating, she said, in her sweetest manner: "monsieur sholmes, i must scold you if you waken my patient. it isn't nice of you to disturb him. the doctor has ordered absolute rest." he looked at her in silence, astonished, as on their first meeting, at her wonderful self-possession. "why do you look at me so, monsieur sholmes?... you seem to be trying to read my thoughts.... no?... then what is it?" she questioned him with the most innocent expression on her pretty face and in her frank blue eyes. a smile played upon her lips; and she displayed so much unaffected candor that the englishman almost lost his temper. he approached her and said, in a low voice: "bresson killed himself last night." she affected not to understand him; so he repeated: "bresson killed himself yesterday...." she did not show the slightest emotion; she acted as if the matter did not concern or interest her in any way. "you have been informed," said sholmes, displaying his annoyance. "otherwise, the news would have caused you to start, at least. ah! you are stronger than i expected. but what's the use of your trying to conceal anything from me?" he picked up the alphabet-book, which he had placed on a convenient table, and, opening it at the mutilated page, said: "will you tell me the order in which the missing letters should be arranged in order to express the exact wording of the message you sent to bresson four days before the theft of the jewish lamp?" "the order?... bresson?... the theft of the jewish lamp?" she repeated the words slowly, as if trying to grasp their meaning. he continued: "yes. here are the letters employed ... on this bit of paper.... what did you say to bresson?" "the letters employed ... what did i say...." suddenly she burst into laughter: "ah! that is it! i understand! i am an accomplice in the crime! there is a monsieur bresson who stole the jewish lamp and who has now committed suicide. and i am the friend of that gentleman. oh! how absurd you are!" "whom did you go to see last night on the second floor of a house in the avenue des ternes?" "who? my modiste, mademoiselle langeais. do you suppose that my modiste and my friend monsieur bresson are the same person?" despite all he knew, sholmes was now in doubt. a person can feign terror, joy, anxiety, in fact all emotions; but a person cannot feign absolute indifference or light, careless laughter. yet he continued to question her: "why did you accost me the other evening at the northern railway station? and why did you entreat me to leave paris immediately without investigating this theft?" "ah! you are too inquisitive, monsieur sholmes," she replied, still laughing in the most natural manner. "to punish you i will tell you nothing, and, besides, you must watch the patient while i go to the pharmacy on an urgent message. au revoir." she left the room. "i am beaten ... by a girl," muttered sholmes. "not only did i get nothing out of her but i exposed my hand and put her on her guard." and he recalled the affair of the blue diamond and his first interview with clotilde destange. had not the blonde lady met his question with the same unruffled serenity, and was he not once more face to face with one of those creatures who, under the protection and influence of arsène lupin, maintain the utmost coolness in the face of a terrible danger? "sholmes ... sholmes...." it was wilson who called him. sholmes approached the bed, and, leaning over, said: "what's the matter, wilson? does your wound pain you?" wilson's lips moved, but he could not speak. at last, with a great effort, he stammered: "no ... sholmes ... it is not she ... that is impossible----" "come, wilson, what do you know about it? i tell you that it is she! it is only when i meet one of lupin's creatures, prepared and instructed by him, that i lose my head and make a fool of myself.... i bet you that within an hour lupin will know all about our interview. within an hour? what am i saying?... why, he may know already. the visit to the pharmacy ... urgent message. all nonsense!... she has gone to telephone to lupin." sholmes left the house hurriedly, went down the avenue de messine, and was just in time to see mademoiselle enter a pharmacy. ten minutes later she emerged from the shop carrying some small packages and a bottle wrapped in white paper. but she had not proceeded far, when she was accosted by a man who, with hat in hand and an obsequious air, appeared to be asking for charity. she stopped, gave him something, and proceeded on her way. "she spoke to him," said the englishman to himself. if not a certainty, it was at least an intuition, and quite sufficient to cause him to change his tactics. leaving the girl to pursue her own course, he followed the suspected mendicant, who walked slowly to the avenue des ternes and lingered for a long time around the house in which bresson had lived, sometimes raising his eyes to the windows of the second floor and watching the people who entered the house. at the end of an hour he climbed to the top of a tramcar going in the direction of neuilly. sholmes followed and took a seat behind the man, and beside a gentleman who was concealed behind the pages of a newspaper. at the fortifications the gentleman lowered the paper, and sholmes recognized ganimard, who thereupon whispered, as he pointed to the man in front: "it is the man who followed bresson last night. he has been watching the house for an hour." "anything new in regard to bresson?" asked sholmes. "yes, a letter came to his address this morning." "this morning? then it was posted yesterday before the sender could know of bresson's death." "exactly. it is now in the possession of the examining magistrate. but i read it. it says: _he will not accept any compromise. he wants everything--the first thing as well as those of the second affair. otherwise he will proceed._" "there is no signature," added ganimard. "it seems to me those few lines won't help us much." "i don't agree with you, monsieur ganimard. to me those few lines are very interesting." "why so? i can't see it." "for reasons that are personal to me," replied sholmes, with the indifference that he frequently displayed toward his colleague. the tramcar stopped at the rue de château, which was the terminus. the man descended and walked away quietly. sholmes followed at so short a distance that ganimard protested, saying: "if he should turn around he will suspect us." "he will not turn around." "how do you know?" "he is an accomplice of arsène lupin, and the fact that he walks in that manner, with his hands in his pockets, proves, in the first place, that he knows he is being followed and, in the second place, that he is not afraid." "but i think we are keeping too close to him." "not too close to prevent his slipping through our fingers. he is too sure of himself." "ah! look there! in front of that café there are two of the bicycle police. if i summon them to our assistance, how can the man slip through our fingers?" "well, our friend doesn't seem to be worried about it. in fact, he is asking for their assistance himself." "mon dieu!" exclaimed ganimard, "he has a nerve." the man approached the two policemen just as they were mounting their bicycles. after a few words with them he leaped on a third bicycle, which was leaning against the wall of the café, and rode away at a fast pace, accompanied by the two policemen. "hein! one, two, three and away!" growled sholmes. "and through, whose agency, monsieur ganimard? two of your colleagues.... ah! but arsène lupin has a wonderful organization! bicycle policemen in his service!... i told you our man was too calm, too sure of himself." "well, then," said ganimard, quite vexed, "what are we to do now? it is easy enough to laugh! anyone can do that." "come, come, don't lose your temper! we will get our revenge. but, in the meantime, we need reinforcements." "folenfant is waiting for me at the end of the avenue de neuilly." "well, go and get him and join me later. i will follow our fugitive." sholmes followed the bicycle tracks, which were plainly visible in the dust of the road as two of the machines were furnished with striated tires. very soon he ascertained that the tracks were leading him to the edge of the seine, and that the three men had turned in the direction taken by bresson on the preceding evening. thus he arrived at the gateway where he and ganimard had concealed themselves, and, a little farther on, he discovered a mingling of the bicycle tracks which showed that the men had halted at that spot. directly opposite there was a little point of land which projected into the river and, at the extremity thereof, an old boat was moored. it was there that bresson had thrown away the package, or, rather, had dropped it. sholmes descended the bank and saw that the declivity was not steep and the water quite shallow, so it would be quite easy to recover the package, provided the three men had not forestalled him. "no, that can't be," he thought, "they have not had time. a quarter of an hour at the most. and yet, why did they come this way?" a fisherman was seated on the old boat. sholmes asked him: "did you see three men on bicycles a few minutes ago?" the fisherman made a negative gesture. but sholmes insisted: "three men who stopped on the road just on top of the bank?" the fisherman rested his pole under his arm, took a memorandum book from his pocket, wrote on one of the pages, tore it out, and handed it to sholmes. the englishman gave a start of surprise. in the middle of the paper which he held in his hand he saw the series of letters cut from the alphabet-book: cdehnoprzeo-- . the man resumed his fishing, sheltered from the sun by a large straw hat, with his coat and vest lying beside him. he was intently watching the cork attached to his line as it floated on the surface of the water. there was a moment of silence--solemn and terrible. "is it he?" conjectured sholmes, with an anxiety that was almost pitiful. then the truth burst upon him: "it is he! it is he! no one else could remain there so calmly, without the slightest display of anxiety, without the least fear of what might happen. and who else would know the story of those mysterious letters? alice had warned him by means of her messenger." suddenly the englishman felt that his hand--that his own hand had involuntarily seized the handle of his revolver, and that his eyes were fixed on the man's back, a little below the neck. one movement, and the drama would be finished; the life of the strange adventurer would come to a miserable end. the fisherman did not stir. sholmes nervously toyed with his revolver, and experienced a wild desire to fire it and end everything; but the horror of such an act was repugnant to his nature. death would be certain and would end all. "ah!" he thought, "let him get up and defend himself. if he doesn't, so much the worse for him. one second more ... and i fire...." but a sound of footsteps behind him caused him to turn his head. it was ganimard coming with some assistants. then, quickly changing his plans, sholmes leaped into the boat, which was broken from its moorings by his sudden action; he pounced upon the man and seized him around the body. they rolled to the bottom of the boat together. "well, now!" exclaimed lupin, struggling to free himself, "what does this mean? when one of us has conquered the other, what good will it do? you will not know what to do with me, nor i with you. we will remain here like two idiots." the two oars slipped into the water. the boat drifted into the stream. "good lord, what a fuss you make! a man of your age ought to know better! you act like a child." lupin succeeded in freeing himself from the grasp of the detective, who, thoroughly exasperated and ready to kill, put his hand in his pocket. he uttered an oath: lupin had taken his revolver. then he knelt down and tried to capture one of the lost oars in order to regain the shore, while lupin was trying to capture the other oar in order to drive the boat down the river. "it's gone! i can't reach it," said lupin. "but it's of no consequence. if you get your oar i can prevent your using it. and you could do the same to me. but, you see, that is the way in this world, we act without any purpose or reason, as our efforts are in vain since fate decides everything. now, don't you see, fate is on the side of his friend lupin. the game is mine! the current favors me!" the boat was slowly drifting down the river. "look out!" cried lupin, quickly. someone on the bank was pointing a revolver. lupin stooped, a shot was fired; it struck the water beyond the boat. lupin burst into laughter. "god bless me! it's my friend ganimard! but it was very wrong of you to do that, ganimard. you have no right to shoot except in self-defense. does poor lupin worry you so much that you forget yourself?... now, be good, and don't shoot again!... if you do you will hit our english friend." he stood behind sholmes, facing ganimard, and said: "now, ganimard, i am ready! aim for his heart!... higher!... a little to the left.... ah! you missed that time ... deuced bad shot.... try again.... your hand shakes, ganimard.... now, once more ... one, two, three, fire!... missed!... parbleu! the authorities furnish you with toy-pistols." lupin drew a long revolver and fired without taking aim. ganimard put his hand to his hat: the bullet had passed through it. "what do you think of that, ganimard! ah! that's a real revolver! a genuine english bulldog. it belongs to my friend, herlock sholmes." and, with a laugh, he threw the revolver to the shore, where it landed at ganimard's feet. sholmes could not withhold a smile of admiration. what a torrent of youthful spirits! and how he seemed to enjoy himself! it appeared as if the sensation of peril caused him a physical pleasure; and this extraordinary man had no other purpose in life than to seek for dangers simply for the amusement it afforded him in avoiding them. many people had now gathered on the banks of the river, and ganimard and his men followed the boat as it slowly floated down the stream. lupin's capture was a mathematical certainty. "confess, old fellow," said lupin, turning to the englishman, "that you would not exchange your present position for all the gold in the transvaal! you are now in the first row of the orchestra chairs! but, in the first place, we must have the prologue ... after which we can leap, at one bound, to the fifth act of the drama, which will represent the capture or escape of arsène lupin. therefore, i am going to ask you a plain question, to which i request a plain answer--a simple yes or no. will you renounce this affair? at present i can repair the damage you have done; later it will be beyond my power. is it a bargain?" "no." lupin's face showed his disappointment and annoyance. he continued: "i insist. more for your sake than my own, i insist, because i am certain you will be the first to regret your intervention. for the last time, yes or no?" "no." lupin stooped down, removed one of the boards in the bottom of the boat, and, for some minutes, was engaged in a work the nature of which sholmes could not discern. then he arose, seated himself beside the englishman, and said: "i believe, monsieur, that we came to the river to-day for the same purpose: to recover the object which bresson threw away. for my part i had invited a few friends to join me here, and i was on the point of making an examination of the bed of the river when my friends announced your approach. i confess that the news did not surprise me, as i have been notified every hour concerning the progress of your investigation. that was an easy matter. whenever anything occurred in the rue murillo that might interest me, simply a ring on the telephone and i was informed." he stopped. the board that he had displaced in the bottom of the boat was rising and water was working into the boat all around it. "the deuce! i didn't know how to fix it. i was afraid this old boat would leak. you are not afraid, monsieur?" sholmes shrugged his shoulders. lupin continued: "you will understand then, in those circumstances, and knowing in advance that you would be more eager to seek a battle than i would be to avoid it, i assure you i was not entirely displeased to enter into a contest of which the issue is quite certain, since i hold all the trump cards in my hand. and i desired that our meeting should be given the widest publicity in order that your defeat may be universally known, so that another countess de crozon or another baron d'imblevalle may not be tempted to solicit your aid against me. besides, my dear monsieur--" he stopped again and, using his half-closed hands as a lorgnette, he scanned the banks of the river. "mon dieu! they have chartered a superb boat, a real war-vessel, and see how they are rowing. in five minutes they will be along-side, and i am lost. monsieur sholmes, a word of advice; you seize me, bind me and deliver me to the officers of the law. does that programme please you?... unless, in the meantime, we are shipwrecked, in which event we can do nothing but prepare our wills. what do you think?" they exchanged looks. sholmes now understood lupin's scheme: he had scuttled the boat. and the water was rising. it had reached the soles of their boots. then it covered their feet; but they did not move. it was half-way to their knees. the englishman took out his tobacco, rolled a cigarette, and lighted it. lupin continued to talk: "but do not regard that offer as a confession of my weakness. i surrender to you in a battle in which i can achieve a victory in order to avoid a struggle upon a field not of my own choosing. in so doing i recognize the fact that sholmes is the only enemy i fear, and announce my anxiety that sholmes will not be diverted from my track. i take this opportunity to tell you these things since fate has accorded me the honor of a conversation with you. i have only one regret; it is that our conversation should have occurred while we are taking a foot-bath ... a situation that is lacking in dignity, i must confess.... what did i say? a foot-bath? it is worse than that." the water had reached the board on which they were sitting, and the boat was gradually sinking. sholmes, smoking his cigarette, appeared to be calmly admiring the scenery. for nothing in the world, while face to face with that man who, while threatened by dangers, surrounded by a crowd, followed by a posse of police, maintained his equanimity and good humor, for nothing in the world would he, sholmes, display the slightest sign of nervousness. each of them looked as if he might say: should a person be disturbed by such trifles? are not people drowned in a river every day? is it such an unusual event as to deserve special attention? one chatted, whilst the other dreamed; both concealing their wounded pride beneath a mask of indifference. one minute more and the boat will sink. lupin continued his chatter: "the important thing to know is whether we will sink before or after the arrival of the champions of the law. that is the main question. as to our shipwreck, that is a fore-gone conclusion. now, monsieur, the hour has come in which we must make our wills. i give, devise and bequeath all my property to herlock sholmes, a citizen of england, for his own use and benefit. but, mon dieu, how quickly the champions of the law are approaching! ah! the brave fellows! it is a pleasure to watch them. observe the precision of the oars! ah! is it you, brigadier folenfant? bravo! the idea of a war-vessel is an excellent one. i commend you to your superiors, brigadier folenfant.... do you wish a medal? you shall have it. and your comrade dieuzy, where is he?... ah! yes, i think i see him on the left bank of the river at the head of a hundred natives. so that, if i escape shipwreck, i shall be captured on the left by dieuzy and his natives, or, on the right, by ganimard and the populace of neuilly. an embarrassing dilemma!" the boat entered an eddy; it swung around and sholmes caught hold of the oarlocks. lupin said to him: "monsieur, you should remove your coat. you will find it easier to swim without a coat. no? you refuse? then i shall put on my own." he donned his coat, buttoned it closely, the same as sholmes, and said: "what a discourteous man you are! and what a pity that you should be so stubborn in this affair, in which, of course, you display your strength, but, oh! so vainly! really, you mar your genius----" "monsieur lupin," interrupted sholmes, emerging from his silence, "you talk too much, and you frequently err through excess of confidence and through your frivolity." "that is a severe reproach." "thus, without knowing it, you furnished me, only a moment ago, with the information i required." "what! you required some information and you didn't tell me?" "i had no occasion to ask you for it--you volunteered it. within three hours i can deliver the key of the mystery to monsieur d'imblevalle. that is the only reply----" he did not finish the sentence. the boat suddenly sank, taking both of the men down with it. it emerged immediately, with its keel in the air. shouts were heard on either bank, succeeded by an anxious moment of silence. then the shouts were renewed: one of the shipwrecked party had come to the surface. it was herlock sholmes. he was an excellent swimmer, and struck out, with powerful strokes, for folenfant's boat. "courage, monsieur sholmes," shouted folenfant; "we are here. keep it up ... we will get you ... a little more, monsieur sholmes ... catch the rope." the englishman seized the rope they had thrown to him. but, while they were hauling him into the boat, he heard a voice behind him, saying: "the key of the mystery, monsieur, yes, you shall have it. i am astonished that you haven't got it already. what then? what good will it do you? by that time you will have lost the battle...." now comfortably installed astride the keel of the boat, lupin continued his speech with solemn gestures, as if he hoped to convince his adversary. "you must understand, my dear sholmes, there is nothing to be done, absolutely nothing. you find yourself in the deplorable position of a gentleman----" "surrender, lupin!" shouted folenfant. "you are an ill-bred fellow, folenfant, to interrupt me in the middle of a sentence. i was saying----" "surrender, lupin!" "oh! parbleu! brigadier folenfant, a man surrenders only when he is in danger. surely, you do not pretend to say that i am in any danger." "for the last time, lupin, i call on you to surrender." "brigadier folenfant, you have no intention of killing me; you may wish to wound me since you are afraid i may escape. but if by chance the wound prove mortal! just think of your remorse! it would embitter your old age." the shot was fired. lupin staggered, clutched at the keel of the boat for a moment, then let go and disappeared. * * * * * it was exactly three o'clock when the foregoing events transpired. precisely at six o'clock, as he had foretold, herlock sholmes, dressed in trousers that were too short and a coat that was too small, which he had borrowed from an innkeeper at neuilly, wearing a cap and a flannel shirt, entered the boudoir in the rue murillo, after having sent word to monsieur and madame d'imblevalle that he desired an interview. they found him walking up and down the room. and he looked so ludicrous in his strange costume that they could scarcely suppress their mirth. with pensive air and stooped shoulders, he walked like an automaton from the window to the door and from the door to the window, taking each time the same number of steps, and turning each time in the same manner. he stopped, picked up a small ornament, examined it mechanically, and resumed his walk. at last, planting himself before them, he asked: "is mademoiselle here?" "yes, she is in the garden with the children."' "i wish mademoiselle to be present at this interview." "is it necessary----" "have a little patience, monsieur. from the facts i am going to present to you, you will see the necessity for her presence here." "very well. suzanne, will you call her?" madame d'imblevalle arose, went out, and returned almost immediately, accompanied by alice demun. mademoiselle, who was a trifle paler than usual, remained standing, leaning against a table, and without even asking why she had been called. sholmes did not look at her, but, suddenly turning toward monsieur d'imblevalle, he said, in a tone which did not admit of a reply: "after several days' investigation, monsieur, i must repeat what i told you when i first came here: the jewish lamp was stolen by some one living in the house." "the name of the guilty party?" "i know it." "your proof?" "i have sufficient to establish that fact." "but we require more than that. we desire the restoration of the stolen goods." "the jewish lamp? it is in my possession." "the opal necklace? the snuff-box?" "the opal necklace, the snuff-box, and all the goods stolen on the second occasion are in my possession." sholmes delighted in these dramatic dialogues, and it pleased him to announce his victories in that curt manner. the baron and his wife were amazed, and looked at sholmes with a silent curiosity, which was the highest praise. he related to them, very minutely, what he had done during those three days. he told of his discovery of the alphabet book, wrote upon a sheet of paper the sentence formed by the missing letters, then related the journey of bresson to the bank of the river and the suicide of the adventurer, and, finally, his struggle with lupin, the shipwreck, and the disappearance of lupin. when he had finished, the baron said, in a low voice: "now, you have told us everything except the name of the guilty party. whom do you accuse?" "i accuse the person who cut the letters from the alphabet book, and communicated with arsène lupin by means of those letters." "how do you know that such correspondence was carried on with arsène lupin?" "my information comes from lupin himself." he produced a piece of paper that was wet and crumpled. it was the page which lupin had torn from his memorandum-book, and upon which he had written the phrase. "and you will notice," said sholmes, with satisfaction, "that he was not obliged to give me that sheet of paper, and, in that way, disclose his identity. simple childishness on his part, and yet it gave me exactly the information i desired." "what was it?" asked the baron. "i don't understand." sholmes took a pencil and made a fresh copy of the letters and figures. "cdehnoprzeo-- ." "well?" said the baron; "it is the formula you showed me yourself." "no. if you had turned and returned that formula in every way, as i have done, you would have seen at first glance that this formula is not like the first one." "in what respect do they differ?" "this one has two more letters--an e and an o." "really; i hadn't noticed that." "join those two letters to the c and the h which remained after forming the word 'respondez,' and you will agree with me that the only possible word is echo." "what does that mean?" "it refers to the _echo de france_, lupin's newspaper, his official organ, the one in which he publishes his communications. reply in the _echo de france_, in the personal advertisements, under number . that is the key to the mystery, and arsène lupin was kind enough to furnish it to me. i went to the newspaper office." "what did you find there?" "i found the entire story of the relations between arsène lupin and his accomplice." sholmes produced seven newspapers which he opened at the fourth page and pointed to the following lines: . ars. lup. lady implores protection. . . . awaiting particulars. a.l. . a.l. under domin. enemy. lost. . . write address. will make investigation. . a.l. murillo. . . park three o'clock. violets. . . understand. sat. will be sun. morn. park. "and you call that the whole story!" exclaimed the baron. "yes, and if you will listen to me for a few minutes, i think i can convince you. in the first place, a lady who signs herself implores the protection of arsène lupin, who replies by asking for particulars. the lady replies that she is under the domination of an enemy--who is bresson, no doubt--and that she is lost if some one does not come to her assistance. lupin is suspicious and does not yet venture to appoint an interview with the unknown woman, demands the address and proposes to make an investigation. the lady hesitates for four days--look at the dates--finally, under stress of circumstances and influenced by bresson's threats, she gives the name of the street--murillo. next day, arsène lupin announces that he will be in the park monceau at three o'clock, and asks his unknown correspondent to wear a bouquet of violets as a means of identification. then there is a lapse of eight days in the correspondence. arsène lupin and the lady do not require to correspond through the newspaper now, as they see each other or write directly. the scheme is arranged in this way: in order to satisfy bresson's demands, the lady is to carry off the jewish lamp. the date is not yet fixed. the lady who, as a matter of prudence, corresponds by means of letters cut out of a book, decides on saturday and adds: _reply echo _. lupin replies that it is understood and that he will be in the park on sunday morning. sunday morning, the theft takes place." "really, that is an excellent chain of circumstantial evidence and every link is complete," said the baron. "the theft has taken place," continued sholmes. "the lady goes out on sunday morning, tells lupin what she has done, and carries the jewish lamp to bresson. everything occurs then exactly as lupin had foreseen. the officers of the law, deceived by an open window, four holes in the ground and two scratches on the balcony railing, immediately advance the theory that the theft was committed by a burglar. the lady is safe." "yes, i confess the theory was a logical one," said the baron. "but the second theft--" "the second theft was provoked by the first. the newspapers having related how the jewish lamp had disappeared, some one conceived the idea of repeating the crime and carrying away what had been left. this time, it was not a simulated theft, but a real one, a genuine burglary, with ladders and other paraphernalia--" "lupin, of course--" "no. lupin does not act so stupidly. he doesn't fire at people for trifling reasons." "then, who was it?" "bresson, no doubt, and unknown to the lady whom he had menaced. it was bresson who entered here; it was bresson that i pursued; it was bresson who wounded poor wilson." "are you sure of it?" "absolutely. one of bresson's accomplices wrote to him yesterday, before his suicide, a letter which proves that negotiations were pending between this accomplice and lupin for the restitution of all the articles stolen from your house. lupin demanded everything, '_the first thing_ (that is, the jewish lamp) _as well as those of the second affair_.' moreover, he was watching bresson. when the latter returned from the river last night, one of lupin's men followed him as well as we." "what was bresson doing at the river?" "having been warned of the progress of my investigations----" "warned! by whom?" "by the same lady, who justly feared that the discovery of the jewish lamp would lead to the discovery of her own adventure. thereupon, bresson, having been warned, made into a package all the things that could compromise him and threw them into a place where he thought he could get them again when the danger was past. it was after his return, tracked by ganimard and myself, having, no doubt, other sins on his conscience, that he lost his head and killed himself." "but what did the package contain?" "the jewish lamp and your other ornaments." "then, they are not in your possession?" "immediately after lupin's disappearance, i profited by the bath he had forced upon me, went to the spot selected by bresson, where i found the stolen articles wrapped in some soiled linen. they are there, on the table." without a word, the baron cut the cord, tore open the wet linen, picked out the lamp, turned a screw in the foot, then divided the bowl of the lamp which opened in two equal parts and there he found the golden chimera, set with rubies and emeralds. it was intact. * * * * * there was in that scene, so natural in appearance and which consisted of a simple exposition of facts, something which rendered it frightfully tragic--it was the formal, direct, irrefutable accusation that sholmes launched in each of his words against mademoiselle. and it was also the impressive silence of alice demun. during that long, cruel accumulation of accusing circumstances heaped one upon another, not a muscle of her face had moved, not a trace of revolt or fear had marred the serenity of her limpid eyes. what were her thoughts. and, especially, what was she going to say at the solemn moment when it would become necessary for her to speak and defend herself in order to break the chain of evidence that herlock sholmes had so cleverly woven around her? that moment had come, but the girl was silent. "speak! speak!" cried mon. d'imblevalle. she did not speak. so he insisted: "one word will clear you. one word of denial, and i will believe you." that word, she would not utter. the baron paced to and fro in his excitement; then, addressing sholmes, he said: "no, monsieur, i cannot believe it, i do not believe it. there are impossible crimes! and this is opposed to all i know and to all that i have seen during the past year. no, i cannot believe it." he placed his hand on the englishman's shoulder, and said: "but you yourself, monsieur, are you absolutely certain that you are right?" sholmes hesitated, like a man on whom a sudden demand is made and cannot frame an immediate reply. then he smiled, and said: "only the person whom i accuse, by reason of her situation in your house, could know that the jewish lamp contained that magnificent jewel." "i cannot believe it," repeated the baron. "ask her." it was, really, the very thing he would not have done, blinded by the confidence the girl had inspired in him. but he could no longer refrain from doing it. he approached her and, looking into her eyes, said: "was it you, mademoiselle? was it you who took the jewel? was it you who corresponded with arsène lupin and committed the theft?" "it was i, monsieur," she replied. she did not drop her head. her face displayed no sign of shame or fear. "is it possible?" murmured mon. d'imblevalle. "i would never have believed it.... you are the last person in the world that i would have suspected. how did you do it?" "i did it exactly as monsieur sholmes has told it. on saturday night i came to the boudoir, took the lamp, and, in the morning i carried it ... to that man." "no," said the baron; "what you pretend to have done is impossible." "impossible--why?" "because, in the morning i found the door of the boudoir bolted." she blushed, and looked at sholmes as if seeking his counsel. sholmes was astonished at her embarrassment. had she nothing to say? did the confessions, which had corroborated the report that he, sholmes, had made concerning the theft of the jewish lamp, merely serve to mask a lie? was she misleading them by a false confession? the baron continued: "that door was locked. i found the door exactly as i had left it the night before. if you entered by that door, as you pretend, some one must have opened it from the interior--that is to say, from the boudoir or from our chamber. now, there was no one inside these two rooms ... there was no one except my wife and myself." sholmes bowed his head and covered his face with his hands in order to conceal his emotion. a sudden light had entered his mind, that startled him and made him exceedingly uncomfortable. everything was revealed to him, like the sudden lifting of a fog from the morning landscape. he was annoyed as well as ashamed, because his deductions were fallacious and his entire theory was wrong. alice demun was innocent! alice demun was innocent. that proposition explained the embarrassment he had experienced from the beginning in directing the terrible accusation against that young girl. now, he saw the truth; he knew it. after a few seconds, he raised his head, and looked at madame d'imblevalle as naturally as he could. she was pale--with that unusual pallor which invades us in the relentless moments of our lives. her hands, which she endeavored to conceal, were trembling as if stricken with palsy. "one minute more," thought sholmes, "and she will betray herself." he placed himself between her and her husband in the desire to avert the awful danger which, _through his fault_, now threatened that man and woman. but, at sight of the baron, he was shocked to the very centre of his soul. the same dreadful idea had entered the mind of monsieur d'imblevalle. the same thought was at work in the brain of the husband. he understood, also! he saw the truth! in desperation, alice demun hurled herself against the implacable truth, saying: "you are right, monsieur. i made a mistake. i did not enter by this door. i came through the garden and the vestibule ... by aid of a ladder--" it was a supreme effort of true devotion. but a useless effort! the words rang false. the voice did not carry conviction, and the poor girl no longer displayed those clear, fearless eyes and that natural air of innocence which had served her so well. now, she bowed her head--vanquished. the silence became painful. madame d'imblevalle was waiting for her husband's next move, overwhelmed with anxiety and fear. the baron appeared to be struggling against the dreadful suspicion, as if he would not submit to the overthrow of his happiness. finally, he said to his wife: "speak! explain!" "i have nothing to tell you," she replied, in a very low voice, and with features drawn by anguish. "so, then ... mademoiselle...." "mademoiselle saved me ... through devotion ... through affection ... and accused herself...." "saved you from what? from whom?" "from that man." "bresson?" "yes; it was i whom he held in fear by threats.... i met him at one of my friends'.... and i was foolish enough to listen to him. oh! there was nothing that you cannot pardon. but i wrote him two letters ... letters which you will see.... i had to buy them back ... you know how.... oh! have pity on me!... i have suffered so much!" "you! you! suzanne!" he raised his clenched fists, ready to strike her, ready to kill her. but he dropped his arms, and murmured: "you, suzanne.... you!... is it possible?" by short detached sentences, she related the heartrending story, her dreadful awakening to the infamy of the man, her remorse, her fear, and she also told of alice's devotion; how the young girl divined the sorrow of her mistress, wormed a confession out of her, wrote to lupin, and devised the scheme of the theft in order to save her from bresson. "you, suzanne, you," repeated monsieur d'imblevalle, bowed with grief and shame.... "how could you?" ***** on the same evening, the steamer "city of london," which plies between calais and dover, was gliding slowly over the smooth sea. the night was dark; the wind was fainter than a zephyr. the majority of the passengers had retired to their cabins; but a few, more intrepid, were promenading on the deck or sleeping in large rocking-chairs, wrapped in their travelling-rugs. one could see, here and there, the light of a cigar, and one could hear, mingled with the soft murmur of the breeze, the faint sound of voices which were carefully subdued to harmonize with the deep silence of the night. one of the passengers, who had been pacing to and fro upon the deck, stopped before a woman who was lying on a bench, scrutinized her, and, when she moved a little, he said: "i thought you were asleep, mademoiselle alice." "no, monsieur sholmes, i am not sleepy. i was thinking." "of what? if i may be so bold as to inquire?" "i was thinking of madame d'imblevalle. she must be very unhappy. her life is ruined." "oh! no, no," he replied quickly. "her mistake was not a serious one. monsieur d'imblevalle will forgive and forget it. why, even before we left, his manner toward her had softened." "perhaps ... but he will remember it for a long time ... and she will suffer a great deal." "you love her?" "very much. it was my love for her that gave me strength to smile when i was trembling from fear, that gave me courage to look in your face when i desired to hide from your sight." "and you are sorry to leave her?" "yes, very sorry. i have no relatives, no friends--but her." "you will have friends," said the englishman, who was affected by her sorrow. "i have promised that. i have relatives ... and some influence. i assure you that you will have no cause to regret coming to england." "that may be, monsieur, but madame d'imblevalle will not be there." herlock sholmes resumed his promenade upon the deck. after a few minutes, he took a seat near his travelling companion, filled his pipe, and struck four matches in a vain effort to light it. then, as he had no more matches, he arose and said to a gentleman who was sitting near him: "may i trouble you for a match?" the gentleman opened a box of matches and struck one. the flame lighted up his face. sholmes recognized him--it was arsène lupin. if the englishman had not given an almost imperceptible movement of surprise, lupin would have supposed that his presence on board had been known to sholmes, so well did he control his feelings and so natural was the easy manner in which he extended his hand to his adversary. "how's the good health, monsieur lupin?" "bravo!" exclaimed lupin, who could not repress a cry of admiration at the englishman's sang-froid. "bravo? and why?" "why? because i appear before you like a ghost, only a few hours after you saw me drowned in the seine; and through pride--a quality that is essentially english--you evince not the slightest surprise. you greet me as a matter of course. ah! i repeat: bravo! admirable!" "there is nothing remarkable about it. from the manner in which you fell from the boat, i knew very well that you fell voluntarily, and that the bullet had not touched you." "and you went away without knowing what had become of me?" "what had become of you? why, i knew that. there were at least five hundred people on the two banks of the river within a space of half-a-mile. if you escaped death, your capture was certain." "and yet i am here." "monsieur lupin, there are two men in the world at whom i am never astonished: in the first place, myself--and then, arsène lupin." the treaty of peace was concluded. if sholmes had not been successful in his contests with arsène lupin; if lupin remained the only enemy whose capture he must never hope to accomplish; if, in the course of their struggles, he had not always displayed a superiority, the englishman had, none the less, by means of his extraordinary intuition and tenacity, succeeded in recovering the jewish lamp as well as the blue diamond. this time, perhaps, the finish had not been so brilliant, especially from the stand-point of the public spectators, since sholmes was obliged to maintain a discreet silence in regard to the circumstances in which the jewish lamp had been recovered, and to announce that he did not know the name of the thief. but as man to man, arsène lupin against herlock sholmes, detective against burglar, there was neither victor nor vanquished. each of them had won corresponding victories. therefore they could now converse as courteous adversaries who had lain down their arms and held each other in high regard. at sholmes' request, arsène lupin related the strange story of his escape. "if i may dignify it by calling it an escape," he said. "it was so simple! my friends were watching for me, as i had asked them to meet me there to recover the jewish lamp. so, after remaining a good half-hour under the overturned boat, i took advantage of an occasion when folenfant and his men were searching for my dead body along the bank of the river, to climb on top of the boat. then my friends simply picked me up as they passed by in their motor-boat, and we sailed away under the staring eyes of an astonished multitude, including ganimard and folenfant." "very good," exclaimed sholmes, "very neatly played. and now you have some business in england?" "yes, some accounts to square up.... but i forgot ... what about monsieur d'imblevalle?" "he knows everything." "all! my dear sholmes, what did i tell you? the wrong is now irreparable. would it not have been better to have allowed me to carry out the affair in my own way? in a day or two more, i should have recovered the stolen goods from bresson, restored them to monsieur d'imblevalle, and those two honest citizens would have lived together in peace and happiness ever after. instead of that--" "instead of that," said sholmes, sneeringly, "i have mixed the cards and sown the seeds of discord in the bosom of a family that was under your protection." "mon dieu! of course, i was protecting them. must a person steal, cheat and wrong all the time?" "then you do good, also?" "when i have the time. besides, i find it amusing. now, for instance, in our last adventure, i found it extremely diverting that i should be the good genius seeking to help and save unfortunate mortals, while you were the evil genius who dispensed only despair and tears." "tears! tears!" protested sholmes. "certainly! the d'imblevalle household is demolished, and alice demun weeps." "she could not remain any longer. ganimard would have discovered her some day, and, through her, reached madame d'imblevalle." "quite right, monsieur; but whose fault is it?" two men passed by. sholmes said to lupin, in a friendly tone: "do you know those gentlemen?" "i thought i recognized one of them as the captain of the steamer." "and the other?" "i don't know." "it is austin gilett, who occupies in london a position similar to that of monsieur dudouis in paris." "ah! how fortunate! will you be so kind as to introduce me? monsieur dudouis is one of my best friends, and i shall be delighted to say as much of monsieur austin gilett." the two gentlemen passed again. "and if i should take you at your word, monsieur lupin?" said sholmes, rising, and seizing lupin's wrist with a hand of iron. "why do you grasp me so tightly, monsieur? i am quite willing to follow you." in fact, he allowed himself to be dragged along without the least resistance. the two gentlemen were disappearing from sight. sholmes quickened his pace. his finger-nails even sank into lupin's flesh. "come! come!" he exclaimed, with a sort of feverish haste, in harmony with his action. "come! quicker than that." but he stopped suddenly. alice demun was following them. "what are you doing, mademoiselle? you need not come. you must not come!" it was lupin who replied: "you will notice, monsieur, that she is not coming of her own free will. i am holding her wrist in the same tight grasp that you have on mine." "why!" "because i wish to present her also. her part in the affair of the jewish lamp is much more important than mine. accomplice of arsène lupin, accomplice of bresson, she has a right to tell her adventure with the baroness d'imblevalle--which will deeply interest monsieur gilett as an officer of the law. and by introducing her also, you will have carried your gracious intervention to the very limit, my dear sholmes." the englishman released his hold on his prisoner's wrist. lupin liberated mademoiselle. they stood looking at each other for a few seconds, silently and motionless. then sholmes returned to the bench and sat down, followed by lupin and the girl. after a long silence, lupin said: "you see, monsieur, whatever we may do, we will never be on the same side. you are on one side of the fence; i am on the other. we can exchange greetings, shake hands, converse a moment, but the fence is always there. you will remain herlock sholmes, detective, and i, arsène lupin, gentleman-burglar. and herlock sholmes will ever obey, more or less spontaneously, with more or less propriety, his instinct as a detective, which is to pursue the burglar and run him down, if possible. and arsène lupin, in obedience to his burglarious instinct, will always be occupied in avoiding the reach of the detective, and making sport of the detective, if he can do it. and, this time, he can do it. ha-ha-ha!" he burst into a loud laugh, cunning, cruel and odious. then, suddenly becoming serious, he addressed alice demun: "you may be sure, mademoiselle, even when reduced to the last extremity, i shall not betray you. arsène lupin never betrays anyone--especially those whom he loves and admires. and, may i be permitted to say, i love and admire the brave, dear woman you have proved yourself to be." he took from his pocket a visiting card, tore it in two, gave one-half of it to the girl, as he said, in a voice shaken with emotion: "if monsieur sholmes' plans for you do not succeed, mademoiselle, go to lady strongborough--you can easily find her address--and give her that half of the card, and, at the same time, say to her: _faithful friend_. lady strongborough will show you the true devotion of a sister." "thank you," said the girl; "i shall see her to-morrow." "and now, monsieur sholmes," exclaimed lupin, with the satisfied air of a gentleman who has fulfilled his duty, "i will say good-night. we will not land for an hour yet, so i will get that much rest." he lay down on the bench, with his hands beneath his head. in a short time the high cliffs of the english coast loomed up in the increasing light of a new-born day. the passengers emerged from the cabins and crowded the deck, eagerly gazing on the approaching shore. austin gilette passed by, accompanied by two men whom sholmes recognized as sleuths from scotland yard. lupin was asleep, on his bench. the end. _the further startling, wonderful and thrilling adventures of "arsène lupin" will be found in the book entitled "arsène lupin gentleman-burglar"._ produced from images generously made available by the internet archive. with gratitude to l.w. curry, inc. for their gracious permission to use their image of the cover of this edition.) the burglars' club [illustration: "'may i ask what you expect to find here?'" (_p. ._)] the burglars' club a romance in twelve chronicles by henry a. hering _with sixteen illustrations by f. h. townsend_ b. w. dodge and company new york copyright , , by henry a. hering. the twelve chronicles. page i. sir john carder's cigars ii. the bishop of bister's crozier iii. the luck of the illingworths iv. the fellmongers' goblet v. an ounce of radium vi. the bunyan ms. vii. the great seal viii. the lion and the sun ix. the horseshoe and the peppercorn x. the holbein miniature xi. the victoria cross xii. the last chronicle list of illustrations. "'may i ask what you expect to find here?'" _frontispiece_ "mr. kassala had then the pleasure of inspecting the crozier" _face p._ "he saw the figure pass a window" "she had shown him the secret of its hiding-place" "a cry of despair escaped him" "'you are a thief'" "'i nearly brushed against you'" "'hey! but what about that hole in the window?'" "'you may go on with your most interesting work'" "suddenly he rose, took the draft of the treaty, etc." "instead of the draft, there, on a purple velvet cushion, was the glittering order of the lion and the sun" "'softly, my lord,' said cunningham, 'i am covering you, you observe'" "there was the unmistakable sound of an approaching car" "lucas dropped it carefully into the pocket of his norfolk jacket" "he was walking in his sleep, conscious of nothing" "mr. marvell . . . thanked the company for the gift, which he would treasure" "'he's one of us,' the burglar explained. 'you see, we are men who have pretty well exhausted the pleasures of life. we've all been in the army or the navy, all of us are sportsmen, and we are bachelors; so there isn't much excitement left for us. we've started a burglars' club to help things on a bit. the entrance fee is a town burglary, the subject to be set by our president, and every other year each member has to keep up his subscription by a provincial line.'" the burglars' club: a romance in twelve chronicles. i. sir john carder's cigars. sir john carder, head of the well-known firm of carder and co., merchants, of manchester, sat in his warehouse. it was one o'clock in the morning. since half-past eight he had been alone in the building; and there in his snug private office, before a cheery fire and beneath electric light, sir john prepared to meet what he conceived to be his fate. he was insolvent. for some time past he had suspected that this was the state of things. now he was sure of it. the yearly balance sheet placed in his hand the previous day by his cashier, together with sundry figures from his own private ledger, placed the fact beyond the region of dispute. because he felt himself unequal to the situation, sir john had shut himself up in his office--and on the desk in front of him was a loaded revolver. sir john had strong antiquarian tastes. his bachelor home in withington was a positive museum of curiosities, from phoenician pottery down to files of english newspapers when the georges were kings. in his office he kept more personal relics of bygone times, and he was now sorting out the drawers of a big bureau, full of them. he had been severely trained in method by the most orderly of fathers, and had saved every written communication he had received since the age of seventeen. it is therefore quite understandable why his accumulation of letters was so large, and partially understandable how he came to have before him four bulky parcels of them, respectively endorsed with the names of mary, nell, kitty, and flip. the dates of these, be it at once understood, were not contemporaneous, though a careful investigator might have detected a little overlapping. the letters marked flip, it ought also to be stated, came first in point of time. sir john lingered long over these bundles, and read many of the letters. they interested him greatly, and in their perusal he almost forgot the evening's ultimate objective. connected with these particular letters was a batch of photographs, on which he gazed with tender reminiscence. then there were other matters of more public character--a missive, for instance, from the prime minister, informing him that his majesty intended to confer upon him the honour of knighthood, his commission in the volunteers, and some i.o.u.'s from a member of the house of lords. all these, and many others, sir john threw on the desk in front, ready for the final holocaust. with the feeling of a true collector he had not the heart to destroy them singly. then, from another drawer, he drew forth his balance sheets for twenty years, and glanced them through with almost as much interest as he had felt for his letters. once, it seemed, he had been worth close on a hundred thousand pounds. an infatuated belief in a south american concession, followed by a succession of lean years in trading, had frittered all this, and more, away. while he was gazing gloomily at these recording figures the door gently opened, and a man stood on the threshold--a man with his coat buttoned tightly up to the neck, with his cap brought down over his eyes, a man with a lamp--in short, a burglar. sir john stared at him dumbfounded. then he glanced at the revolver, but it was out of reach. the burglar followed his look, and caught up the weapon. now thoroughly aroused, the knight indignantly exclaimed: "you needn't add murder to your other crimes, my man." "sir," replied the burglar, "it would grieve me to have to anticipate your own intentions." sir john was struck, as much by the melodious voice of the burglar as by his answer. nevertheless, in his most magisterial voice he demanded: "what are you doing here?" "watching an elderly gentleman in an interesting situation." "you are impertinent!" flared sir john. "a thousand pardons. a burglar should, i believe, be merely brutal." "may i ask what you expect to find here?" continued the merchant. "we rarely keep enough money on the premises to make it worth your while." "postage stamps?" insinuated the other. sir john ignored the suggestion. "certainly not enough to make it worth your while. it may be a matter of penal servitude for you." "you open up a wide philosophic question," said the burglar suavely. "what is worth your while in this world? 'uneasy is the head that wears a crown.' you seem worried yourself, sir john--going through your papers at this time o' night, with a loaded pistol by you." the merchant was annoyed at the burglar's perspicacity, and he could not think of an effective rejoinder. his visitor advanced to the bureau. the photographs immediately engaged his attention. "ha!" he exclaimed approvingly. "but it really isn't fair. one, two, three, four. greedy man!" "will you kindly leave my private matters alone?" said the incensed knight. then, with a sudden inspiration, he made a reckless dash for freedom by grabbing at the telephone handle, turning briskly, and shouting down the receiver, "help! thieves! help!" but before he had called again the burglar had raised his revolver and had severed the connecting wire with a shot. "what an absurd idea," he said. "why, the operator isn't awake yet." sir john sank back into his chair, feeling it was very likely that the burglar would adopt some extremely unpleasant form of revenge for the want of confidence he had just displayed. but his visitor did nothing of the sort. he also seated himself, and addressed the knight in grave reproof. "if that's a sample of your best business method i'm surprised you've done so well in things," he said. then without waiting for a reply, "where do you keep your cigars?" the merchant stretched out his hand and passed a box to him. the burglar rolled one knowingly between his fingers, then replaced it, and gave the box back. "i don't care for tenpenny whiffs, sir john. i want your real cigars--such as you keep for your most eminent visitors--such as you should have offered me, as a matter of course." with a sigh sir john rose, unlocked a cabinet, and produced a box marked "topmann. sublimes. habana," which he handed to his visitor. the burglar examined it carefully before he expressed his satisfaction. then he took a cigar therefrom, inspected it with marked approval, lit it, and then dropped the box into a capacious pocket. "those are exceptionally fine cigars," the knight remarked, with a touch of resentment in his voice. "i know it. i've come all the way from town to fetch 'em," the burglar answered. sir john was surprised. "it's a long way and a dangerous mission for such an object." "isn't it?" said the burglar, with provoking complacency. "and may i ask how you come to know of them?" asked sir john, whose curiosity was aroused. "i don't mind telling you, since i've got them safe. you opened this box for a particular guest at the chamber of commerce dinner a month ago." "lord ribston?" "yes; he spoke about them at the burglars' club. it was my turn, and here i am--don't you see?" "the burglars' club!" exclaimed sir john, in much surprise. "i've never heard of such an institution. and pray what has lord ribston, an ex-cabinet minister, to do with it?" "he's one of us," the burglar explained. "you see, we are men who've pretty well exhausted the pleasures of life. we've all been in the army or the navy, all of us are sportsmen, and we are bachelors; so there isn't much excitement left for us. we've started a burglars' club to help things on a bit. the entrance fee is a town burglary, the subject to be set by our president, and every other year each member has to keep up his subscription by a provincial line. 'sir john carder's prime cigars by wednesday,' was the item fixed for me at our club meeting last week, and i've got 'em easy," said the burglar, with much professional complacency. "you astonish me," sir john said. "in fact, i've never heard a more amazing thing in my life. but isn't it rather risky, telling me all this?" "not a bit. no one would believe you if you split on us, and you wouldn't find our club if you wanted to. but you wouldn't split. a man who smokes topmann's sublimes couldn't do such a thing if he tried." sir john acknowledged this speech with a bow. "but i'm greatly surprised lord ribston should belong to such a club," he said. "no offence to you intended," he added hastily, feeling that his remark was hardly polite. "and no offence taken," said the burglar magnanimously. "do you know, sir john, there are a good many things going on in town that would be likely to astonish you a great deal more than this little club of ours if you only knew of 'em?" then, after a moment's pause, "as you've helped me so nicely in this cigar business i shall be delighted to do you a good turn. can i be of any use to you?" in saying this the burglar's eyes travelled involuntarily to the pile of papers on the desk. sir john's did the same, and he sighed. "well," he replied in an outburst of confidence that astonished himself, "i'm in a hole." "i thought as much," said the other. "i've been in a good many myself in my time, so perhaps i can help you to get out." the knight shook his head gloomily. "i don't think so. there's nothing for it but a bullet." "great scott!" exclaimed the burglar. he plunged his hand into his pocket, and produced the box of cigars. "try one of these," he said, offering them to sir john. "i can recommend 'em for big occasions." the merchant smiled sadly, but took the consolation offered. "you see," he explained, "it's my pay-day to-morrow. there's nine thousand pounds in cash wanted, and i've nothing towards it." "beastly awkward," said the burglar sympathetically. "i know what it feels like. tell 'em to call again." "i can't. if i don't pay i must file my petition." "file your banker!" exclaimed the other. "don't you do anything rash. there's many a man lived to regret ever dreaming of insolvency. i suppose you've realised all your assets?" "every one," said sir john, "except things like these," and he pulled out the i.o.u.'s from the pile of papers. the burglar looked at them. "well?" he said inquiringly. "you've had these three years. why the blazes haven't you got your money?" "the marquis of chillingford hasn't got any money," replied the knight sorrowfully. "i know he hasn't to-day, but he had yesterday, and he may have to-morrow. why, man, he scooped in a cool ten thou' when tadpole won the derby." "you don't say so!" exclaimed sir john. "but i do. if you will lend money to lords, why the blazes don't you take in the sporting papers, and keep an eye on your friends? tommy chillingford is far too busy a man to remember these bits of paper, but i'm sure nothing would have pleased him more than to have paid you back your money if you'd suggested it at the time. he's had a run of confounded bad luck since then, but he'll bob up serenely one of these days, and you take my tip and get in that time. what else have you in this line?" the knight opened a drawer, and therefrom produced a bundle of promissory notes and dishonoured cheques. "what a philanthropist you've been in your day!" said the burglar admiringly, as he examined them. "i wish i'd known you earlier. ah!" and he pulled out a draft. "what's wrong with this?" "that's another impecunious peer," said sir john. "he proposed me for the carlton," he added apologetically. "then may i be impecunious," replied the burglar. "dicky is a millionaire in south america." "i've not come across his name in that light," said the merchant dubiously. "he's changed it. calls himself thompson now. this thing is worth its face value, and that's two thousand pounds. why, man, you must tender it at once for payment." for a moment the knight's face brightened. "but wait a bit," continued the burglar. "there's a six-years' limit for presentation, isn't there? this was due march th, , and it's now--oh, great scott!--it's now march th, ! too late by a week! old man, you are unlucky! two thousand solid sovereigns missed by a week, and you wantin' 'em all the time. it's beastly hard lines. do have a light." but sir john was too limp to smoke. "a millionaire in south america!" he gasped. "why, he went out at my request to see if a concession i have there was worth anything. he reported adversely, and i've heard nothing about him since then." "what is your concession?" from the pile in front the knight found an imposing-looking parchment, decorated with the signature of a president and the seal of a state. he handed it to the burglar, who read it through carefully. then he laid it down. "sir john carder," he said gravely, as a judge addressing a prisoner, "you are an unmitigated donkey. you must forgive the insult, but really the provocation is simply awful. i've lived in the argentine, and if this concession of yours isn't the very one mr. thompson is now working for his own benefit i'm a double-dyed dutchman." sir john gazed at him open-eyed. "i can't believe you," he said. "don't, if it hurts you," the burglar replied; "but i'll make a proposal, to show you i have no doubts about it myself. if you'll have me as equal partner with you in this concession matter, and leave me to manage it my own way, i'll take over your pay-day to-morrow, and be jolly well pleased with the bargain." "you'll meet my payments to-morrow!" gasped sir john, who for some little time had been wondering whether he were awake or asleep, or in a post-mortem delirium consequent on a revolver shot. "you'll meet my payments!" once more the burglar pulled out the cigar box. "do have another," he said persuasively. sir john took one mechanically, but after trying in vain to light it he put it down. "oh, dicky thompson," soliloquised the burglar, "this explains a good deal. we all marvelled at your luck, for we knew you didn't deserve it. you once sold me a spavined mare. if this isn't retribution i don't know what is. now, carder, let's get to bed. you must give me a shakedown somewhere. we've to be very spry and early to-morrow. there's our partnership to fix up first thing, and i've to show these cigars at the burglars' club in the evening, and on saturday i sail for south america with this precious document and a sharp legal practitioner. and i'll take your revolver with me in case the lawyer gets hoarse. oh, i was forgetting. a telegram form, please. where do you bank? county and city. right. it's nine thousand you want, isn't it? right again." the burglar filled up the form, counted his words, took the necessary stamps from his pocket book, and affixed them. "now, we'll just drop this in the first pillar-box we meet, and by the time we've signed our partnership there'll be enough at the county and city to meet your payments." sir john looked at him admiringly. "are there many as smart as you at the burglars' club?" he asked. "smarter," said the burglar modestly. "i'm about the clumsiest of the lot. some day i'll tell you how ribston stole the bishop of bister's crozier, and then you'll know why he is generally all there in the house. but come along now. all right; you close up and put the lights out. i'll take a short cut, and be waiting outside." it was fully five minutes before sir john had locked up his papers and had put on his coat. as he emerged from his warehouse door he was promptly collared by a policeman, while another seized him firmly from behind. a third was in possession of the handcuffed burglar, and an inspector stood by with a box of cigars under his arm. "pore old pard!" said the burglar, with ostentatious sympathy. "they've nabbed us both at larst." "now come along quietly, will you?" said the first policeman to the struggling knight. "leave go!" shouted his indignant charge. "i'm sir john carder." the policeman laughed derisively, but something in the voice made the inspector flash his light on him. "sir john it is," he gasped. the policemen released their hold, and gazed ruefully at their late prisoner. "what do you mean by this, markham?" demanded sir john. "very sorry, sir. hope you'll overlook it. we caught this chap red-handed, and he said he was working the job with a pal who was tidying things up a bit." "well, he was quite right. he is a friend of mine." the inspector was more astonished than ever. "he came through one of the packing-room windows, sir john," he expostulated, "and he had a boxful of cigars in his pocket." "not full, inspector," said the burglar, sadly. "i told you my friend would explain matters, but you wouldn't listen." "release him," said sir john. the inspector unlocked the handcuffs, saluted stiffly, turned his men round, and was marching off with them, when the burglar called out, "my cigars, please." the inspector came back, handed the box over, saluted even more stiffly than before, and retired. sir john and the burglar watched the retreating escort out of sight. "it's been a narrow squeak for both of us to-night," said the burglar reflectively. "it has," replied sir john. then they turned the corner together. ii. the bishop of bister's crozier. the bishop of bister's dinner hour was eight o'clock. with unfailing regularity, when at the palace, he entered the drawing-room at . in order to collect his family and any guests. his annoyance may therefore be understood when at . on the night in question a servant brought him a card on which was written: "georgiowitch kassala, mush, l. van, khurd., craves audience." "the gentleman is in the examination room, my lord," the servant added. "a very awkward time for calling," said the bishop, consulting his watch unnecessarily. then, with a sigh, "ask your mistress to keep dinner back ten minutes." his lordship ambled to the examination room. a big man in a loose blue cassock-like garb rose at his entrance--a big-limbed, red-bearded man, with enormous eyebrows. he rose, bowed low, and sank on his knees, caught hold of the prelate's hand, caressed it gently, and finally kissed it. the bishop was embarrassed. he preferred that sort of thing to be done before an audience, when he would play his part with the best of them, but with no spectators at all he felt uncomfortable. "rise," he said gently. the red-bearded man obeyed. "i am--" he began. "i have come--ah, perhaps i had better show you my papers. i have a letter from my patriarch." this in excellent english, with just a trace of a foreign accent. from his capacious pocket he drew out a bundle of papers. he abstracted a letter therefrom, and handed it with evident pride to the bishop. it was apparently greek, yet it was not the language his lordship of bister had learnt at school and college. here and there he saw a word he almost knew, yet the next one to it was a perfect stranger. he glanced at the end. there was a big seal, an extraordinary date, an impossible name. his visitor seemed to appreciate the position. "our patriarch is old," he said. "he is no longer facile to read. i sometimes have difficulty myself, though i know his writing well. may i read it to you?" he did this with great fluency and emphasis; but the bishop understood nothing, though occasionally he thought he caught the sound of a fleeting particle. the letter was finished. "and this," said the reader, producing a blue document, "is more earthy." it was, being from scotland yard, informing all and sundry that the bearer, georgiowitch kassala, a christian priest, was authorised to collect subscriptions for the church of saint barnabas at mush, in khurdistan. "ah!" said the bishop, with perhaps a shade of disappointment in his voice. "i hope you have been successful." "your grace, i have travelled far, and not without recompense. to all i have said, 'if you give me money it is well, but if you do not it is still well.' some have replied, 'then we'll leave it at that,' but many have responded. see--here is my subscription book. i have begged from batoum to bister. i have received money in fifteen different coinages, of which the english is the finest and difficultest. perhaps my most interesting contribution is this--see, a kopeck from lassitudino hospidar, the heathen cook of a bulgarian wind-jammer, in memory of his maternal uncle, who died from the bite of a mad dog at varna. and now, being in bister, i thought, although it is late, i will at once call upon his grace the bishop, whose fame has reached our little town of mush, whose name is known by the deep waters of van." his lordship sighed. the west end of his cathedral was sinking below the surface. at the present rate of subsidence the dean had calculated that only the gargoyles would be above ground in the year . this had to be stopped. there was a matter of underpinning for a start, but it costs money to underpin the west end of a cathedral. and all the while the usual subscription lists had to be headed from the palace, and there was more than the usual depression in agriculture. the bishop felt that it was a singularly inappropriate moment to contribute to a church in khurdistan, yet it would not do to discount his own fair fame in that far distant land. he must think the matter over. meantime he would offer his guest such hospitality as would compensate for the smallness of his contribution. "my friend," he said, "your patriarch shall not appeal to me in vain, although, as you may well believe, i have many calls upon my purse. but we will speak again of this. you will, of course, spend the night under my roof, and now, if you will join us at dinner i shall be very pleased." the priest's face broke into smiles. "you are most kind," he replied. "i shall be glad." then he glanced doubtfully from the bishop's evening dress to his own raiment. "tut, tut," said his lordship pleasantly. "'a wash and a brush up,' as our saying is, and you'll be all right. come along." it was . when they entered the drawing-room. "my dear," said the bishop appeasingly to his hungry wife, "i have brought a visitor from mush, in asia minor. mr.--er--kassala--mrs. dacre--my daughters." the visitor bowed low before the ladies. the bishop thought he was going to kneel, so restrained him with a gentle hand. "here," he went on, "is my chaplain, mr. jones, who will be greatly interested to hear of your work at home. and this," he concluded, "is our friend, mr. marmaduke percy." then they moved to the dining-room. at dinner mr. kassala conducted himself with ease, and spoke with great fluency on many matters; so much so that mr. marmaduke percy, no doubt feeling that the asiatic was monopolizing too much attention, asked him somewhat abruptly where he had acquired his excellent english. "i had it from one of your countrymen, sir," replied mr. kassala pleasantly. "he was engaged in the smuggling of aniline dyes into persia. of course, i did not know his real occupation, or i should have had nothing to do with him. he pretended to import chocolates and acid drops and--barley-sugar, i think he called it--and such-like things; but they were all filled with aniline colours. in return for language lessons he got me to introduce him to the chief of the persian frontier customs, whom he bribed for his purposes. he made a large fortune before the shah discovered that the colours of the palace carpets were fading. my friend, the chief of the frontier customs, was beheaded, and three dyers were put into plaster of paris; but the englishman escaped. his name was benjamin watts. do you happen to know him, sir?" the episcopal circle was justly shocked at this recital of their countryman's perfidy, and mr. percy warmly repudiated any knowledge of mr. watts. the bishop found his guest profoundly interesting, and he twice made notes in his pocket-book about asiatic matters. the ladies left the room regretfully. the chaplain, who was of an extremely bashful temperament, now put a question that had been trembling on his tongue all the dinner hour. "is not your village somewhere near mount ararat?" "certainly. we can see its snow-capped summit quite plainly from mush. with a telescope we can even discern where the ark rested after the flood." the bishop looked at his guest reprovingly, for jokes on such matters grieved him deeply. "i mean it, your grace," said kassala. "surely you heard that the ark itself was discovered about three months ago?" "what?" exclaimed the bishop and the chaplain together. "the ark discovered?" "certainly," kassala replied. "my venerable patriarch had long suspected that remnants might be found preserved in the perpetual ice, so he sought the assistance of professor papineau, of prague, who was travelling in the east. after months of--what do you call it?--pro--yes--prospecting--this gentleman discovered an enormous chunk of ice bearing some resemblance in outline to the object of their search. the only possible way to remove the ice was by blasting, and professor papineau inserted a charge of dynamite. a fatal mistake was made in the size of the charge, with the result that the whole enormous chunk was blown to atoms. embedded in the fragments were found what were apparently portions of a leviathan ship, which my patriarch and professor papineau regard as being the veritable vessel built by noah. in no other way but by a universal deluge could it have got on mount ararat. but for the mistake made in the size of the charge the structure of the ark might have been at any rate partially preserved. it was a terrible misfortune, only to be compared to the destruction of the parthenon by the venetians. professor papineau was for a long fortnight ill in bed with remorse. he reads a paper on the whole incident at the forthcoming oriental congress at prague. "but perhaps i have been indiscreet. evidently the news has not reached your country, and the professor may wish to be the first to give it to the world. he might resent my telling you, and my patriarch would be grieved. i beg you to keep the information inviolate until you read of professor papineau's paper at prague." [illustration: "mr. kassala had then the pleasure of inspecting the crozier." (_p. ._)] the bishop and the chaplain nodded their assent. they seemed to have no words left in them. after breathing-space they both pulled out their pocket-books, and made some memoranda. later the conversation turned on vestments, and such matters. "do you know, your grace," said mr. kassala, "i have heard that you are the only bishop with a pastoral staff. is that so?" "no. it's the other way about. i'm the only bishop who hasn't one. i alone share with the archbishops the dignity of a crozier. the old crozier of the see is now kept in our chapter house. it was too old for use, so last year the ladies of the county presented me with a new one. if you like, i will show it you. mr. jones, i wonder if you would mind bringing my crozier from the library?" five minutes later the chaplain re-appeared, bringing a long case with him. this was duly opened, and mr. kassala had then the pleasure of inspecting the crozier presented by the ladies of the county. it was of ebony and gold, and was richly jewelled. it was a work of art well worth the encomiums bestowed upon it by the asiatic. "with your permission, your grace," he said, "i should very much like to make a water-colour sketch of it in order to show to my patriarch, who is deeply interested in such matters. he has a very fine crozier himself. would you allow me?" "by all means," said the bishop. "thank you. i will do it before breakfast in the morning. i am an early riser. i suppose i may find it in this room?" the bishop nodded, but mr. percy intervened. "allow me to take care of it over-night, bishop. i don't think you ought to leave such a valuable article about. there is always the possibility of burglars. i am told there is a gang in the district just now." the bishop smiled good-humouredly. "i don't think we need consider that eventuality," he said. "but as you like. now shall we join the ladies?" perhaps mr. kassala was hardly as entertaining in the drawing-room as he had previously been. he seemed a little preoccupied. at eleven the house party retired to rest, mr. percy carefully carrying to his room the case containing the crozier. [illustration: "he saw the figure pass a window." (_p. ._)] the reverend arthur jones, his lordship's chaplain, was a light sleeper at best, and to-night the excitement of mr. kassala's visit kept him particularly wide-awake. his thoughts were with the unhappy professor papineau. he was wondering whether it would not be kind to send him a letter of sympathy, when his attention was attracted by a noise outside his room. he jumped out of bed and opened his door quietly. someone was stealthily walking along the corridor. he saw the figure pass a window, and the moonlight fell upon mr. kassala. in great wonderment mr. jones followed. a turn of the passage brought the asiatic to the head of the great staircase, and here he stopped so suddenly that the chaplain almost ran into him. for two minutes mr. kassala paused in a state of indecision. then he advanced to a door, and gently opened it. mr. jones was paralysed with horror. it was the bishop's bedroom. what could mr. kassala want there? determined to save his beloved chief, mr. jones followed. as he entered the room there was an exclamation from the bishop. mr. jones turned involuntarily. as he did so, mr. kassala collided with him. the bishop sprang out of bed, and switched on the electric light. "mr. kassala!" he exclaimed. "and mr. jones! pray, what is the meaning of this?" "a thousand pardons, your grace," said the asiatic. "i have mistaken the room. i wanted mr. percy." at this moment the next door opened, and mr. percy appeared. "what's the matter?" he asked. "that's what i should like to know," said the prelate. "mr. kassala says he is looking for you." "indeed! what for?" "i--er--was wondering if you had a camel-hair paint brush?" said mr. kassala. "well, you needn't wonder any longer. i haven't," mr. percy replied. "and what do you want, mr. jones?" asked the bishop sternly. "nothing, my lord, nothing," said the unhappy jones. "i was only following mr. kassala." "then perhaps you'll follow him to bed," remarked the bishop drily. "i hope i shall have a more satisfactory explanation in the morning." here, no doubt feeling that the situation was hardly in keeping with his dignity, the bishop closed his door. mr. percy did the same, while mr. kassala and the shivering jones returned to their corridor. mr. kassala seemed rather amused than otherwise at the situation, but mr. jones was permeated with distress. "cheer up," said the asiatic, as he turned into his room. "if you will meddle in other people's business you're bound to suffer for it." there was no sleep for the unhappy chaplain that night. he was in love with the eldest miss dacre, who, he had reason to believe, returned his affection, and he had determined to see her father on the subject on the morrow. but after the events of that night such an interview was highly inadvisable. yet he had acted from the best and most creditable of motives. only by hearsay was he acquainted with the habits and customs of the east, but he felt sure that honest asiatics would not be found prowling about a palace in the midnight hours. what did mr. kassala want in the bishop's room? was it theft or--something worse? was this self-styled priest the emissary of some eastern organization bent upon destroying the flower of the western hierarchy? was he a thug? mr. jones shuddered at the possibilities of the situation. ha! what was that? again a creak outside. for a moment he listened breathlessly. then he opened his door again. good gracious! there was mr. kassala once more slinking down the corridor. hastily putting on his dressing-gown, mr. jones followed, with nerves strung to their highest tension. this time the asiatic walked with no uncertain step. as he passed the bishop's door the chaplain's heart gave a bound of relief. he stopped at mr. percy's door, and tapped gently. the light in the room was turned on, and the door opened by mr. percy himself. mr. kassala entered, and the door closed noiselessly behind him. for some minutes mr. jones stared at the door in blank amazement. then he turned round, and walked slowly back to his own room. in times of great perplexity he was accustomed to look for guidance to mr. paley's "evidences." mechanically he now took down the well-thumbed volume from its shelf, and opened it. he sat for many hours staring at the print without ever turning the page. "where is mr. kassala?" were the bishop's first words on entering the breakfast-room the next morning. although his lordship had betrayed no consciousness of his existence mr. jones felt that the inquiry was levelled at him. "i do not know, my lord," he answered. "john," said the bishop to his butler, "will you inform mr. kassala that breakfast is on the table?" in a few minutes john returned with the information that mr. kassala's room was empty, that his bed had not been slept in, and that nobody had seen him that morning. "this is very singular," said his lordship. then, after a pause, "one hardly likes to say so, but i must confess my confidence in the _bona fides_ of mr. kassala has been shaken. you spoke about burglars last night, marmaduke, in reference to my crozier, which seemed to have a peculiar attraction for mr. kassala. i hope it is safe." "i put the case on the top of my wardrobe last night, and it was there five minutes ago," said mr. percy. "i wonder what his object could be in coming here, and then leaving us in this extraordinary manner. perhaps you can throw some light on that very peculiar incident in the middle of the night, mr. jones?" "i heard a noise, my lord, and followed mr. kassala to see what he was doing. i haven't the faintest idea why he went into your room, unless it really was, as he said, that he had mistaken it for mr. percy's." "but what should he want with mr. percy?" asked mrs. dacre. "perhaps mr. percy will answer that?" said the chaplain, with much meaning in his voice. mr. percy fixed the eyeglass and looked coolly at the chaplain. "how on earth should i know, jones?" he said. with this oracular remark he returned to his egg. the chaplain was bursting with indignation at mr. percy's concealment of his midnight interview with mr. kassala. he longed to expose him, but shrank from the necessity of a painful scene. "mildred," said mrs. dacre suddenly, "let us look through the drawing-room silver at once. i hope the equestrian statuette of your father is safe." while the ladies were ticking off their household gods, mr. percy went to his room to pack, and mr. jones followed. "may i have his lordship's crozier?" asked the chaplain. "certainly. here you are. but you do look unhappy, jones! whatever is the matter?" mr. jones took the case without replying. "the key was in the lock last night," he remarked. "was it? then it must have dropped out somewhere. perhaps it's on the floor." but it did not seem to be there, although both mr. percy and the chaplain looked very carefully for it. "never mind," said the former, after five minutes' fruitless search. "it will probably turn up after i've gone. remember, that i'll be responsible for any damage." the chaplain was very pale. "mr. percy," he said, "i know of your midnight interview with mr. kassala." once more mr. percy fixed his monocle. "do you, old man?" he replied. "then i won't be the one to get you into trouble over it. you may rely on me. if you don't say anything, i shan't. now good-bye. it'll take me all my time to get my things together. my man's ill, and i'm out of practice." mr. jones left the room more bewildered than ever. his lordship, after leaving stringent instructions regarding mr. kassala, should he again appear, went by the noon train to town with mr. percy. mr. jones appeared singularly distracted that day, and miss dacre gazed at him with much concern. he spent the evening alone with paley, and about eleven o'clock, with firm determination on his face, he forced the lock of the crozier case. his worst fears were realised. in place of the crozier of ebony, gold, and jewels, the present of the ladies of the county, there reposed in the purple velvet lining a common bedroom poker! at that very moment the bishop of bister's crozier lay on the table of a london mansion. twelve men were gathered round it, complimenting their host upon it. their host, by the way, was lately his majesty's secretary of state for egypt. he was now attired in a long blue cassock-like garb, such as asiatic priests may wear. "by the burglary of the bishop of bister's crozier lord ribston's subscription has been paid for the next two years," said one of the men, making a cypher note in a book. "hear, hear! bravo! good for the ribston pippin!" was the general chorus. "gentlemen," said the man in the priestly garb, rising to his feet amidst applause, "i am proud once more to have been able to fulfil the mandate of our club. with your permission, i will now pack up the bauble so that it may be returned by the midnight express in order to ease the mind of a most worthy man, his lordship's chaplain. but before i do so i wish to propose a new member--mr. marmaduke percy. you will recollect that his name was brought forward twelve months or so ago, but he was not considered equal to the demands that are occasionally made upon the members of this honourable fraternity. i have reason to believe that we did mr. percy an injustice. yesterday, at any rate, he saw through my disguise, and divined my purpose. he could easily have betrayed me. but he behaved in a sportsmanlike way, and for that reason i now propose that he should become one of us. major armytage is seconding. you will have an opportunity of voting for mr. percy at our next meeting. is there any further business before us, mr. secretary?" the secretary consulted his book. "i note that mr. danby travers' subscription is due," he said. "good old danby! pile it on! make it thick enough!" was the varied cry. "gentlemen," said the secretary, "we meet on tuesday next, and mr. danby travers will then be asked for the black pearl of agni, the property of the illingworths." iii. the luck of the illingworths. danby travers was annoyed. he was one of the founders of the burglars' club. his entrance fee had been the temporary abstraction from the crown jewels of the koh-i-noor itself. two years ago he had kept up his membership by the burglary of the duchess of guiseley's emeralds; and now, by the unkindness of fate or the simple cussedness of his committee, he could only renew his subscription by purloining the black pearl of agni. it showed the folly of becoming the champion jewel burglar of the club. of course it was pure coincidence, for only four people knew that he was in love with mary illingworth. mary knew it, because he had told her; lord and lady illingworth, because they had been fatuously consulted in the matter; and he, danby travers, because of a stuffy, despairing feeling somewhere in his chest from the moment of awakening in the morning down to the last gleam of consciousness at night. but the burglars' club did not know it, nor did they know that lord illingworth had told him that in future he was not to cross the baronial threshold; and all because, despite his brilliant record in india and at hurlingham, he, danby travers, was as poor as a chapel mouse. therefore he received the mandate of the club with something less than his usual urbanity. but reflection brought a mephistophelean suggestion of comfort. he had been unable to rob lord illingworth of his fairest daughter. he would at any rate purloin his most valued jewel. the black pearl of agni was world-renowned. during the military operations in the western deccan in it had been looted by a certain major illingworth, of the bengal native infantry, from a rich temple dedicated to the hindoo god of fire. from that day his fortunes had prospered amazingly. promotion came for the asking; wealth by marriage and bequest. influence, social and political, had followed, and a title. succeeding generations had added to the score. two descendants of the sepoy major had attained cabinet rank, and the present peer had won the derby. the luck of the illingworths had become proverbial. [illustration: "she . . . had shown him the secret of its hiding-place." (_p. ._)] the jewel was kept at knowlesworth. travers knew the place well. he had spent a fortnight there, and there he had made love to mary illingworth. she had shown him the pearl; and, because he was to be her husband, had shown him the secret of its hiding-place. little did he think at the time that the next occasion on which he entered that room would be as a burglar--an amateur one, it is true, but still a burglar. no wonder that danby travers was annoyed. the only justification for his conduct that he could think of was that the temporary loss of the pearl would probably have a beneficial effect on lord illingworth's character. he had received the secretary's intimation on the friday morning. he had to show the pearl at the next meeting of the club--on the following tuesday night. that gave him four days for the business. knowlesworth was sure to be full of visitors, for lord illingworth had succeeded a late master of balliol in entertaining the most distinguished week-end parties in the country. travers turned to the _post_, certain to find the list. ah! here it was: "lord and lady illingworth are having a large party at knowlesworth, entertaining the bohemian ambassador and countess polsky, the duke of strathpeffer, the marquess and marchioness of bridlington, the dean of penzance, professor rawson, and others." "what a crew!" thought travers. "wouldn't strathpeffer be pleased if i came a cropper! i wonder he can go there after mary's last refusal. i'll wait till they thin a bit. some are sure to go on monday, so monday night is my best time for the job. now for bradshaw." on the following monday night, travers took a second-class ticket at charing cross in order to minimise the chance of running against friends. from sheer curiosity he chose a compartment in which two singular-looking men were already seated. the weather was by no means cold, yet they were swathed in winter clothing. thick mufflers were round their necks. their faces were partly hidden by the wraps, and partly shaded by the broad brims of silk hats built about the time of the crimean war. but their race was unmistakable--to travers at least. they were hindoos--the tall one probably a man of caste, the podgy person possibly a baboo. in his interest at coming across these strange people travers forgot his ultimate objective. he settled himself in his corner, prepared either to join in conversation with, or merely to watch, his quaint fellow-travellers. on his entrance they had turned their eyes upon him, but they had resumed their conversation. as the train got on its way they raised their voices, and, confident of not being understood, they spoke with absolute unrestraint. travers, with knowledge derived from ten years' service in the madras and indian staff corps, was easily able to follow their talk. "at last," said the tall man, as the train moved out of the station. "at last," repeated the other. "buck up. now is the conclusion of your spacious quest." "say rather the beginning. so far it has been easy, despite the horror of mingling with these barbarians. to lose caste was foreseen, but now we enter upon the unknown." "nevertheless, i take the liberty of emphasising the necessity of bucking up. to-morrow you will be a thrice happy man, and i will weave a garland of marigolds for your honourable head. gosh!" this as the train entered a tunnel with a hideous shriek. "it is a taste of the underworld," he added. the tall man shuddered, and remained silent. as the train emerged his companion gave a very creditable imitation of the whistle and the tunnel. the tall man smiled sadly. "ramma lal," he said, "i envy you your merry disposition. it was in a good moment that i met thee in bombay, _baboo-jee_. you have served me well in guiding me hither, and in enlivening me on the long journey." "your honour is pleased to be excessively gracious," said the baboo with absurd complacency. "indeed, my tip-top spirits have been of much service to myself and many other honourable gentlemen, and have been extraordinarily admired by english ladies." he pulled out his watch. "in the space of half an hour we shall have arrived at our long-intended destination." "so soon? show me the plan again to refresh my memory." the baboo produced a piece of paper, over which they bent their heads. "here is the railway station at which we shall dismount. this pink streak is the highway-road along which we shall travel, eventually reaching the big brass gates belonging to ancestral home. a little beyond is a diminutive wall, which we ascend and descend. then we step across the park and round the lake. here and here. this sepia mark is water. now we are in the pleasure garden. this is the hinder part of the house. here is the right wing. the fifth window in the second row. that is your bull's eye." "go on," said his companion, gloomily. "your honour will divest yourself of polished hat and other garments, which you will transfer to my care in summer house. here, behold it, painted in vermilion. you will climb up to the window. inferior but friendly servant has arranged that it shall open easily. once in the room the deed is as good as accomplished. you know the hiding-place of the jewel." travers started. "the hiding-place of the jewel!" "yes," said the gloomy hindoo; "i know it. but krishna bürkut knew it twenty-five years ago, and the swâmi râm nâth knew it fifty years ago, and yet another swâmi seventy-five years ago, but none of these restored it to the temple of agni. all failed in their quest, and never regained their caste. i too shall fail." "allow me to have the felicity of indicating at least one point of difference between your honour and gentlemen mentioned," replied the baboo. "your honour has intelligent assistant, while enumerated catalogue had not. have the kindness to point out fly in our ointment. it is distinguished by its absence. the jewel is yours." "perish the jewel!" cried the other hindoo in a sudden outburst of fury. "why couldn't the _huzoor_ have left it alone, or have taken another jewel? why should he have singled out the one above all others necessary to the happiness of agni? and why should i, of all the priests of the temple, be chosen to restore the sacred stone? here, with five thousand miles of space between us, i declare to you, ramma lal, i do not fear the wrath of agni. i call him humbug. i read shakespeare. i write him an ass. i am doubtful even of vishnu and siva." travers paid no attention to ramma lal's reproachful reply. he was lost in amazement. here, on the very night he had chosen for purloining the jewel, two other men were on the same errand. stop. there was a reason for their date. they had mentioned twenty-five, fifty, and seventy-five years. it was evidently an anniversary. every twenty-five years an attempt had to be made to restore the jewel to the temple of agni. three attempts had already been made in vain, and now, on the hundredth anniversary of the theft by major illingworth, another attempt was in progress. at any rate, he was forewarned. the house was a mile and a half away from the station by the main road on which the hindoos were going. he knew a cut across the fields which shortened the distance by half a mile. he would gain ten minutes. in that ten minutes he had to obtain the pearl. the train pulled up at knowlesworth station. the two hindoos stepped out. travers followed. he watched them start along the road; then he briskly cut across country. the church clock struck eight as he reached the terrace in front of the hall. from the beginning he had matured only one plan of campaign. he knew the rules of the house, and he would take advantage of them. from eight to nine the men-servants were busy in the dining-room. anyone could open the main outer door and enter. he might, of course, be seen, and in this eventuality travers relied upon his being known to allay suspicion. he was in evening dress, and temporarily, at any rate, would strike a servant as being one of the guests. the nominal dinner-hour was eight. it had been his intention to enter at . in order to allow for any delay either on the part of the kitchen or the guests. dinners at knowlesworth were notoriously unpunctual, and if he entered now he might run into the house party or meet stragglers on the stairs. he must wait. but the hindoos were marching down the road. each instant brought them nearer. in ten--no, in eight minutes--they would be in the garden. yet he dare not enter. he waited impatiently in the shadow of the great portico. it was now . . he would make an attempt. he slowly pushed back the heavy door, and entered the vestibule. this was cut off from the hall by big glass doors, and then by heavy curtains. still more carefully he opened the inner door, and then quickly closed it again. through the opening had come the sound of voices and laughter. they were gathered in the hall before the fire, waiting for the summons to dinner. so there he stayed, cursing the unpunctuality of the house, and unquietly reflecting that a casual remark as to the present state of the weather might lead to the glass door being opened and himself ignominiously disclosed. and mary would witness his humiliation. nay, she might even be the innocent cause of it. she was within half a dozen yards of him now, separated only by some glass and a curtain. yet he could not speak to her--could not even see her. ah! that was her laugh. and that strathpeffer's raucous voice. hang strathpeffer! it was now . . the hindoos were in the garden. the situation was distracting. at any moment they might enter the temple room. ah! there was the sound of movement within. the guests trooped past the door. their voices died away. all was still. it was nineteen minutes past eight. travers hesitated no longer. he unbuttoned his top-coat, and, with cap in hand as though he were a guest just come in from a stroll before dinner, he opened the hall door. no one was in sight. he crossed the hall, and stepped lightly up the stairs. at their head he passed a maid. she certainly took him for a guest. he went straight down the great corridor, and then branched to the left. it was the third door ahead. he pulled back the panel as mary had shown him, undid the bolt from within, and entered. the room was in darkness. he struck a light, half expecting to find the hindoo disclosed. no, he was alone, and the pearl still there. it was a room without furniture. in the centre was a replica of the great idol of agni at the temple from which the pearl had been looted. the god sat there, smug, cross-legged, and hideous. the eyes fascinated the beholder. the left one was of marble; the right made of a stone worth a prince's ransom--the one known throughout the world as the black pearl of agni. at the god's knees, their holders resting on the floor, were two gigantic candles. travers lit them. [illustration: "a cry of despair escaped him." (_p. ._)] then he stepped quickly to the idol, and sought the left hand of the god. he pressed the nail of the fourth finger. the god's right eyelid lifted, and the complete stone was disclosed. travers quickly abstracted it, released the lid, and put the pearl in his pocket. his object was accomplished. but what was that? listen. there was a sound at the window. the hindoo was there--beaten by half a minute. travers turned to the door. then, impelled by an overpowering curiosity to see the end of the drama, he slipped to another window, and got behind the curtain. there was a faint whistle from below. hang it, what a fool he'd been! the baboo had seen the momentary disarrangement of the curtain, and had observed his figure against the light, and now he was alarming his friend. but the latter heeded not. perhaps he was too excited to understand, or even to hear him. the sash was raised, the curtain pulled back, and the hindoo stepped into the room. he was almost naked, and his bare limbs shone with a coating of oil. he took one step forward, and looked up eagerly into the idol's face. then a cry of despair escaped him. the stone for which he had travelled five thousand miles was not there. he had lost his caste. it could never be regained, since he had failed in his quest. never again could he see his native land. under the crushing blow he sank, a comatose heap, on the floor. the minutes passed, and travers shifted uneasily behind the curtain. there were sounds from the garden--then approaching footsteps in the corridor. the door was flung open, and lord illingworth burst into the room, revolver in hand. the duke of strathpeffer followed with other guests, and some footmen. the hindoo stared dully at them, but did not move. he was promptly seized. "the pearl--where is it?" demanded lord illingworth. the hindoo did not reply. lord illingworth pointed to the empty socket, and repeated the question, but the hindoo merely shook his head. "search him," said lord illingworth. he was searched, but, of course, nothing was found. lord illingworth stood over him. "where is the pearl?" he thundered, but again the hindoo shook his head. "bring in the other man," said lord illingworth. the baboo entered, limp and crestfallen, in charge of two stablemen. a boy carried a silk hat and some winter clothing. "ask him what he has done with the pearl," said the peer. ramma lal put the question. "i have not got it. it was not here when i came." the baboo repeated this to lord illingworth. "it is a lie," he replied. "it was here an hour ago. i saw it myself." "the _sahib_ knows that thou liest," said ramma lal to his friend. "tell him a finer tale." but the hindoo only protested his innocence. "what does he say?" demanded lord illingworth. "he says," replied the facile baboo, "that no sooner had he taken the pearl than there was the flash of fire and much smoke. when it cleared away the stone had vanished. doubtless agni the god had come for his own." lord illingworth blazed with fury. "he has swallowed it," he said. "we shall have to cut him open." ramma lal translated this terrific threat. the hindoo gave a yell. despair lent him strength. with a serpentine twist he slid from the grasp of one of his captors and knocked up the arm of the other. the window was still open. he sprang through it into the darkness of the night. lord illingworth ran to the window, fired blindly, and then rushed from the room. the others followed. only the baboo, his two captors, and the boy with the clothes remained. "come along," said one of the grooms. "stay for one moment, i beseech you," said ramma lal, "and let me worship agni the god." "none of yer blarney," returned the man. but the other, who was of a romantic temperament, said, "wot's the odds? let the heathen do it if he wants." "you see, gentlemen," said the baboo eagerly, "it is my very last opportunity. i shall be lifelong imprisoned for the inauspicious event of this evening. it is positively my last appearance in the open. let me worship agni as i do in my own land. no englishman has yet witnessed the entire ceremony. it shall not take long. i will compress my supplications. five minutes will be ample dispensation." the grooms looked at each other. their curiosity settled the matter. "we'll give you four minutes, so look sharp," said one. "thank you," replied ramma lal gratefully. "agni will bless you for your beneficence." the men released their hold. one closed the window, the other shut the door, and placed himself before it. ramma lal took off his silk hat, muffler, and coat. he advanced to the idol and salaamed low three times. then he raised his eyes and sang. travers knew the song. it was a ribald ditty of the bazaars, and it had as much to do with the worship of agni as with the laws of gravitation. he watched the baboo with increasing interest. he had evidently some ulterior object in view, but what was it? ah! ramma lal had gradually approached the idol. still singing, he had bowed his head till it had almost touched agni's knees. travers hardly saw the movement of the hands. only an oriental could have done it so swiftly. the two candles were suddenly extinguished, and the room was in absolute darkness. with loud imprecations the two grooms rushed to where the baboo had been--to collide with each other, and incidentally bring down the huge candlesticks. then recovering, they dashed about the room in search of their prisoner, only to seize the boy who had the clothes. finally one of them struck a light. they were alone with the boy. the window was again wide open. the men leaned out. there was no moon. the lights of the searchers flashed in the distance. they turned blankly to each other. "there'll be pop to pay for this," said the boy, who was still suffering from rough usage in the dark. "you'll both jolly well get sacked." "all your blamed fault for lis'nin' to his tommy rot," said the one man savagely to his companion. "who'd have thought he was so cunnin'?" rejoined the other. "wot's the good of talkin' here? come out an' look for him. he may have broke his neck," he added hopefully. again the lights flashed in the garden, and then gradually extended beyond. travers waited until he was sure there was no one below. then he emerged from his recess, and followed the indians through the window. leaving the park to the searchers, he kept to the main avenue, and soon gained the high road. a ten-mile walk brought him to dorton junction, where he just missed the last train to town. the sun was high when danby travers reached his rooms, and it was late in the afternoon when he awoke. the morning papers and his letters were at his bedside. he at once opened one of the former, curious to see if there was any reference to the events of the previous night. good heavens! what was this? "burglary and fire at knowlesworth. the illingworth pearl stolen. the hall gutted. "knowlesworth hall, the historic seat of the illingworths, was last night the scene of two extraordinary events. "lord and lady illingworth were entertaining one of their famous week-end parties at dinner when a daring and successful attempt was made to steal the celebrated pearl of agni, the largest known black pearl in the world. "a native indian was found in a summer house in the italian garden by a servant. as several determined attempts to steal the pearl had already been made, the safety of this remarkable jewel was at once called into question. lord illingworth and his guests hurried to the temple room, where the great pearl was kept, and there found another native, who was promptly secured. the pearl was missing, and the strictest search failed to bring it to light. it is believed that the thief has swallowed it, a fact which it is to be hoped that the x-rays will be able to demonstrate. "owing to gross mismanagement somewhere, the two natives escaped from custody, and it was midnight before they were again apprehended--one of them at dorton, in a state of collapse from fear and cold; the other at lingfield, defiant, but suffering from a sprained ankle. they will be brought up to-morrow at the dorton petty sessions. "scarcely had lord illingworth and his guests retired to rest after an exciting evening than they were again alarmed, this time by an outbreak of fire in the temple room. its cause is unknown, but the flames, assisted by a high wind, spread with extraordinary rapidity, in spite of the prompt measures taken by the hall fire brigade. engines quickly arrived from lingfield and dorton, but the supply of water was totally inadequate, and it soon became evident that the whole structure was doomed. at the moment of telegraphing, the fire was raging furiously, but all sleeping in the house had been rescued without injury. "in one night lord illingworth has lost his great family jewel and his ancestral seat. the 'luck of the illingworths' seems to have deserted him. "it is a remarkable coincidence that a fire consumed the hindu temple of agni the night that the pearl was taken from it by major illingworth in . "agni is the hindu god of fire." "thank heaven, mary's safe!" ejaculated travers. "i hope she hasn't had a great fright." then, after a pause, "and ramma lal caught, after all! he deserved a better fate. what an uncommon good thing i got the pearl! if i hadn't taken it, the indians would have been well on the way to bombay with it by now, and if neither of us had taken it, the stone might have been burnt up. would it, though? there mightn't have been a fire at all. rummy notion that agni should blaze the whole show in revenge for my desecration! it shan't interfere with my feelings of satisfaction. i'm a public benefactor--an illingworth benefactor, anyway. i shall explain this to my lord at an early date. hullo, what's this? a lawyer's letter. i can tell 'em by the smell. what's he threatenin' this time?" but it wasn't a threat. it was simply an intimation that under the will of colonel thomas archer, a distant relative lately deceased, he, danby travers, succeeded to the whole estate, a bequest made "on account of intrepidity shown in the recent iráwadi campaign." the income therefrom, the solicitor added, was estimated at about £ , per annum, and he would be pleased to have an expression of mr. danby travers's wishes with respect to the same. £ , a year! travers jumped out of bed and executed a series of gyrations. £ , a year! that meant mary. but did it? it was a fortune to him, but how would lord illingworth view it? well, if he didn't like it he needn't. mary and he were now independent of everybody. he made his way to the burglars' meeting in a blur of happiness. he was rather late. other men were there already, and they one and all congratulated him. "aren't you rather premature?" he asked. "you haven't seen the pearl yet." "bother the pearl," said altamont. "we mean the title." "what the deuce are you drivin' at?" "haven't you seen the papers?" "crowds of 'em, and lawyers' letters too. my head's buzzin' with 'em. what is it this time?" "your cousin tumbled down some stone steps in vienna last night, and you are lord travers now--that's all!" danby sat down. this final stroke of fortune was too much for him. "i can't say i'm sorry," he blurted at length. "bertram wouldn't have been sorry if it had been me. and i'm glad about the title because of----. here, i say, you fellows, what's come over the world since last night?" "the black pearl of the illingworths has changed hands, we hope," said the secretary, who wanted to start the business of the evening. "the black pearl has, and the luck of the illingworths went with it. they've had a fire, and i've got a bequest and a title. perhaps you fellows'll be more superstitious in future. that's what brought my luck, anyway." saying which, he produced the black pearl of agni. to his unbounded joy and immense surprise lord illingworth received the missing stone from london during the course of the next day. the indians had been remanded for a week, pending further inquiries, and as they had obviously not stolen the jewel after all, lord illingworth declined to prosecute, and they were released from custody. an unknown friend interested himself in the natives. one of them, a baboo, was sent back to bombay by an early steamer. the other, who refused to return to india, thanks to the same unknown benefactor, was put in the way of earning his living by teaching hindustani. he has since gone over to the mohammedan faith. with repossession of the pearl, good fortune came once more to the illingworths. in making excavations consequent on rebuilding the hall, a coal seam was discovered, which eventually doubled the family wealth. the black pearl of agni is now protected from burglars by many quaint electrical conceits. when the next anniversary comes round any indian visitors will have a very lively time of it. later on in the year a marriage took place between mary, younger daughter of lord and lady illingworth, and danby, ninth baron travers, a nobleman who had been mentioned in despatches in the iráwadi campaign, and who was not unknown at hurlingham. his clubs were the marlborough, brooks's, and the burglars'. iv. the fellmongers' goblet. "mr. septimus toft,--sir," the letter ran. "the 'tecs are on the scent. if you want any further information meet me at the blue lion, monument, at nine-thirty to-morrow evening without fail.--yours, etc., j. driver." mr. toft stared at the letter with much disgust and more alarm. it was certainly a regrettable communication for a commercial magnate, a magistrate, and a pillar of society to be obliged to attend to. it would have troubled him had it come before bowker had absconded, but now it was much worse. bowker would have shared the anxiety, and interviewed "j. driver." he could have guessed on what particular scent the detectives were engaged, and his fertile ingenuity would have suggested an obvious way of circumventing them, whereas mr. toft's unaided vision saw none. "nine-thirty to-morrow evening." mr. toft smiled feebly at the humour of the situation. to-morrow evening at eight o'clock he was advertised to take the chair at a young men's mutual improvement meeting, and the gentleman who was to deliver the evening's lecture occupied the post of his majesty's solicitor-general. "he will probably have to prosecute me on behalf of the crown," thought toft; so he determined to propitiate him by special attention to his discourse and by frequent applause. on the following evening mr. toft made his way to the blue lion. the lecture had not been a success as far as he was concerned. try as he might, he could not concentrate his thoughts on the subject. he had applauded at wrong places. once a titter from the audience had resulted, and the solicitor-general had turned on him a look of pained surprise. in the agony of the moment he had pulled the table-cloth, and the glass of water thereon had upset, incidentally splashing the lecturer. the titter developed into a laugh, through which a legal glare had petrified him. at nine o'clock the lecture was over. the solicitor-general listened in silence to mr. toft's apologies, and then bowed coldly. mr. toft felt that he was lost indeed if it came to the law courts, and hurried away to his appointment in a state of feverish anxiety. he had come to the lecture in a soft wide-awake hat and the oldest top-coat in his wardrobe. he now donned a woollen muffler, and put on a pair of smoked glass spectacles. this was his idea of disguise. it was simple, but ineffective; for the highly-respectable mutton-chop whiskers, the weak mouth, and cut-away chin were as noticeable as ever. his most casual acquaintance would have recognised him, and would merely have concluded that he was engaged in something disreputable. at the monument he dismissed his cab, and made his way to the blue lion inn. it was a fifth-rate house in a fourth-rate street. mr. toft had never been in such an unpleasant place in his life, and he groaned as he thought that the exigences of commerce had driven him there in his old age without even the excuse of foreign competition. it was . when he entered the inn, and he hoped that the quarter-hour he was late would impress j. driver with the conviction that he, toft, was not at all particular about keeping the appointment. apparently it did strike mr. driver in this way, for as the be-muffled and be-spectacled gentleman in the soft hat entered the tap-room a sarcastic voice loudly expressed the hope that he hadn't permanently injured his constitution by running. mr. toft was grieved at the publicity given to this remark. he sat down by the speaker, and murmured excuses; but mr. driver, if it were he, would have none of them. "when i says . i mean . , and not . , nor . , nor yet . . if my time won't suit you, yours won't suit me. i'm off," he said. mr. toft was alarmed. "sit down, please," he said, clutching the rising figure. "i'm sure i'm very sorry. i had made an engagement before your letter came, and i couldn't very well put it off. what will you have to drink?" he added adroitly. "gin and bitters," was the prompt response, and mr. driver sat down. mr. toft now had leisure to take stock of his surroundings. j. driver was a dark-haired man with a bold, clean-shaven chin. his voice was deep and emphatic, and his eye was piercing. he was broad and muscular, and would probably be a good boxer, thought mr. toft. he glanced at the drinkers at the other tables, but finding their eyes were fixed stolidly on him he looked elsewhere. he had noticed eyes and noses--that was all. "now to business," said mr. driver. "you know my name, and i know yours. that's where we're equal. you're in a beastly hole, and i aren't. that's where the difference comes in." "i don't understand," said mr. toft. "in fact, i haven't the faintest idea what you are alluding to." "garn," said j. driver, with a dig in the ribs that made him jump. "garn! you old dodger. what about government contracts?" "what about them?" asked mr. toft, shrinking from his familiarity. "what about them?" echoed the other. "what about work you never did, for which you've got false receipts? what about contracts executed with inferior stuff? what about commissions to officials, tips to men, and plunder all round?" mr. toft paled at this catalogue of his business achievements. "you are misinformed," he said. "my firm does not do such things." j. driver thrust his tongue into his cheek. "then how did you get your contracts, septimus?" he asked. "by honest competition in the open market," replied mr. toft loftily. mr. driver laughed derisively. "lord!" he said at last, "i wish i had your artless style. stick to it, mister, in the prisoner's dock. it may pull you through." "i presume you haven't asked me here simply for the purpose of insulting me?" said mr. toft, with some dignity. "what a man you are!" mr. driver replied, with unstinted admiration. "you must be a thought-reader, septimus--a bloomin' thought-reader. you're quite right; i haven't. i've come for the loan of a key, and one of your visitin' cards." "a key?" said mr. toft, relieved, though much surprised. "the key of the plate chest of the fellmongers' company." mr. toft raised his eyebrows. "you're joking," he said. "do i look like a joker?" replied his companion fiercely. "do i look like a joker?" he repeated loudly, banging his fist on the table so that all turned their eyes in the direction of the noise. mr. toft implored him to restrain his feelings. "don't rouse 'em then!" said the man. "have you got the key on you?" "er--yes," responded mr. toft. "then hand it over." "my dear sir," began the unhappy septimus. "i'm not your dear anything," said the other; "so don't you pretend that i am. i'm as meek and pleasant as a cow to those that treat me fair and square, but when i'm irritated i'm a roarin' bull. hand me the key." "i can't." "you can't. right'o!" said mr. driver, rising. "at present the admiralty only suspect. to-morrow they'll know, and you'll know too, septimus toft, when you get five years without the option of a fine." "please, please don't speak so loudly," begged mr. toft, beside himself with fears and anxieties. then, to put on time whilst he collected his scattering thoughts, "what do you want to do with the key?" "wear it with my medals, of course," said the man sarcastically. "if you want further pertic'lers you won't get 'em, but i promise to return the key within forty-eight hours, and all your plate'll be there." "it's a very extraordinary idea," said mr. toft incredulously. "it is; and i'm a very extraordinary man, and you're a bloomin' ordinary one. will you let me have the key and a visitin' card, or not?" "if anyone asks how you got them what will you say?" "say i took 'em from you while you were asleep in an opium den, or when we met in a tunnel--any blessed thing you like." mr. toft scarcely heard him. he was thinking over the pros and cons of the situation as rapidly as his nervous system would allow. he was treasurer of the fellmongers' company, and he alone had the key of the plate safe. in the ordinary course of events he would be elected prime warden next year, but if there were any trouble about the plate he might not be. better that, though, than a public exposure of his business methods. the key might have been stolen from him. everyone lost keys now and then. of course no one could think that the theft was to his advantage, and it would save him from all bother at the admiralty--but would it? "if i let you have the key," he asked, "how do i know that you won't come in a similar way again?" "give it up," said mr. driver. "never was good at riddles, and i didn't come here to be asked 'em neither. what the blazes do i care about what you'll know or what you won't know? i know what i know, and that's enough to account for your hair bein' so thin on top. if you don't hand me that key without any more rottin' i'll just drop this in the first pillar-box i come across." he pulled out a fat blue envelope and flourished it in front of mr. toft's blinking eyes. it was addressed to the financial secretary of the admiralty, and was marked on one side "important," and on the other "private and urgent." there was an immense seal with the impression of a five-shilling piece. "your death-knell's inside," said mr. driver. "hear it rattle," and he shook the envelope in mr. toft's ear. "but it wants a stamp, or the government might not take it in. on such trifles do our destinies depend, septimus. have you got a stamp?" he put an anticipatory penny on the table. mr. toft hesitated no longer. from one end of his watch-chain he detached a gold key, which he handed covertly to driver. "now your visitin' card." mr. toft produced one, and handed it over. "you'll give me that letter now," he pleaded. j. driver shook his head, tore up the packet, and put it into the fire. "better there," he said oracularly. "now, toft, my boy, don't worry. you'll have that key back by friday, and all your spoons'll be in the box. if you don't interfere you'll never hear of me again, and the admiralty won't either; but if you take one step behind my back i'll do all i've threatened, and a lot more, and you'll be building portland breakwater on christmas day. by-bye, septimus." with this mr. driver rose, and stalked out of the room. after a modest interval mr. toft followed. at a.m. on the following morning the bell of the fellmongers' company pealed vigorously. the porter hurried to answer it, and found a lady on the doorstep. she was neatly dressed, and was strikingly handsome. she might be twenty-five years old. a boy carrying a portfolio and a strapped-up easel stood behind. "is this the fellmongers' hall?" she asked. "it is, miss." "i want to know if you will be good enough to allow me to copy a painting you have on your walls? i do not know if it is necessary to have any written permission, or where to apply for it." "the 'all is open to the public under my supervision," said the porter pompously. "come inside, please." "thank you," replied the lady. "put those things down, johnnie. that's right. i'll let you know when to come for them. good-morning." "we don't often 'ave hartists 'ere, miss," remarked the porter, "and i sometimes thinks as pictures is wasted on gentlemen dinin' with city companies. they ain't runnin' pertic'ler strong on hart just then. which one is it you want?" "i don't know the title," replied the artist, "but i shall know the picture when i see it. it's a portrait." "p'raps nicholas tiffany," the porter suggested, "the first warden of the company, painted by 'olbein. born . lived to the ripe age of ninety-four, and died regretted by his sovereign and his country. his estates were seized by his creditors. here he is, miss." the man opened the door of the livery room, the walls of which were hung with many pictures. "this is tiffany," he said, pointing to a disreputable-looking portrait. the lady looked at it doubtfully. "the painting i want is the one nearest to the door of the plate room," she said. "then it's a good bit away from it, miss. the plate room is off the banqueting 'all, and they are all windows on that side. the pictures are opposite." "dear me," said the lady. "how very stupidly i have been informed. please show me the room." the porter led the way, and threw open the door with pardonable pride. "the banqueting 'all of the honourable company of fellmongers!" he exclaimed. it was the famous hall in which heads of city companies and ruling sovereigns are intermittently entertained. down one wall were ranged portraits of eminent fellmongers. the other three were pierced by doors and windows. "which is the plate room?" asked the lady. "this is the door of the plate room," the porter replied. "anyone enterin' without authority, day or night, sets in action two peals of electric bells, and aut'matic'ly discharges a revolver shot through the sky-light." "how very interesting!" the lady remarked. "now i must find my picture." she looked round the room, and finally selected one. "jeremiah crumpet," said the porter. "a haberdasher by birth, but eventually junior warden of our company. painted by merillo. never gettin' beyond pot'ooks 'imself, he founded the company's schools at ashby de la zouch." "i'm sure that's the man," said the artist. "i'll bring my things in if i may. is there a mrs. ----? jeckell, thank you. i should like to see her about some water for my paints." "i'll tell you what, maria," said mr. jeckell some hours later. "if she's a hartist i ought to be president of the royal academy. i never saw such drawin' in my life. she can't get his face square nohow. he's smilin' in the picture, but she's made him lockjawed an' moonstruck. she says if she can't get him right she'll have to turn him into a shipwreck. she must be what the papers call an himpressionist. she spoke twice about the plate room, so i've wheeled my chair into the 'all to keep my eye on her. i'll go back now and see what she's hup to." mr. jeckell would have wondered less at her drawing if he could have seen the note the lady had referred to in his absence: "an attempt will be made during the next three days to steal a cup from the plate chest at the fellmongers' hall. for certain reasons warning of this must not come to the authorities from without. apply for permission to copy painting or to sketch interior, and watch. should any other than the company's servant enter the plate room suggest doubt as to his credentials, and do all you can to secure his arrest. another agent will watch the premises from p.m. to a.m." while mr. jeckell was on his way to his chair there came another peal from the front-entrance bell. a man in a bowler hat, and carrying a handbag, was outside. "mr. toft has sent me for the nelson goblet," he said. the porter was surprised. "got a note?" he asked. "the guv'ner gave me this," said the man, handing a card, "and the key." "what does he want it for?" mr. jeckell asked. "got a big guzzle on at 'ome. wants to cut an extra dash in centre-pieces." mr. jeckell shook his head gravely, but made no remark. "come along," he said shortly. he led the way across the vestibule into the banqueting hall, where, behind her easel, a lady was evidently busy with her picture. he stopped at a door, which he unlocked, and both men passed through. barely had they done so when the artist ran from behind her easel into the outer hall. "mrs. jeckell! mrs. jeckell!" she called out. the porter's wife appeared. "a man has gone into the plate room with your husband. i'm sure he is a thief. warn mr. jeckell to get full authority before he does what this man wants." "gracious me!" cried the alarmed mrs. jeckell. "a thief! he may be murderin' samuel!" she rushed across to the plate room, and in a minute a storm of voices proceeded therefrom. finally the three emerged, two hot and flurried, and the stranger, looking cool and determined, carrying a bag in one hand and a gold cup in the other. the porter hung on to his arm. the artist was in front of the door. when she saw the man with the bag and cup she gave a little gasp of surprise, and a wave of colour overspread her face. the man seemed equally astonished. "you!" he said at last. "they're both thieves," whispered mrs. jeckell to her husband. "they're acting in collision. i'll shout for the perlice while you keep 'em." and she ran from the room. "you are in danger," said the artist rapidly in french. "put the cup in your pocket. give me the bag, and knock the porter down." the man obeyed with the promptitude of a soldier. leaving mr. jeckell prostrate on the floor, they hurried from the hall. at the street door was mrs. jeckell, wildly beckoning to a distant policeman. "you take down there," said the artist. "good-bye." she ran off in the opposite direction, still holding the bag, and dived down a side street. mrs. jeckell grew frantically insistent to the policeman, who now came up. "which one?" he puffed. "the man. no, it's in the bag. both of 'em," she cried. at this moment her husband appeared at the door, with blood streaming from his nose. "they've killed samuel," cried his horrified wife, running to him; but the policeman, though he wore the badge of st. john of jerusalem on his arm, dashed down the street after the lady. by the time he returned, after a fruitless pursuit, mr. jeckell's nose had stopped bleeding. "did you hever?" said the porter. "what the blazes did she mean by first givin' the alarm and then aidin' and abettin'? and she looked so innercent-like, too. the first hartist as i've ever encouraged, and the larst. whatever will mr. toft say, maria? it's as much as my place is worth. after all these years of faithful service, too!" but mr. toft was less demonstrative than might have been expected. the next gathering of the burglars' club proved the most important in the history of the club since its foundation. every detail of it is firmly impressed on the memory of each member present; yet they never by any chance refer to that meeting. one and all would like to forget it--if they could. it was held at marmaduke percy's rooms, his grace of dorchester, the president of the year, being in the chair. the secretary read the minutes, and concluded: "the business of the evening is the payment of an entrance fee--the nelson goblet of the fellmongers' company--by martin legendre craven, fourth baron horton, a cadet member of the club." lord horton entered, bowed, and amidst general applause, placed on the table a richly-chased goblet of gold. "lord horton's entrance fee being paid," said the president, "i now move that he be enrolled as a full member." carried unanimously. "my lord, you are one of us." lord horton advanced to the table and looked round with calm deliberation. he was a notable man--the best amateur low comedian of his day, a traveller who had pressed far into thibet, a diplomatist at the mention of whose name the turk shifted uneasily in his seat and fixed his eyes despondently on the floor. he had won his v.c. in china. he had done many things. "your grace, my lords and gentlemen," he said. "i thank you. in accordance with the usual custom of your club i will explain how i have been able to fulfil my appointed duty. i received an intimation that the nelson goblet of the fellmongers' company was my entrance fee, and at once took steps to procure it. the matter was hardly difficult. a list of the company showed me that the treasurer and plate-keeper was a certain mr. toft. the directory informed me that he was a steam-tug owner and a contractor to the admiralty. inquiry there told me he was under suspicion of bribery and corruption. i played on this little weakness of his, and, if i am not mistaken, i frightened him into the paths of virtue for the rest of his days. in return, he lent me the key of the plate safe of his company. in broad daylight i proceeded for my booty. to my surprise, i found that i was expected. someone had placed an agent on the spot to warn the custodian of the building of my intention. an alarm was raised. my lords and gentlemen, at whose instigation was that alarm raised?" lord horton paused. members looked at each other in mystified amazement. what on earth was he driving at? was he waiting for a reply? the silence grew painful. "who instigated that alarm?" again the speaker asked. a voice replied, "presumably mr. toft." "'presumably mr. toft.' sir francis marwood, i thank you for the suggestion. to continue. an alarm was raised by the agent of someone unknown. this agent was a lady who did not know that she was betraying an old friend. a minute later we were face to face. instantly she pierced through my disguise, and by her presence of mind and fertility of resource alone did i escape." "like sir francis marwood, i thought my betrayer was mr. toft, and i hastened to interview that gentleman. i found him in a state of extreme nervous prostration, but i left him convinced that it was not he who had betrayed me. so your suggestion, sir francis marwood, is wrong. can you give me another clue?" sir francis did not reply. he looked uncomfortable at the attention bestowed upon his remark. "my next step was to trace the lady who had helped me. that also was not difficult. i did not know she was in england, but being here i concluded that the foreign office would have her address. i was not mistaken. i found my friend, and learnt that she had her instructions to raise an alarm from--mark the name well, gentlemen--from sir francis marwood, a member of this club." had a live shell fallen into their midst it would probably have caused less consternation than did this announcement. there was an involuntary exclamation from everyone. for a moment all eyes were fixed on sir francis. then each man drew himself up and stared blankly into space. "the fame of your club had reached me, and the novelty of its membership appealed to me." again lord horton was speaking. "i felt that its risks would give a pleasing zest to civilian life, but i did not know that members were allowed to pay off old scores on each other through its medium. last year i considered it my duty to advise against sir francis marwood's appointment to lisbon. this was his revenge. i was prepared to run any and all risks from without, but did not anticipate betrayal from within. gentlemen, you have done me the honour to elect me as a member of your club. i have paid my subscription. now i beg to tender my resignation." "no, no!" responded on all sides. then cries of "marwood! marwood!" "order!" called the duke. "sir francis marwood, we are waiting." sir francis rose. he was a man of some distinction in the diplomatic world. "gentlemen," he said, making a desperate attempt to speak his words lightly; "i really did not anticipate the matter would be taken up in this serious way. i do not dispute the accuracy of lord horton's statement, though i absolutely deny the motive he has ascribed to me. the reason of my action was simple. this club was formed by us, not merely for passing time, but for keeping up our wits in degenerate days. to such a man as lord horton i felt that the purloining of the fellmongers' goblet must fall flat indeed. i have read the marvellous account of his adventures in thibet, and i felt that some further spice of danger in this particular affair was necessary to make it worthy of lord horton's reputation. i took the liberty of supplying it, though perhaps in so doing i exceeded my rights. if so, i tender my regrets." sir francis resumed his seat amidst loudly expressed disapprobation. the president rose. "gentlemen," he said, "you have heard lord horton's charge and sir francis marwood's reply. our club can exist only as long as there is absolute good faith between its members, and i never dreamt of anything less than this being possible. two duties are obviously mine. the first, sir francis marwood, is to inform you that you are no longer a member of the club. the second is to express our sincere regrets to lord horton, and our earnest hope that he will reconsider his resignation." sir francis rose, pale and defiant. "so be it, duke. some day you may regret this. horton, you and i have a big score to wipe out now." then, with an ugly sneer, "it is hardly necessary to say that the f.o. will no longer require the services of a lady who cannot be depended upon; but lord horton's interest will no doubt find her another situation." "stop!" thundered horton. "a lady has been mentioned. two years ago this same lady saved my life in russia. i asked her to marry me, and she refused, because, absurdly enough, she thought it would spoil my career. we did not meet again till yesterday. marwood, instead of an injury, you did me the greatest service in the world. "a week ago i was offered the post of british agent at kabul. it was a post after my own heart, but single-handed i should have failed in it. with this lady as my wife anything would be possible. yesterday i begged her to reconsider her decision, and to help me in my career. i am proud to say she consented. we are to be married at once. because bachelors alone are eligible as members of your club, i am forced to confirm my resignation. gentlemen, and sir francis marwood, good-evening." thus did lord horton leave the burglars' club for married life, happiness, and his brilliant after-career. v. an ounce of radium. "it seems likely," said the president, with singular irrelevance, "that there will be a slump in radium." "all south africans are down," remarked chillingford gloomily. "what in the world are you fellows laughing at?" "it isn't a mine, tommy. it's a horse. won the nobel stakes," marmaduke percy called out. "order, gentlemen, if you please," continued the president. "i was remarking on the probability of a slump in radium. this is what to-day's paper says: "'£ , was recently quoted as the market price for a single pound of radium. we suggest that it would be advisable for any holder to realise promptly, as professor blyth has discovered a method of obtaining this remarkable element from a substance other than pitch-blende. he has already isolated one ounce avoirdupois--at yesterday's price worth £ , --which has been exhibited to a select number of scientists at his laboratory at harlesden green. "'it seems likely that radium will no longer remain the toy of the conversazione, but that it will take its place among the great forces of civilisation. as a moderate-sized cube of it is sufficient to warm the dining-room of an average ratepayer for something like two thousand years, we shall no doubt find in this element the motive power of the future. the smoke nuisance of our great towns will disappear, ocean coaling stations will no longer be necessary, and incidentally about a million workers in the coal trade will be thrown out of employment.' "this, gentlemen, is from the _daily argus_ of to-day." "take your word for it, old man," "carried _nem. con._," and sundry other similar cries greeted the speaker. the duke waved his hand disparagingly. "our secretary informs me," he went on, "that the subscription of major everett anstruther is now due. it is suggested that he should produce this £ , worth of radium at our next meeting in payment thereof; although i believe that is something less than the value of membership of our club." that is why, on april th last, major everett anstruther climbed the wall at the back of professor blyth's house at harlesden. his methods were those of the average burglar. he forced back the catch of one of the windows, drew up the sash, and stepped gently down from the window-sill into the room. he was in the professor's laboratory, a one-storeyed building joined to the dwelling-house by a corridor. anstruther turned on his portable electric light, and took his bearings. he was in an ordinary scientific laboratory, surrounded by induction coils, crookes' tubes, balances, prismatic and optical instruments, and other and more complicated apparatus, the use of which he could not guess. he walked slowly round, observing every corner. where was the radium? he had read up the subject, and had learnt of its power to penetrate almost any substance, and now he turned off his light, hoping to see its rays. there was nothing but absolute darkness. he resolved to explore further. he opened the door gently. in front of him was the passage leading to the house. at his left another door--wide open. he stopped before it in mute surprise and admiration. on a table in the middle of the room was a luminous mass. the wall behind was aglow with a dancing, scintillating light. the rest of the room was in darkness, save for the dim light cast by the glowing mass and the phosphorescent screen behind. it was the radium! how could the professor leave it in so exposed a place? no doubt it was there that it had been exhibited to the scientists--but £ , worth left on a table for anyone to handle! it was absurd. only a professor would have done it. but it wasn't for him to grumble at the peculiar methods of learned men, and with a cheerful heart anstruther stepped lightly into the room. as he did so the door closed behind him with a click. the major paused. "that's queer," he thought. "i didn't feel a draught, and i didn't touch the door." luckily the laboratory was isolated from the rest of the house, so the slight noise would not have been heard. he waited for some minutes to reassure himself; then he stepped back to the door and gently turned the knob, without result. he pushed; pulled and pushed; lifted and pushed; pressed down and pushed; tried in every way he could think of, but the door would not open. he examined it carefully. save for its knob its surface was absolutely plain. there was no keyhole or latch. "trapped, by jove!" anstruther exclaimed under his breath; and as his unpleasant situation dawned upon him he felt more uncomfortable than he had ever done in his life before. in fact, he felt physically ill. "confound it!" he thought. "it's deuced annoying, but it isn't as bad as all that. i don't know why it should bowl me over. perhaps there's another way out of this den." he walked round the room, feeling the wall for some shutter, even searching the floor for a trap-door. there was none. save for a telephone and the table, he encountered nothing but plain surface. "of all the infernal holes to be in," he muttered. "trapped like this, and all through my own carelessness." and then it occurred to him that he, everett anstruther, late a major of his majesty's horse guards blue, and now member of parliament for helston, would in a few hours be haled away to prison on a charge of attempted burglary. a pleasant situation, truly! he felt ill--worse than before. his head ached, and his temples throbbed. what on earth did it mean? he had been in tight places before--once in italy, when his life wasn't worth a moment's purchase, and then he was absolutely cool. but now---- [illustration: "'you are a thief.'" (_p. ._)] he started as if a pistol had been fired. a bell had rung behind him--an electric bell. it was the telephone bell, and it was still ringing. he watched it in dismay. it would rouse the whole house. lift down the receiver, of course. he did so. the bell stopped. he put the receiver to his ear. "are you there?" a voice asked. he did not reply. there was no need. while the receiver was off the bell wouldn't ring. "if you don't answer i shall wake the house," came the voice, as if in answer to his thoughts. the major groaned inwardly. "yes, i'm here," he replied. "good. how do you feel?" "oh, pretty tollollish," he answered. "must be the doctor," he thought. "what is your name?" "smithers," said the major, with a sudden inspiration. "john smithers." "john smithers," came the slow response. "thank you. your age last birthday?" "it seems to me he has been examining blyth's factotum for life insurance," thought the major. "lucky i caught on so well. but what an extraordinary idea to collect these statistics at something after midnight." "age last birthday, please," came down the wire again. "thirty-five," replied the major. "nothing like the truth in an emergency," he added to himself. "john smithers, aged thirty-five," was repeated. "late occupation?" "soldier." "good. very good. late occupation, soldier. any pension?" "yes." "what a fool you are to risk it for a bit of radium." the major stepped back in sheer amazement. "what did you say?" he asked. "whatever made you risk your pension for a bit of radium?" "don't know what you mean." "then i'll explain. you are a thief, locked up in professor blyth's dark room. isn't that so?" "who are you?" asked the major in dismay. "professor blyth." "the devil!" anstruther ejaculated. "no, sir--professor blyth," came the response. "where are you?" asked the major. "i am in the room at the end of the corridor. i can observe the door of your room from where i stand, and i have a loaded revolver in my hand." "what are you going to do?" "that depends upon you. i can either send for the police, and give you in charge, or i can take scientific observations with your assistance--whichever you prefer." "what do you mean by scientific observations?" "you are locked up in a room twelve feet square with an ounce of radium." "well?" "you are the first man in the world who has been locked up with an ounce of radium in a room twelve feet square, and your sensations would be of scientific value. if you care to describe them to me by telephone so long as you are conscious, i will not prosecute; otherwise i will place the matter in the hands of the police. which do you prefer to do?" "you are remarkably kind to offer me the alternative. i think i prefer to describe my sensations." "thank you. i am really very much obliged to you, john smithers; but i ought to warn you beforehand that you will be put to great personal inconvenience. if you decide to try the experiment i shall not release you for some hours. i shall certainly not break off in the middle, however ill you feel." "i have told you my choice," said anstruther curtly. "right. stop, though. what sort of a heart have you?" "strong." "good. you'll need it. got a watch?" "yes." "can you take your pulse?" "yes." "you are a real treasure, john smithers. i'm glad you called. you've been fifteen minutes in the room. what is your pulse?" "seventy-three." "thank you. can you read a clinical thermometer?" "yes." "on the ledge of the telephone, where the paper is, you will find a tube. got it? there's a thermometer inside. please take it out, and read it carefully." "ninety-seven," said the major. "thank you. i had no idea the army was so intelligent. how the papers do deceive us! now put the thermometer under your tongue for two minutes, and then let me know what it registers." "ninety-nine," came the eventual response. "thank you. horse or foot soldier, smithers?" "horse." "horse. thank you. married?" "no." "good again, smithers. no one dependent upon you, i hope? have you a headache?" "it's enough to give me one, answering all your questions." "please describe symptoms, and not attempt to diagnose them. have you a headache?" "yes." "how's your heart?" "beats irregularly." "probably it will. respiration?" "it's rather choky here. can't you let me have a breath of fresh air?" "on no account, smithers--on no account. i'm surprised at your suggesting such a thing. that will do for the present. i'll ring up again shortly, and i'm always here if you want me. you might take a little gentle exercise now." the major hung up his receiver. the room seemed to be much lighter now. the radium glowed more brightly, and the scintillations on the wall behind had increased in intensity. he advanced towards the radium, and was immediately conscious that his discomfort increased. there was a smarting sensation on the front of his body, as if it were exposed to fire. his breathing became more difficult, his headache increased. he drew back to the wall, and the symptoms became less marked. the bell rang again. "i ought to inform you, smithers," said the voice, "that no good at all would result from your attempting to destroy the radium. as a matter of fact, if you broke or crushed it you would feel very much worse. the particles would fly all over, and you would inhale them. the symptoms would be intensely interesting if you would care to experience them, but i won't answer for the consequences. i just want you to understand that you can't possibly escape from this important new element when once you are imprisoned in a room with it, especially when the room is only twelve feet square." the major did not reply. he hung up his receiver in silence. at the other end of the telephone was robert blyth, f.r.s., d.sc., etc., etc., a little red-haired man, whose researches on the mutilation and redintegration of crystals are of world-renown. he was a grave little man as a rule. only when on the verge of some discovery, or when watching the successful progress of an experiment, did he wax cheerful. he did this now as he surveyed his notes of the report of john smithers, a horse-soldier, in durance vile in the adjoining room. "pulse, ; temperature, ; heart, irregular. good. respiration difficult. well, that's understandable. he's been in there thirty-one minutes. thanks to a strong constitution, he's scarcely felt anything yet; but now he'll have trouble. john smithers, you are going to have an exceedingly bad time of it. if you weren't a criminal i should hesitate in giving it you. as it is, you must suffer for the cause of science. your experience will, no doubt, make you hesitate before you attempt another crime." the professor tilted back his chair. "strange," he mused, "how brain controls matter to the end. here's john smithers in the next room--a strong man admittedly--cribbed, cabined, and confined by a man he could probably crumple up with one hand. it was a stroke of genius to advertise my discovery in the papers. the criminal classes all read them now, and i thought i should probably attract a thief. i placed the radium in the middle of the room, and painted the wall behind with sulphide of zinc so that he couldn't possibly miss it. i easily constructed a threshold that closed the door when stepped upon. and then i had only to wait." here the bell rang. "aha, smithers, you are growing impatient. well?" "are you a christian?" came the reply. "i hope so. why?" "do you call this christian conduct, to imprison me here with this infernal block of fire? i tell you, man, it's poisoning me. it's choking me. it's getting to my brain. if you are a christian, come down and let me out." "none of that hysterical sort of talk, smithers," said the professor sternly. "it's no good appealing for mercy. you are a thief, and you've got to be punished. pull yourself together, and show what you are made of. you don't know what a lot of good your sufferings may do to humanity. i shall publish a full account of them in the _british medical journal_, and i am sure your family will be proud of you when they read it." "i haven't got a family, and if i had they shouldn't read your jibberings. i tell you that if you don't let me out i shall do something desperate!" "you can't," said the professor. "there's nothing in the room except the radium and the telephone. if you knock the radium about you'll only make things worse for yourself, and if you damage the telephone you cut off your only link with the outside world. be a man, smithers. you've read of the black hole of calcutta. the sufferings of the prisoners there were far worse than yours." "you are a scientific vampire--a howling chemical bounder!" came the response. "tut, tut!" said the professor serenely. "do try and be calm. take a stroll round. you might put the thermometer under your tongue again, and let me have the record. nothing like filling your leisure moments with useful occupation." "poor beggar!" he said to himself. "he's just beginning to realise things. five centigrammes of radium chloride killed eight mice in three days; how long will it take an ounce of radium bromide to render a strong man insensible? that's the problem in rule of three, and it's high time that someone worked out the answer. "well?" in reply to the bell. "temperature, ; pulse, . look here, blyth, i'm going dotty. if you won't have pity on me as a christian, i appeal to you as a family man. your people wouldn't like to hear of this, i'm sure." "pulse ," repeated the professor. "jerky, i suppose?" "did you hear my appeal to you as a family man?" "now, smithers, you agreed to help me with my scientific observations, and i wish you'd keep to the letter of the agreement. is your pulse jerky?" "it is, and my hands are fairly itching to close round your throat, and my toes would like to kick you into eternity. blyth, if i die, i'll haunt you and your family to the fifth generation. if you don't end up in a madhouse it won't be my fault. you scoundrel! you contemptible----" again the professor hung up the receiver. "strange," he soliloquised, "how mentally unbalanced these common men are! i can't imagine myself giving way to such ravings, whatever situation i was in. that's the advantage of birth and education. yet, judging from the way in which smithers expresses himself, he must be a man of very fair education. it's birth alone that tells in the long run," and the professor stroked his stubble chin complacently. the minutes passed. "he ought to be feeling it now. i'll ring him up." the professor did so, but there was no reply. "he can't have collapsed already--a horse-soldier of thirty-five." once more he rang. this time there was a slow response. "why didn't you come before?" said the professor irately. "i'm not your servant. i was thinking how i'd like to chop you into mincemeat, blyth, and scatter you to the crows. my head's splitting--splitting, do you hear? i shall go dotty, looking at this infernal heap of fire. those moving specks of light behind are all alive, blyth. they're grinning at me. they're choking me. and there you sit like a scientific panjandrum with a little round button on top. and you call yourself a christian and a respectable family man. you are a disgrace to your country. come down and let me out. send for the police. i don't care." "smithers," said the professor, "i'm ashamed of you. a horse soldier going on like a nurserymaid! i shall not send for the police. you agreed to this experiment, and you've got to see it through. please remember that. how's your pulse?" "blyth, it's ! it's ticking like a clock. i believe it's going to strike." "keep cool, smithers. have your hands a bluish tinge?" "they seem to be green." "green? preposterous!" "they may be blue really. i'm colour blind." "colour blind, smithers, and a soldier? i'm surprised at you. i suspect they're only dirty. do you feel a tingling at the finger tips?" "yes, and at my toe-tips too." "excellent! and your temperature?" "one hundred and three. man, i'm in a fever. i can't breathe. my head's on fire." "you've only been in there an hour and a quarter. you're just beginning to get acclimatised, smithers," said professor blyth callously, as he hung up the receiver. "i wish cantrip were here," he soliloquised. "'deoxygenation of the blood corpuscles, followed by coma.' bah! radium acts on the nerve centres, and will ultimately produce paralysis. cantrip is an ass. i always told him so." the bell rang. "blyth," said the prisoner, "listen to me. if you don't let me out, i'll swallow the radium. it can't make me feel worse, and it may finish me off quicker." "nonsense, smithers, don't talk like a fool. it would only add to any--er--inconvenience you are now experiencing." "i don't care what it would do. i----" the professor cut him off impatiently. "i'm disappointed in john smithers," he thought. "he has no stamina. a man of low birth, evidently. a mere mountain of muscle. i know the species." for a while he paced the room. then he rang the bell, but this time there was no coherent response. the gasps sounded like, "sit on her head, blyth--keep her down, man. whoa, mare!--mind that fencing--snow again--what ho! she bumps--all down the road and round the corner----" "for heaven's sake, keep cool, smithers," cried the professor. "i want some more observations. don't lose your head yet. you've all the night in front of you." "squadron, right wheel! draw swords! charge! down with 'em! boers, japs, and russians. get home, lads! give it 'em hot! hurrah! i've killed a sergeant-major." then indistinct mumbling and cackling laughter came through the telephone. the professor was disturbed. the end had come sooner than he had expected, for john smithers had only been there an hour and a half, and he had calculated on a much longer time. but the symptoms were, on the whole, what he had expected. green hands, though. what if the extremities were blue after all, and cantrip right? he rang the bell. there was no response. once more, and yet again. still there was silence. the professor hung up the receiver gloomily. "i'm afraid i shall have to go to him. he's unconscious, and continued exposure might be serious." he went down the corridor, pulled back the bolts, and opened the door. the room was in absolute darkness. the professor was intensely surprised. "what on earth has he done with the radium?" he thought. "good heavens! surely he hasn't really swallowed it!" he stepped carefully across the threshold towards the electric pendant in the centre of the room. he started. the door had closed behind him with a loud click. he switched on the light, and peered round the floor for john smithers. he was alone. neither smithers nor the radium was there! at that moment the telephone rang. "are you there?" came a voice. "is that you, smithers?" said the professor, in blank amazement. "it is, blyth. how's your temperature? you'll find the thermometer on the telephone where you left it." "you scoundrel! you consummate scoundrel! how did you get out?" "for goodness' sake, blyth, keep cool." "if you don't release me immediately i'll hand you over to the police." "you can't get 'em, old man. you can only talk to me." "what have you done with the radium?" "got it here, blyth; and i'm taking ever such a lot of care of it. i read all about it before i came, and i know just what it fancies. i brought a nice quarter-inch thick lead case, with a smaller one fixed inside, and the half-inch of intervening space made up with quicksilver. i've had the radium in the inner case most of the time, and it's as quiet as a lamb, nicely bottled up with its rays. in fact, i think it's gone to sleep. i've had quite a cheerful time with you to talk to, blyth. you don't know how amusing you've been." "smithers," stuttered the professor, "you are an insolent fellow as well as a consummate scoundrel." "tut, tut, blyth! do keep cool. think how humanity will benefit from your present inconvenience. i'll look out for your article in the _british medical journal_, and i won't contradict it, though my pulse never went above seventy-three nor my temperature over ninety-nine, and wouldn't have done that if i'd bottled the radium at once instead of stopping to chatter with you. but you really ought to have kept a smarter look-out as you went in. i nearly brushed against you as i closed the door behind me. well, bye-bye, old man, and many thanks for the radium. it will help my pension out nicely. i'll leave the receiver off the telephone, so that you don't disturb your family. i wouldn't worry, blyth. think of the black hole of calcutta, and be a man!" [illustration: "'i nearly brushed against you.'" (_p. ._)] before anstruther had reached the laboratory the professor was hammering on the wall, and shouting at the top of his voice. the major hurried through the window, climbed the garden wall, and had found his bicycle before the prisoner was released. by the time that the police were informed, he was well on his way to town. and that is how major everett anstruther was able to renew his subscription to the burglars' club. vi. the bunyan ms. anstruther sat down amidst vociferous applause. "gentlemen," said the duke, "i think we may heartily congratulate major anstruther on the foresight and ingenuity displayed in renewing his subscription. i am sorry we cannot keep the radium as a memento, but, according to our rule, it has to be returned to professor blyth at once. this particular burglary has been so satisfactory that i think we may with advantage again turn to the daily press for our next item. i read yesterday---- let me see--where is it? i cut out the paragraph. ah! here it is:-- "'yet another priceless possession is leaving the eastern hemisphere. thirty pages of 'the pilgrim's progress,' all that is left of that immortal work in the handwriting of john bunyan, has been waiting for offers at messrs. christie's rooms since november last. the highest bid from the united kingdom was £ s., at which price the precious manuscript did not change hands. we now hear that £ , has been offered and accepted. the purchaser is mr. john pilgrim, the logwood king, of new york. at the present rate of denudation it seems likely that fifty years hence the original of magna charta will be the only historical manuscript left in the country.'" "shame--shame!" greeted the reading of the paragraph. "i am glad that you agree with the newspaper," said the duke blandly. "i read that paragraph at breakfast yesterday, and since then i have learnt that lord roker's subscription is due. it seems to me more than a coincidence that these two matters should come together. it is a national disgrace that the manuscript of that remarkable, i believe unparalleled--er--effort of mr. bunyan should leave the country. for one night longer, at any rate, it must remain in the possession of englishmen. my lord of roker, you will kindly produce the bunyan ms. at our next meeting, on the rd inst., in settlement of your subscription." at p.m. on monday, april th last, a new arrival registered himself in the visitors' book at the ilkley hydropathic establishment as james roker, jermyn street, s.w. he was a good-looking, straight-built man of thirty or thereabouts. he was of an unobtrusive disposition, but was obviously well-informed, for in the smoke-room after dinner, when in a discussion on the internal resources of japan, the date of queen anne's death came up, the new arrival gave it authoritatively as , and so settled the matter. the next morning brought letters addressed to lord roker. five minutes after the arrival of the post the news spread, and at breakfast he was the cynosure of all eyes. it was the first time that a nobleman had stayed at the hydro, excepting the doubtful instance of count spiegeleisen in , but to provide for possible emergencies the management had thoughtfully placed a peerage on the bookshelves. this volume was now thoroughly investigated, and it was learnt that james, lord roker, was heir to the earldom of challoner, and that he was born on april th, . his birthday obviously would occur the following week, and an enterprising lady suggested the propriety of arranging for a concert and a representation of mrs. jarley's waxworks in honour of the occasion. the only person in the place who seemed annoyed by his arrival was mr. john pilgrim, a gentleman from new york. "that's why he was so darned civil to me last night," he thought. "he knows how fond fifth avenue girls are of the british peerage, and he thinks he's only got to drop his handkerchief for marion to pick it up. i call it a bit thick of him. i'm glad she's away for the day. i asked him to look round this evenin', so reckon i'll have to be civil; but i'll stand no nonsense. if he tries his sawder on me durin' the day i'll let him know." there was no occasion--or, indeed, opportunity--to let lord roker know anything during the day, for he went to rylstone the first thing after breakfast, and only re-appeared at dinner-time. the toilettes of at least eighteen ladies were more elaborate than usual that evening, but they were lost on lord roker, who, after half an hour in the smoke-room, tapped on mr. pilgrim's door at . . "good-evenin', my lord," said mr. pilgrim, with studied politeness. "will you sit there? cigar, sir? i can recommend these. i hope you had a pleasant day. how do you like the hydro?" "thank you," said lord roker, as he took the bock, and settled himself in the chair indicated. "i have been away in the country all day, so i haven't seen much of the hydro yet. it seems all right. at any rate, you have got pretty snug quarters." "yes," said mr. pilgrim, with some complacency. "you see, i'm samplin' the british isles, gettin' the best i can lay hands on, and am storin' my purchases here. this room is furnished with heppendale an' chipplewhite's masterpieces, collected by my daughter. paintin's by jones an' rossetti. in the nex' cabin i've got those historical sundries i mentioned. but before we look at them i want you to give me some information." "i shall be delighted to do so, if i have it." "you have it, sir. i may as well explain what i want. i have come over to see europe for the first time, but i wanter know more about it than americans do as a gen'ral rule. i'm not content to visit shakespeare's tomb an' see over windsor castle, and then think i've done the old country. i wanter know the people who inhabit her to-day, and you can't get to know them on board trains. that's why i've come to this hydro. i get here what my secretary calls a symposium of the whole nation. so i'm studyin' people here with the idea of writin' a book on my return. what are your views on things in gen'ral, my lord?" "my dear sir, that's a big order. but i may say i'm pretty well satisfied with things in general." "you are an hereditary legislator, i believe," said mr. pilgrim. "i may be some day," replied lord roker; "but at present i am not." "then what is your pertic'ler line in life?" "if you mean business or profession, i have none. i'm a drone." "a drone, sir! i'm delighted," exclaimed mr. pilgrim, with marked interest. then, "hello, marion. back again." roker turned, and there, framed in the doorway, was a living romney picture--a radiant girl. she came forward, the light playing on her red-brown hair. "lord roker--my daughter," said mr. pilgrim. the girl smiled and shook hands. "i hope i'm not interrupting a very serious deliberation," she said, half hesitating. "indeed not," lord roker hastened to assure her, fearful lest this delectable vision should vanish. she took the chair he offered. "well, what have you gotten at york?" inquired mr. pilgrim. "you'd neither of you guess. three grandfather's clocks." "three!" exclaimed mr. pilgrim. "sheraton?" he added. "no; just grandfather's clocks, and the dearest ones you ever saw." "i could bet on that," said her father. "are they genuine?" "they are all dated, and mr. tullitt got pedigrees with each of them. one of them tells the moon, and one the day of the month. we shall have to hire an astrologer to regulate them and start them fair. mr. tullitt says he works best on board your railroad car, as noise suits him, so i shall fix the three clocks up in his den here to keep him happy. i reckon he'll know when it's lunch time, anyway. but what have you been doing, dad?" "makin' a few notes. at present i'm gettin' some valu'ble information. lord roker says he's a drone." "then i'm sure that lord roker does himself an injustice," she said, turning her smiling eyes upon him. roker shook his head. "i toil not, neither do i spin." "what do you do all the time?" she asked. "i shoot and fish and hunt, and--er--once a year i see the eton and harrow cricket match." "gosh!" exclaimed mr. pilgrim. "he shoots and fishes and hunts, and once a year he goes to a cricket match." "i said the eton and harrow match." "cert'nly. they must give it some name, i reckon. an' what do you do when you can't shoot, an' fish, an' hunt?" "i add up my lists of kills and catches." "this is downright interestin'," said mr. pilgrim. "what do you shoot an' hunt?" "birds and foxes." "you seem to fancy small fry, sir. did you never hanker after elephants?" "never. if i had a maxim or a gatling gun i might turn my attention to elephants, but i'm not going to buy one for the purpose." mr. pilgrim looked hard at his guest, but lord roker bore the scrutiny impassibly. "may i ask how you get your dollars?" the american continued. "i have an income from my father. i don't mind telling you the amount--three thousand a year." "dollars?" "no; pounds sterling." "that's a tidy figure; but did you never wanter make that three thousand into thirty thousand?" "i have suggested an increase to my father, but not such a big one as that. i asked him to make it five, but he would not. some day perhaps he may, but thirty thousand is out of the question." "i should suppose it was. i didn't mean an increase in your allowance. did you never think of dippin' into trade, and increasin' it that way?" "never." "doesn't fancy elephants or trade," mr. pilgrim soliloquised. "well, i reckon it takes all sorts of swallows to make a summer. your father must have been in a good way of business." "not a bit of it. he inherited all he has from his ancestors." "and how did the original ancestor make his pile?" "in war, in the time of edward iii. he had the good fortune to capture a royal prince, two dukes, and a marshal of france. we are still living on the ransoms he got." "i'd like to have known the original ancestor," said mr. pilgrim. "reckon he'd have tackled elephants if he'd only got a pea-shooter." "father," broke in miss pilgrim, "i'm sure lord roker is tired of answering questions. don't you think it's our turn to do something now?" "that's so," said mr. pilgrim, who long since had forgotten his unkind suspicions of his visitor's intentions. "i hope i haven't worried you too much, my lord. it isn't every day that i get the chance of interviewin' a future hereditary legislator. i promised last night to show you some historical curiosities. we'll just go an' rout out my secretary, tullitt, who has the keepin' of 'em." they adjourned to the next room, and found mr. tullitt busy at his desk. he opened various cabinets and drawers for them. "this," said mr. pilgrim, "is the original warrant signed by henry viii., consignin' his sixth wife to the tower of london for beheadin' purposes. he had it penned in latin to frighten her more. the writ was never served, as henry changed his mind, an' decided to keep her on the throne. "here, sir, is my last purchase--thirty pages of 'the pilgrim's progress,' written by john bunyan in bedford jail. i paid ten thousand dollars for that, an' i'd have paid twenty before missin' it. you see, my name is john pilgrim, an' it seemed to me that i have a sort of claim on that book--a kind of relationship. anyway, there's my two names on the title-page. "moreover, i've got on so well since i started life in a chicago stock-yard that 'pilgrim's progress' would best describe my record. if it wasn't irreverent, i'd have called the autobiography i'm writin' by the name of that book; but as i can't do so, i've bought the original manuscript. you'll handle it carefully; it's not in first-rate repair." mr. pilgrim showed his guest other historical treasures, and would have gone on indefinitely had not his daughter compassionately intervened. the rest of the evening was spent in conversation, and in listening to coon songs witchingly sung by miss pilgrim to her accompaniment on a harpsichord, once the property of mrs. thrale of streatham, a friend of the immortal dr. johnson. "good-night, my lord," said mr. pilgrim at eleven o'clock. "p'raps you'll be kind enough to look round in the mornin'. i shall make a few notes of the information you've given me, and my secretary will lick them into shape." "right," said lord roker, with his eyes beyond mr. pilgrim, fixed on an enchanting vision of brown and gold, seated in the basket chair before the fire. on the following morning lord roker found mr. pilgrim's secretary before a typewriter which he seemed to be working against time. a pile of correspondence lay around him. he finished the sheet on which he was engaged, and then, with a sigh of relief, he turned to his visitor. "mornin', my lord; i have this ready for you." he handed a type-written sheet to lord roker, who sat down and read: "some day i may be an hereditary legislator. at present i'm a drone. i fish, shoot birds, and hunt foxes, and once a year i attend a cricket match. birds are more suited to the bore of my gun than elephants. if i had a maxim i might tackle elephants. i am in receipt of an income of three thousand pounds sterling a year from my father, who refuses to increase the amount. i am otherwise well satisfied with the universe. "my record last year was: birds............ fishes........... foxes ..........." "i've left space for the mortality returns, and any note you may wish to add," said the secretary courteously. "kindly fill in the figures, and initial the sheet if you find it correct. your name will not appear if mr. pilgrim makes use of the information." lord roker referred to his pocket-book for statistics, and then inserted the figures required. the note he added was: "_de mortuis nil nisi bonum._" "good kills, all of 'em," he explained. the secretary took the sheet and placed it methodically in a folio labelled "britishers." "is mr. pilgrim anywhere about?" lord roker asked. "or miss pilgrim?" "i believe that miss pilgrim is in the grounds, but mr. pilgrim has gone across the moors in his motor to shed a tear at the residence of the late charlotte brontë. a wonderful man is the boss, my lord. it takes me all my time to file the information he gathers. it will be midnight before i have fixed charlotte up." "your hours are long," said lord roker, sympathetically. "they are; and they are getting longer. your country is just waking up to the fact that john pilgrim is here. we had a big mail to-day. outside proper business there were twenty begging letters from tramps and prodigals, eighteen asking for subscriptions, and two which we could not decipher. four town councils mixed us up with andrew carnegie and wrote demanding free libraries. i reply to them all." "then i won't trespass any longer on your time." mr. tullitt pulled out his watch. "snakes!" he exclaimed. "i always have fifteen minutes' dumb-bell exercise now to keep me in form. good-mornin', my lord." his visitor left him standing in position with his dumb-bells. now when lord roker turned in his chair and first saw miss marion pilgrim he was confounded. when she spoke--and to her beauty there was added an infinite charm of frankness and joy of life--he fell hopelessly in love. only once before had this happened to him, and, singularly enough, she also was an american--a dark-eyed boston girl he met in rome. he had been refused because his position and his prospects rendered the match an impossibility--to her father; for he was not at that time heir to an earldom. since then he had gone unscathed through the perils of many seasons in many capitals, only to be finally routed while in pursuit of the commonplace profession of a burglar. that he had aroused any interest in her heart he did not for a moment suppose, but perhaps there might be a remote chance of winning her. if there were, how could he imperil his hope of success by running the risks attendant on the burglary? if she could give him the slightest hope he would resign his membership of the burglars' forthwith. it was ridiculous to have to rush matters, but he had to know his fate at once. he could not even put it off till to-morrow, for he knew she was going to knaresborough for the day with her father. he met her on the golf links. they played in a foursome in the morning. in the afternoon they had a round together. she was in capital form. her splendid health and energy were a delight to the eye. perhaps it was owing to this distraction that he foozled some of his drives, and twice got badly bunkered. his play went steadily from bad to worse, and she won by three up and two to play. "i don't think you were playing your best game," she said as they returned. "it strikes me that you were thinking about something else all the time." "you are quite right. i never played worse, and i was thinking about something else." "something very serious, i reckon." "very." "is it anything i could help you in?" "you are very kind, miss pilgrim. all day, and most of last night, i have been deliberating on an important step." "what sort of a step?" "whether i ought not to resign my membership of a certain club." "is that all?" "you see, i was one of the founders, and i like it. but sometimes the conditions of membership seem impossible. at any rate, i have felt them so since last evening." "what are the conditions?" "i can't tell you them all, but one is that you have to be a bachelor--a confirmed bachelor." "well, you are one, aren't you?" she asked gently. "i don't know. at any rate, i may not always be. in fact, i----" "don't you be in a hurry to change," said miss pilgrim. "don't imitate that king of yours. judging from the document dad showed you, henry the eighth wanted to be a bachelor again, and then decided to remain a married man, all in one day. you britishers are so variable." "it may seem very absurd, miss pilgrim, but i have to make up my mind without delay. and you can help me in the matter. may i--dare i----" "one minute, lord roker," she interrupted quickly. "you ought to be very careful before you think of changing your state. teddy robson waited twelve months before i promised to marry him." "teddy robson!" exclaimed lord roker. "yes; this is his picture." she pulled a locket from her dress, and showed him the miniature of a nice, clean-looking lad. "he's the son of josh. k. robson, the fustic king," she explained. "fustic?" repeated lord roker, with intense gloom. "it's a wood that dyes yellow. dad is the logwood king, you know. logwood dyes black. when i marry teddy, the two firms will amalgamate, and we shall pretty well control the output of the west indies." "i see," said lord roker; "or, rather, i hear." "that'll be in the fall. if ever you come over to the states mind you look us up. teddy will give you some big game shooting. i guess you like it, whatever you told dad. you've done things. mrs. stilton told me at breakfast this morning that you had got a decoration for distinguishing yourself in action." "oh, that was years ago." "not more than a hundred," she said gravely. "and i reckon you don't let the flies settle much. gracious! but it's six o'clock, and i've letters to mail. i must run. but don't you be in a hurry about retiring from that club." "that's the second," said lord roker enigmatically, as he watched her vanish, "the second--and the last." lord roker made no attempt to purloin the bunyan ms. that night. he thought it possible that the indefatigable mr. tullitt might prolong his labours on charlotte brontë into the early hours of the morning, and, being of a thoughtful temperament, he was unwilling to interrupt them. he had still two nights at his disposal. the next day he spent chiefly on the links. he did not allow his thoughts to linger regretfully on his hopeless love. he gave his whole attention to the game, and retrieved his reputation by beating the professional's record. in the evening he played his part in progressive bridge with marked success: and then at . a.m., when the whole establishment was presumably fast asleep, he descended from his bedroom window by a stout rope, and made his way to the wing occupied by mr. pilgrim. he found the window of mr. tullitt's room, and was busily engaged for the next half-hour in opening it. he then dropped into the room, and turned on his light. three grandfather's clocks were solemnly ticking in three separate corners. the fire was still flickering in the grate. a pile of letters, addressed and stamped, was ready for the post. a batch of correspondence was docketed and endorsed. the waste-paper basket was full to overflowing. lord roker gave one glance round, and then tried the door. it was, as he expected, locked on the outside. he placed some chairs and other obstacles in front of it to impede progress should an alarm be raised, and lit the gas in order to add to mr. tullitt's reputation for over-work. then he turned to the drawer in which the bunyan ms. was kept. it was locked. he produced a bundle of keys, and finally opened it. there was a document inside, but instead of being time-stained, foxed, and torn, it was modern and neat. moreover, it was type-written, and endorsed, "notes on the late c. brontë, haworth, eng., ." lord roker turned this out in disgust, hoping to find the bunyan ms. below; but he was disappointed. the manuscript was not there. he replaced the notes in the drawer and turned his attention elsewhere. he opened every drawer and portfolio, looked on every shelf and in every corner, but in vain. there was no sign of the bunyan ms. determined not to be baffled--for his credit as a burglar was at stake--lord roker resumed his search, and again went over the ground. three times at least was he disturbed--when the grandfather's clocks went off at the hour and the half-hour with alarming wheezes and groans. when they had finished with . he had to admit himself beaten. the manuscript had no doubt been removed to another room. it was desperately annoying, but he had still twenty-four hours to find out where it was, and to get it. he gave up the search reluctantly, made his way through the window, and up the rope to his bedroom. soon after breakfast that morning word went round the hydro that the bunyan ms. had been stolen from mr. pilgrim's rooms--the manuscript for which he had just paid £ , . a hole cut in one of the window-panes pointed to the method by which entry had been made, but no clue to the thief had been left behind. the police had been informed, and a detective was coming. only the bunyan ms. was missing--that alone of the many portable and valuable treasures in mr. pilgrim's possession. it showed a literary instinct in the thief which was as surprising as it was unusual, for it would be impossible for him to make any profitable use of his booty without certain discovery. the more one reflected about it the more perplexing it was. to lord roker it was humiliating in the extreme. to fail in his mission was exasperating; but the annoyance was increased tenfold with the knowledge that he had been forestalled. someone else--a professional, no doubt--had been on the same errand. he had not dallied over the enterprise, and he had won the stakes for which he played, and now he, lord roker, would have to appear empty-handed at the burglars'--he, a founder of the club, would be the first man who had to resign through incapacity to carry out the terms of his membership; it was galling indeed. even the neat hole he had made in the window had been placed to the credit of the other burglar. at p.m. he went upstairs to dress. the evenings were chilly, and he occasionally had a fire. he sat down before it now to finish his cigarette, and moodily watched the flames while his thoughts turned on the unsatisfactory nature of all earthly affairs. suddenly he gave an exclamation of extreme surprise, jumped out of his chair, and caught hold of a bit of half-burnt paper projecting from the grate. it was perhaps three inches long, and two across. half of it was ash that fell away as he touched it. on the scant margin left was written, in stiff, archaic english, "ye slough of desp----" "amazing!" he cried. for the fragment he held in his hand was part of the missing ms.! in another instant he had seized his water-jug and emptied the contents on the fire, putting it out, and deluging the hearth. then he rang the bell, and sent an urgent message for mr. pilgrim. five minutes later the american entered. roker handed him the fragment, and pointed out where he had found it. "seems a pretty expensive way of li'tin' fires," said mr. pilgrim, grimly. "allow me to ring for the help." "did you lay this fire?" he asked the maid who responded. "no, sir. that's jenny's work." "send jenny up, then," said mr. pilgrim, now on his knees searching the grate for more traces of the ms., but searching in vain. in a few minutes jenny entered. "did you lay this fire?" mr. pilgrim asked again. "yes, sir." "what sort of paper did you use for it?" "newspaper. oh, i know! i laid it yesterday morning with some old rubbishy stuff i found on your floor, sir." "old rubbishy stuff you found on my floor!" cried mr. pilgrim. "what do you mean, girl?" "i was lighting your fire yesterday morning, sir, and found i'd used up all my paper, so i got some out of your waste basket. there was a dirty lot of rubbishy paper lying on the floor beside it, so i took that as well, and used it up for my morning fires." "how many fires did you lay with it altogether?" "your two, sir, this one, and the one in the hall." "then this is the only one of the lot that wasn't lit yesterday?" "yes, sir. i hope it wasn't anythink important that i used." mr. pilgrim sat down. "important! not a bit, my girl. it just cost me ten thousand dollars--that's all." "it wasn't what they say you've lost, sir, was it?" said the girl. "oh, sir, i'm that sorry. but all i can say, sir, is that it was on the floor, and it didn't look fit for wrapping sossingers in." "go!" shouted mr. pilgrim. "you're a born fool." then, after a long pause, he added, "i'm much obliged to you, roker. now come along. i must see my secretary. i suspect he's another mortal fool in disguise." mr. pilgrim's secretary was busy, as usual--this time taking down a letter from miss pilgrim's dictation. [illustration: "hey! but what about that hole in the window?" (_p. ._)] "excuse me a minute, marion," said mr. pilgrim. then to his secretary, "you said you were readin' that blamed bunyan ms. the night before last. just describe when you got it out, and what followed." "i'd finished my transcript of your notes on miss brontë, sir, about . , and, having half an hour to spare, i thought i'd just run over that old manuscript again. john bunyan had his own notions about caligraphy, and he was a bit freer in his spelling than any man i'd come across, so i rather fancied him. while i was reading, you may remember calling me to your room to take down that cable to boston and the letter of confirmation. it was . when i left you, and i'd clean forgotten about the manuscript. i turned the light out, and went to bed. a quarter of an hour afterwards i remembered i'd left bunyan out, so i came back here. i couldn't find the matches, but just felt round for the ms., and put it back in the drawer, and locked it." "you derned hayseed!" burst in mr. pilgrim. "you have your p'ints, but at this pertic'ler moment i think you're more suited for raisin' cabbages than for secretary work. if you can't tell the difference in the handle of a bunyan ms. and your notes on charlotte brontë in the dark, you might know a banana from a potato in daylight. you're--you're---- man, you put the brontë notes in the drawer, and left bunyan out--brushed him on the floor in the dark, an' the help lit the fire with him. gor!" the secretary collapsed. "never mind, mr. tullitt," said miss pilgrim. "it was entirely a mistake. i might have done it myself. it comes of working so late. dad, i guess there's plenty more old manuscripts in the british isles waiting for dollars to fetch them." "i reckon there's only one bunyan ms.," said mr. pilgrim, solemnly, "and that's gone to light hydropathic fires because my secretary doesn't carry wax vestas in his pyjamas. hey! but what about that hole in the window?" mr. and miss pilgrim, the secretary, and lord roker stared blankly at it. * * * * * and that is why lord roker was not able to show the bunyan ms. at the next meeting of the burglars' club. vii. the great seal. the hon. richard hilton stared at the type-written letter with distinct feelings of pleasure. this is what he read:-- sir,--i have the honour to inform you of your election as a member of the club, conditional upon your attendance on the th proximo with the great seal of the united kingdom, procured in the usual way.--yours faithfully, the hon. secretary. "that's good," he ejaculated. "ribston's a trump. but what on earth's the great seal of the united kingdom, and where is it to be found?" mr. hilton's library was chiefly devoted to sport and fiction, and he could find no reference to it therein. he had therefore to make inquiries outside, when he learnt that the great seal of the united kingdom was the property of the lord chancellor for the time being, that it was a very important object indeed, its impression being requisite at the foot of the highest documents of state; and, consequently, that its unexpected absence might very well upset the nation's affairs and incidentally bring serious trouble upon anyone who had tampered with it. mr. hilton's sporting instincts were roused. "it seems to me," he thought, "that this is going to be the best thing i have had on since i walked across thibet disguised as a second-class mahatma. but where does the chancellor keep the thing?" he skimmed through many biographies of lord chancellors with very little result. one of them, it appeared, kept the great seal with his silver, another always carried it about with him in a special pocket, and slept with it under his pillow; while a third stored it at the bank of england. history was discreetly silent as to how the other hundred and one keepers of the great seal guarded their property. mr. richard hilton contemplated his notes with disgust. "i never could rely on books," he said. "there's nothing for it but to find out for myself. the present man probably keeps it where any other common-sense fellow would. he'll have a library, so it may be there. he's a good liver, so it may be in a secret bin in his wine cellar; he's a sportsman, so it may be in a gun-case under his bed. i shall have to look round and find out. where does he live?" his lordship's town residence was shipley house, kensington gore. hilton took a walk in that direction. the house looked as unpromising and unsympathetic a subject for robbery as a metropolitan magistrate could have wished. the spiked railings in front and the high wall at the back would have suggested to most people the impossibility of the enterprise; but mr. hilton simply noted these items with interest, and then adjourned to a light lunch at his club to think the matter out. it was one o'clock in the morning when mr. hilton scaled the wall at the rear of the lord chancellor's house. though it was nine feet high, it presented no difficulties to an ex-lieutenant in the navy; but he got over carefully, for he was in evening dress, believing that to be the safest disguise for a general burglar. he dropped lightly on the turf, and then made his way across to the house and commenced a careful inspection of the basement windows. to his intense surprise, he found the lower sash of one of them to be open. this astonishing piece of good luck meant the saving of at least an hour. with a cheerful heart he entered the house, finding his way by the electric flashlight which he carried. his passage to the great hall upstairs was easy. here he halted to take his bearings. he was at the foot of the marble stairs for which shipley house was famous. once they had stood in front of nero's villa at antium; but, oblivious of his historic surroundings, mr. richard hilton stood wondering which of the four doors on his left led to the library. one after another he cautiously opened them, only to find living or reception rooms. he crossed the hall, and got into the billiard-room. where on earth was the lord chancellor's den? ah! those heavy curtains under the staircase. he passed through them. there was a short passage, with a door at the end. hush! what was that? he listened intently. it was nothing--merely nervous fancy. he turned the handle of the door, and entered. he was in the lord chancellor's library. but, heavens! he was not there alone. for a moment he drew back in dismay; but the singularity of the other man's occupation arrested him. he was kneeling on the floor before the wall at the far end of the room. he had a lamp or candle by his side. what on earth was he doing? had he surprised the lord high chancellor, the keeper of the king of england's conscience, worshipping by stealth at some pagan shrine? what were the rites he was performing? curiosity impelled mr. hilton forward. as he drew nearer, the situation unfolded itself. he had done the lord chancellor an injustice. it was not he. a man was kneeling before a safe built into the wall. he was drilling holes into the door by the light of a lamp. he was a real burglar! the humour of the situation struck mr. hilton so keenly that he nearly laughed. for some time he watched the operation, expecting each moment to be discovered. then, as the man continued absorbed in his work, mr. hilton sank noiselessly into an easy chair behind him. to prepare for contingencies, his hand had stolen to his coat pocket, and now held a small revolver. for half an hour longer he continued to admire the businesslike methods of the burglar. the door of the safe had now been pierced through all round the lock. the man turned to reach another tool. in so doing his eye caught sight of a patent leather boot and a trouser leg, where before there had been empty space. the phenomenon fascinated him. he slowly turned his head, following the clue upward until his eyes were level with the barrel of mr. hilton's revolver. his jaw fell, and he stiffened. "please keep as you are for a minute," said a low voice from behind the weapon. "i wish you to understand the situation. there is no immediate cause for anxiety. i am--er--a friend in disguise. you may go on with your most interesting work. i shall give no alarm. do you understand?" "who the blazes are you?" asked the burglar. "your curiosity is natural. i am in your own noble profession--a top-sawyer or a swell mobsman, i forget which; but i have the certificate at home." "none of yer gammon," said the burglar. "can't you put that thing down an' say wot yer game is." "william," mr. hilton replied, "i wish you clearly to understand that you have nothing at all to do with my game. you go on drilling those nice little holes. when you've got that door open we'll discuss matters further. please proceed." [illustration: "'you may go on with your most interesting work.'" (_p. ._)] "d'you take me for a mug?" asked the burglar defiantly. "i shall, if you don't go on with your work. this instrument goes off on the slightest provocation, and the wound it makes is very painful." the burglar turned, and resumed his work; but he did not seem to have much heart in it, nor to derive much encouragement from mr. hilton's occasional promptings. every now and then he looked round suspiciously. another half-hour passed before he had prized the bolts back, and the door was open. for the moment the two men forgot everything but their curiosity, and both looked anxiously inside. every shelf and pigeon-hole was rummaged, but there was nothing but letters and documents. there were two drawers below. the locks of these had to be picked. in the last one the burglar pounced on a bag of money and some notes. "got 'im!" he cried triumphantly. "what?" "two 'underd an' fifty quid. 'e gets it on the fust of ev'ry month to pay 'is washin' bill." "how did you know that?" "from a pal at the bank. i've 'ad this in my eye for a year or more, but i've mos'ly been a-doin' time since i----" he stopped short suddenly, evidently regretting his outburst of confidence. "now put that money back," said mr. hilton. "wot for?" "because i tell you." "arfter all the trouble i've 'ad? no bloomin' fear." "put it back. you shan't lose by it." "wot d'ye mean?" "i'm looking for something myself. it isn't in the safe, but it may be in some other drawer in the room. if i find it i'll give you £ myself." "name o'morgan, or am i speakin' to lord rothschild?" said the burglar sarcastically. "you don't 'appen to 'ave the chink on you?" "i haven't; but see, you can have this watch and chain, and my sovereign purse, and these links, and i think--yes, here's a tenner. you can have this lot till i give you the money." the burglar was impressed. "cap'n," he said, "you've a free an' easy way in 'andlin' walubles wot soots me down to the ground. i wish we could 'ave met sooner. it would 'ave saved my ole woman many a weary six months. but wot's the need to leave the chink? s'pose we takes the bag, an' leaves the notes?" "you've got to leave the lot, william," said mr. hilton decisively. the burglar turned thoughtfully away from the safe. "wot is it you're lookin' for?" he asked. "'as the guv'n'r cut you orf with a bob, an' are you a-goin' to alter the ole bloke's will?" "i'm looking for a seal." "stuffed?" asked william, with a sportsman's interest. "no. a seal for stamping wax. it's a big one, made of silver, and about six inches across. let's try these drawers in the desk." there were six of them. four were open, the other two locked. it took some time to open these. they were full of legal matter. then they turned their attention to a set below some bookshelves. while the burglar was busy with the locks hilton turned over the papers on the desk. the first was headed, "house of lords: gibbins _v._ gibbins. judgment of lord ravy." another read, "gibbins _v._ gibbins. judgment of lord mctaughtun." beside them was the half-written judgment of the lord chancellor himself. mr. richard hilton looked at these legal feats without interest. mechanically he lifted the lid of the desk. a large leather case fitted exactly into the compartment below. he pulled it out. it was stamped with the royal arms. "here. cut this, please." the flap was cut, and hilton drew out a richly embroidered and betasselled silk purse. he looked eagerly inside. "hurrah!" he cried in his excitement. for it was the great seal of the united kingdom. the burglar examined it critically, and then felt its weight. "five quid," he said, putting it down contemptuously. hilton dropped it carefully into his pocket. at this moment the electric light was suddenly switched on, and the whole place was brilliantly illuminated. they both turned sharply towards the door. there in his dressing-gown stood an old gentleman. hilton had often seen those classic features in photographs or the illustrated papers. he recognised them at once. it was the lord chancellor. "what are you doing here?" came the stern judicial voice. "we are--er--we are making the home circuit, my lord," said hilton deferentially. "may i ask your lordship to be good enough to lower your voice. you perceive that i am armed." "you would dare to fire on me, sir?" said the lord chancellor. "i hope it will not be necessary; for in that case your lordship would not hunt next season with the bister vale. will you please take that seat?" his lordship sank into the chair. "you are a bold man," he said, after a pause. "a bold, bad man, i fear, my lord. and so is my partner, mr. william sikes here. aren't you, william?" william did not reply. he was gazing intently at the lord chancellor. "ain't yer name 'ardy?" he asked. "'enery 'ardy?" "it used to be," replied his lordship. "i thought so," said mr. sikes. "then i says to yer face you're a bloomin', footlin' rotter." "'gently, brother, gently, pray,'" said hilton. "a bloomin', footlin' rotter," repeated mr. sikes with the earnestness of conviction. "an' i've waited five-an'-twenty year to tell you so." "ah," said the lord chancellor, with some interest. "how is that?" "i once paid you to defend me at the dawchester 'sizes respectin' a mare wot 'ad follered me inter 'ampshire. a sickenin' 'ash you made of it. you got two quid fer the job, an' i got two year. i b'lieve you woz boozed." "pray forgive william, my lord," said hilton. "he forgets himself strangely when he's excited. we have a lot of trouble with him at home." william glared at him. "i ain't forgot that bloke's ugly mug, any'ow. i swore i'd be quits with 'im one day, an', holy moses, it's my go now." saying this, he clutched his jemmy, and advanced threateningly towards his lordship. "stay, you fool!" hilton cried. "if you dare to touch him i'll shoot you. get back." william hesitated. "if you don't get back before i count three i'll lame you for life. one--two----" william retired sullenly. "my lord," said hilton, "i must draw this painful interview to a close. your presence excites william, and he's always dangerous when excited. we will retire. before i go, i wish to give you my word of honour that anything we may take away with us to-night will be again in your possession within forty-eight hours." "your word of honour, sir!" repeated his lordship with withering contempt. "you are ungenerous, my lord. you force me to remind you that but for my interference william would undoubtedly have had his revenge upon you to-night, and the woolsack have lost its brightest ornament. in return, i ask your lordship to give me your own assurance that you will not raise any alarm for the next half-hour. if you do not we shall have to bind and gag you." "don't you be such a fool as to trust 'im," said william. "i'll do the gaggin'," he added, with enthusiasm. "shut up, william," said mr. hilton. "if his lordship gives his word you may be sure he will keep it--even with thieves. the age of chivalry is not yet past, although you are still alive. my lord, do you agree?" "i am in your hands. i promise." hilton bowed. he pointed to the door to his companion. "my tools," said william, going round the desk to collect them. a minute later the two had left the room. in five minutes they had scaled the outside wall, and within the half-hour were in richard hilton's rooms. mr. william sikes looked round him admiringly. "i understand your feelings, william," said mr. hilton, "but my windows and doors are every night connected with a burglar-alarm, and my man, who was once a noted bruiser, is close at hand. i don't really think it would be safe for you to call again. now you want your money. i will write a cheque out, payable to bearer, and give it you. if you make yourself nice and tidy they will cash it for you in the morning over the counter at my bank." "i don't like cashin' cheques at banks," said william. "i never was any good at it," he added pensively. "ain't you got any rhino in this 'ere shanty?" "let me see. you have a tenner of mine in your pocket. perhaps i can give you some more." hilton opened a bureau, and produced a cash-box. "you see where i keep it, william," he remarked pleasantly. "i shall have to find another place for it in future--you are so very impulsive. ah, here we are. three fivers and two--four--six in gold. that makes twenty-one. and where's the sovereign purse i gave you? thank you. here are four more: that makes twenty-five; and you have ten: that is thirty-five. now i'll make a cheque out for the balance--what is it? yes; two hundred and fifteen pounds. . . . here it is. perhaps your friend at the lord chancellor's bank will present it for you before three o'clock this afternoon, when i shall suddenly find that i have lost the cheque, and shall stop payment." "wot do you do that for?" asked william suspiciously. "i must do it for my own protection, william, as i'm afraid it wouldn't be wise for me to have any direct transactions with you. but until three o'clock the game is in your hands. now it's time for you to have your beauty sleep. i am much obliged for your assistance. good-night. oh, by the way, let me have my watch, please--and the links. william, i'm afraid you were forgetting them." "blow me, but i was," said william frankly, as he dived into his capacious pockets. "my mem'ry ain't wot it used to be, an' i knows it. wot with work an' worry, an' worry an' work, it don't 'ave a fair chance. 'ere you are, cap'n." and william placed the jewellery in mr. hilton's hands with obvious regret. then his host showed him off the premises. it was now four o'clock. hilton pulled out the great seal, and locked it up in a secret drawer in his bureau. then he retired to rest, in the happy consciousness of a night well spent. he rose late that morning, and it was one o'clock before he left his rooms. in piccadilly, on the news posters: "the great seal of england stolen," at once caught his eye. he bought a paper, and turned to the column with curious interest. "a daring robbery was perpetrated in the early hours of this morning at shipley house, kensington gore, the residence of the lord chancellor. his lordship, being unable to sleep, came downstairs about two o'clock, intending to complete an important judgment. in the library he found two burglars, who succeeded in decamping before his lordship could obtain assistance. "the great seal of england, and £ in gold and notes are missing. "this is probably the most audacious burglary of modern times, for the lord chancellor is the head of the judicial system of the country, and, after royalty, is only second in importance to the archbishop of canterbury. "england is to-day without a great seal of state, a position unparalleled since it was stolen from lord thurlow's residence in . only once before had it been missing--when james ii. threw it into the thames at lambeth. "great inconvenience has already been caused by its absence, as the treaty between england and korea was to have been signed to-morrow, and the great seal affixed thereto. we understand that the privy council will meet in the morning at buckingham palace in order to deal with the situation thus created. "we are informed that the police have an important clue which will lead to the apprehension of at least one of the criminals. we do not know whether any special penalty is attached to the theft of the great seal, but a century ago the perpetrator of the crime would undoubtedly have been hanged." richard hilton stared at this in blank amazement. the pains and penalties did not disturb him, but "£ in gold and notes missing" held him spellbound. suddenly light dawned upon him, and he burst out with "done! and by william! that was when he collected his tools, and i wasn't watching. the scoundrel! hi! hansom! . . . cox's bank. sharp!" ten minutes later he was at the bank counter. "i have lost a cheque for £ , payable to bearer, made out to self and endorsed. please stop payment," he said. "very sorry, mr. hilton," replied the teller. "it was presented first thing this morning, and i cashed it in gold." that evening the meeting of the burglars' club was held at the house of lord altamont, an ex-colonel of the welsh guards. there was a record attendance. the robbery of the great seal had excited general interest, but to members of the club the accompanying details were of the gravest importance. after the usual opening formalities had been gone through, lord ribston rose. "mr. president, i crave leave for mr. richard hilton, a cadet member of this club, to speak." assent was given by the general silence, which was maintained when hilton entered. "mr. president, my lords and gentlemen," he began, "i regret exceedingly that i have to make my first appearance in your midst with an apology. i take it that you have all seen the paragraph in the papers stating that the great seal is missing from the lord chancellor's house, and, in addition to that, £ in notes and gold. no explanation is needed as to the absence of the great seal, for that resulted from the mandate of your club. the other item calls for a clear and explicit statement of the facts of the case." here hilton gave an account of the robbery from his first meeting the burglar to his parting from him, concluding, "so now, gentlemen, i suggest that i deserve your sympathy rather than your blame; for not only has mr. sikes relieved me of £ , but i have promised the lord chancellor to return anything we took away with us. i shall, therefore, have to send him a further like sum. i do not grudge the loss of £ , since i have been enabled to qualify as a member of your club, but i do most sincerely regret that my bungling has led to even a temporary suspicion that the taint of professionalism has been brought into your midst. my lords and gentlemen, i am in your hands. here, at any rate, is the great seal of the united kingdom." the last words were lost in tumultuous applause. each member rose to his feet and acclaimed the speaker, and then they crowded round him and shook hands. "gentlemen," said the president, when order had been restored, "i move that mr. richard hilton be now formally enrolled as a member of the club, and in your name i welcome him as one who has already added lustre to our annals. the circumstances of his entry are so unusual that, as a mark of our appreciation, i beg to move that the provincial line due from him in the usual course of things in two years' time be hereby excused, and that, as an exception to our rule, mr. hilton be elected for a term of four years." the proposition was carried by acclamation. "your grace and gentlemen, i thank you," said the beaming richard hilton. * * * * * the privy council met at ten on the following morning, and ordered a new seal to be engraved; but at noon a postal packet was delivered at shipley house, which, on being opened, disclosed an old biscuit tin, then tissue paper, then cotton-wool, and finally the great seal of the united kingdom. the treaty between england and korea was signed with the usual formalities at three in the afternoon. later in the day the lord chancellor received from five different quarters registered parcels, each weighing about a pound avoirdupois. each packet contained fifty sovereigns. thus within forty-eight hours his lordship had received all the stolen property. in consideration thereof he cancelled his instructions to scotland yard to follow up a clue which mr. william sikes had incautiously given about a dorset horse robbery in the late 'seventies. his lordship also advertised his acknowledgments in the agony column of the _times_, and asked for the favour of an explanation of the whole incident. this was not forthcoming, and the matter remained for some time the one unsolved riddle of his lordship's life. mr. william sikes, with the £ so ingeniously obtained, retired from the burglary profession, and bought a little public house known as the "goat and compasses." for some reason or other he altered the name to "seal and compasses," thereby causing much mystification to future antiquarians in that particular district. in recalling his conduct on the night in question, mr. sikes spends some of the happiest hours of his life. to mr. richard hilton the events of that night were also eminently satisfactory. he was the only loser, but he had gained more than he had lost, for the laurels of the burglars' club were his. viii. the lion and the sun. the visit of his royal highness ali azim mirza, nephew of the shah, accompanied by the grand vizier, hasan kuli, is fresh in our memories. the mission of the prince was to invest a distinguished personage with the insignia of the lion and the sun in order to mark the persian monarch's appreciation of the garter which had been recently conferred upon him. the mission duly returned with its object accomplished. outwardly everything happened as was anticipated, and there are but few who know how nearly we approached to a war with russia as a consequence of the visit, while still fewer are aware that such a calamity was averted by a cadet member of the burglars' club. in the unwritten annals of the club the incident stands out prominently. it is well that it should be recorded before it is forgotten. the special mission was due to arrive in london on the th of the month. it was to leave on the th. lord denton had placed his town house at the disposal of the prince and his retinue during their stay. on the th, mr. birket rivers, a cadet member of the burglars' club, received an intimation that his entrance fee could be paid on the th by the production of the insignia of the order which the prince was bringing with him. on the evening of the th, john parker, a footman in the employ of lord denton, called by request on mr. rivers at his rooms in the albany. "you wished to see me, sir?" "ah, parker, how are you getting on?" "very well, thank you, sir." "you are going to have great times, parker. when does lord denton leave?" "to-morrow, sir." "are all the servants staying behind?" "only about half of us, sir. the persians bring their own cooks and men." "quite so. are you remaining?" "yes, sir." "good. i want you to let me take your place." parker opened his eyes very wide. "beg pardon, sir," he said, feeling sure he had misunderstood the last remark. "i want to take your place as footman in denton house while the persians are there. if you will help me to do so, parker, there's ten pounds for you." parker scratched his head. "i should like the ten pounds, sir; but i don't see how i'm to get it. they'd never mistake you for me, sir, though we are about the same build. mr. bradshaw would spot the difference at once." "who is mr. bradshaw?" "the butler, sir. he's pretty well left in charge of the house." "listen, parker. the prince comes the day after to-morrow. at eleven o'clock in the morning of that day you've got to be taken ill. tell bradshaw you can't work, and you think it's something infectious. tell him that your cousin, james finny, who is only staying on with me till he hears of a place, would jump at the job. send me word, and i will turn up at once." "mr. bradshaw might know you, sir." "i don't think so. i've never been at the house. besides, i shall shave off my moustache. anyway, parker, i'll take care you lose nothing by it, even if i should be found out." john parker left a quarter of an hour later, ten pounds richer than he came. in his pocket he carried a letter which eventually reached mr. rivers by special messenger at noon on the th. it ran: dear james,--come immediately. i am ill, and mr. bradshaw says you can take my place.--your loving cousin, john parker. with his moustache shaved off, and attired in a painfully respectable ready-made suit, rivers presented himself at denton house at one o'clock. he found mr. bradshaw in a highly-wrought condition. "so you're parker's cousin? a pretty mess he's landed me in!" "i hope he's not very bad, sir." "i hope he is. i hope he'll die," said mr. bradshaw vengefully. "you've lived with mr. rivers?" "yes, sir." "can you announce visitors?" "yes, sir." "go to that door, and announce the lord mayor." rivers--or, rather, james finny--flung open the door, and announced in stentorian accents, "his worship the lord mayor of london." "you hass!" shouted mr. bradshaw. "you only worship him when you're in the prisoners' box. i 'spect that's where you met him. call him 'his lordship' when he's a-wisitin'. now again." james obeyed. "bravo--that's better!" said another voice. it proceeded from a mite of a man who had approached noiselessly, and who now stood rubbing his hands approvingly. "but it's rather late for rehearsals, mr. bradshaw, isn't it?" he added. "parker's taken ill," said mr. bradshaw savagely. "he's sent this screw to take his place." "so thoughtful of parker," murmured the little man. "what's your name, and where do you come from?" addressing the candidate for office. "james finny, sir--from mr. birket rivers." "mr. birket rivers," reflected the other. "ah, to be sure--mr. birket rivers, the young millionaire. drives a team of spanking bays at the four-in-hand meets. attaché at constantinople, or something. came into money and left the service. wishes he'd stopped in it, i believe. a very active young gentleman. oh, yes, i've heard of your master--your late master, james finny." the little man was studying him intently all the time. then he fixed his eyes on rivers' hands. he lifted the right one, looked at it, and passed on. there was a loud ring, and a footman entered with "please, mr. bradshaw, there's the gentlemen come from the hembassy." the butler bustled to the door. "go up to parker's room, and change into his things at once, and then come down to me in the 'all," he said to rivers. "yes, sir," rivers replied. "beg pardon, mr. bradshaw, who was that small gentleman wot just left us?" "that small gentleman," said mr. bradshaw, with swelling dignity, "is mr. marvell, from scotland yard; so you'd better be careful, finny." prince ali azim, accompanied by the vizier and a numerous suite, arrived that afternoon, and the whole household was thenceforth kept busy attending to the wants, numerous and peculiar, of the persians. rivers' chief duties were to attend to the hall door, and to help to wait at meals. he did his work to the satisfaction of mr. bradshaw, and never a day passed without mr. marvell, who was installed as the protecting angel of the establishment, staring fixedly at him, and then passing some word of commendation in a tone that brought the blood to his face. "a shocking habit you have of blushing, james finny," the little man would say as he toddled away. and all the time the new footman was trying to find out where the order of the lion and the sun was kept. it was the th before he ascertained that it was in one of three despatch boxes kept in a bookcase in the library. the burglars' meeting took place on the th. he must purloin it before then--that very night, if possible. at five o'clock the vizier was taken ill. "some of parker's leavin's, i'll be bound," said mr. bradshaw. "same symtims. looks all right, and talks despairin' of pains an' shivers. won't have a doctor, neither. if the wizzer pipes out, finny, your preshus cousin'll be responsible." at p.m. the prince and his suite, with the exception of the invalid vizier, set out for the alhambra and supper at the carlton. mr. marvell, as usual, followed closely in their wake. at nine o'clock james finny was off duty. "now or never," he thought. he watched his opportunity, and then, unperceived, entered the library, and there hid himself behind a curtain, intending to wait till the household was asleep, and then to open the despatch box from his bunch of skeleton keys. he had been there perhaps half an hour when the door opened, and, to his amazement, the vizier entered. he was followed by a servant bringing coffee and cigarettes. there were cups for two. the minutes passed slowly. the vizier looked impatiently at the clock, then strode up to one of the windows, pulled back the heavy curtain, raised the blind, and looked out. rivers' pulses quickened. what if the vizier were to come to his window? "ha!" exclaimed the persian, replacing the curtain, and resuming his seat. the door opened, and a bemuffled object made its appearance. the vizier rose. the servant withdrew, and the object emerged from its wraps. rivers knew the man at once. he had met him at constantinople. it was count moranoff. the vizier bowed. the newcomer responded, and then gave a sigh of relief. "_peste!_ but it was warm, vizier," he said. "i am delighted at last to have the honour and the supreme pleasure of meeting you." "your excellency," replied the vizier, "the fame of count moranoff has for long inspired me with an intense wish that we should meet. allah has at last granted the desire of my life. will your excellency seat yourself? here is coffee _alla turca_." the count drew up his chair, and took the proffered cup. as he lit a cigarette, his eyes travelled appreciatively over the portraits of a dozen dentons, famous in the service of their country. "it is fitting we should meet here," he said, "surrounded by these illustrious gentlemen, who look on, but cannot move. it is prophetic." "it is kismet," said the vizier gravely. "kismet, assisted by two statesmen," returned the count. "exactly. but i mustn't lose time, vizier, as our moments are precious." he put his hand into his breast pocket, and produced a document. "here is the draft of our understanding, arranged so far as is possible with three thousand versts between us. now we must discuss the final details. i have indicated my suggestions, and if they meet with your approval it will be possible for us to sign before you leave london." the persian watched the smoke rings float upward. "there is no haste," he said. "'fruit ripens slowly under grey skies,' as our poet sings." "quite so--quite so," said the russian, conscious of an error. "this year--the next will do. our treasury has many drains upon it. we are not anxious to add to the number." the vizier smoked imperturbably. "the skies are grey here," he said at length, "but this london holds some wonderful men. one i met yesterday--an american. he is young. his hair is still flaxen. yet he spoke of money as though it grew on rose trees. half a million roubles are as nothing to him. he gave that sum for an italian picture--an old, shabby-looking thing such as my master would not place in his anterooms. he owns oil mines, railways, banks. allah! what does that flaxen-haired youth not own? my heart ached at the number of his possessions." "these americans talk," replied the count. "half they say is false, half exaggeration." "sometimes, no doubt," said the vizier, "but not always. i know this man is rich. he is one of the new kings of the earth. we have already had a transaction together," and he sighed contentedly. "there are kings and kings," replied the russian. "there are also emperors. your excellency is now in negotiation with one who controls the destinies of countless millions--men and roubles. when last i saw his majesty he said, 'tell his excellency the grand vizier that i would his wisdom could be added to that of my counsellors. when the wishes of my heart respecting the new treaty are consummated he will honour me by accepting half a million roubles.'" the persian gazed reflectively into space. "your master is great," he said, "and he is generous. his rewards make glad the hearts of poets. he is the joy of the poor. would that i were a poet or poor. so should my voice praise him also." the russian's eye gleamed, but he continued suavely: "so said my royal master, 'half a million roubles shall be his when the treaty is signed; five hundred thousand more when the russian flag floats in the persian gulf.'" the persian leaned back resignedly. "great is the power of your master," he said. "as russia is bigger than america, so does his power exceed that of the flaxen-haired gentleman i met yesterday. the americans are numbered by tens, your master's subjects by hundreds of millions. besides, it is always more agreeable to deal with a first-class diplomatist. let me look at the draft." count moranoff handed over the document. the vizier read it slowly. the terms were fairly comprehensive. behind his curtain rivers breathed hard at their audacity, and his blood tingled at the thought that it rested with him to checkmate this daring move. the statesmen discoursed frankly, and there was no disguise of the object in view. india was eventually to be attacked by russia, who was prepared to pay for facilities granted. the north-eastern province of persia was a necessary factor of the scheme, and a railway was to be commenced at once from astrabad to meshed. but the most striking part of the plan was the acquisition by russia of a port in the persian gulf. the isle of kishm was to be ceded to her. the only discussion between the two statesmen was with regard to the island of ashurada in the caspian. the vizier demanded its evacuation by russia in partial payment for kishm, but more particularly as a sop to the persian people. after much demur this was finally agreed to by moranoff, in addition to the annuity of two million roubles granted to the shah. the vizier folded up the document. "my secretary shall transcribe this to-morrow," he said, "and we can sign after our return from windsor. strange, is it not," he soliloquised, "that our former negotiations came to a head when the english mission brought the garter, and our new one is to be consummated while we are in the act of returning the compliment? these english are fated to be hoodwinked." "when men such as you and i get together, my dear vizier----" began the russian sententiously. then he stopped short, for the door had suddenly opened. the persian turned angrily, and then rose to his feet as a tall, richly-dressed man entered. it was the prince ali azim. "vizier," said the prince abruptly, "whom have you here? your physician?" the vizier's face had assumed a bland smile, and instinctively he endeavoured to cover the treaty. but the prince saw the movement. "why hide the prescription, vizier?" he said. the russian's face grew livid, but the vizier regained his usual composure. "your royal highness," he said, "permit me to present his excellency count moranoff." "ten thousand pardons, count," said the prince, slightly returning the count's profound inclination. "you will, perhaps, understand my mistake when i tell you that the vizier is far from well. he has, no doubt, concealed the fact from you, but he was too ill to accompany me this evening to the hall of music. hence my surprise at finding him here. i fear that his extraordinary zeal for affairs has led him prematurely from his bed. i am sure that you would not wish him to trespass unduly on his strength." "your royal highness's surmise is correct," said moranoff. "it would, indeed, be an international calamity were the vizier to break down. i hope i have not hastened that end." he again bowed profoundly to the prince, refused the vizier's offer of assistance with his wraps, and then, with a cold adieu to him, left the room. "now, hasan kuli," thundered the prince when they were alone, "what intrigue is this?" "your royal highness's suspicions are uncalled for. moranoff and i are old friends by correspondence. we had never met personally, and he naturally seized this opportunity." "i did not know he was in england," said the prince. "the russian ambassador incidentally referred to him to-day as being in petersburg. i left you in bed, full of toothache and indigestion. i return unexpectedly, and find you deliberating with a russian who is supposed to be five hundred _farsakhs_ away. give me that paper." the vizier reluctantly produced it, and the prince read it through. "ah," he said, as he refolded it. "i see you are making a cat's-paw of me again. my mission here is to do away with any ill-effects consequent on our treaty with russia. you will remember that when we were fooling the english mission in teheran i knew nothing of the treaty just concluded with russia. my uncle and you delighted to keep me in the dark; yet all the time it was i who did the work. was it his majesty the shah who played at billiards and cards with the english? was it you who fought them at lawn tennis. bah! i laugh at the thought. but i played at all. i lost my money at cards and billiards, and i suffered defeat at lawn tennis till the perspiration rolled down me, and my legs gave way. and you smoked and laughed, and got all the profit. i, who worked, got none. now i have come over land and sea with the order of the lion and the sun. again i do the work--again i know nothing. i find you intriguing behind my back. you treat me as a child; but you forget that some day i may be shah. you play with fire, vizier." "your royal highness, i beg you to believe that i have acted for what i thought was the benefit of our country." "and your own pocket," added the prince. "how much plunder do you get out of this?" the vizier held up his hands in horror. "your royal highness," he said, "is nothing ever done disinterestedly--from pure patriotism?" [illustration: "suddenly he rose, took the draft of the treaty, went to the despatch boxes, and placed it in one of them." (_p. ._)] "not by hasan kuli," sneered the prince. "please save yourself useless declamation. you may as well know my terms at once. the price of my acquiescence in this matter is one million roubles." the vizier gasped. "one million roubles!" he exclaimed. "does money grow?" "so far as i know, it does not," replied the prince acidly. "but you may as well spare yourself unnecessary questions. these are my terms. arrange with moranoff to-morrow, or take it from your own profit--i care not which; but unless a portion of the money is forthcoming before we leave this cursed land i will----" "you will betray us?" "i do not explain my intentions to viziers," replied the young man haughtily. "you understand me, i hope. here is your treaty." he tossed the document on the table and left. the vizier threw himself on a sofa, and groaned aloud. he lay there long--so long that rivers, behind the curtain, was stiff and weary. and there was the vizier, now apparently dozing at intervals--perhaps going to make a night of it. suddenly he rose, took the draft of the treaty, went to the despatch boxes, and placed it in one of them. his body intervened between rivers' view of them, but the watcher followed his movements as best he could. then the vizier turned to the door, and clicked out the light as he passed through. rivers stretched himself, but he did not venture to stir from behind the curtain for some time. at length he stepped out, turned on his portable electric light, crossed the room, and stood before the despatch boxes. there were three, all exactly alike. one held the insignia of the lion and the sun. that was--yes, that was the bottom one. the treaty was in the middle one. the top one was unimportant. rivers lifted out the middle one, and essayed to open it with his keys, but in vain. then he tried the bottom one--that containing the persian order--but with no better success. the box would have to be forced open elsewhere. yet he dare not carry it across the hall. other means had to be found for getting it out of the room, and the way had occurred to him as he stood behind the curtain. one box he might pass safely through this instrumentality, but only one. two would court defeat. which box was he to take--the one that held the order of the lion and the sun, the object of all his scheming, or the other, in which lay the treaty? rivers' mind had taken its resolve at the instant he had seen the draft placed therein. since moranoff had appeared, he had lost all immediate interest in the burglars' club. whether he became a member or not was of little moment, but it was a matter of national importance that the foreign secretary should see the draft of the treaty. the earl of ancoats was hard to convince of anyone's dishonesty. his own honour was so untarnished that he refused to believe less of others. he had declined to take hints about the former treaty between russia and persia, and now, with the shah's mission at his door, he would probably refuse to believe that this was but another blind, covering a further and bolder intrigue. lord ancoats must see the treaty. rivers took the middle box across to the window, then drew up the blind and waited. the red-coated sentry passed. could he manage it before the soldier was round again? ah! here was his chance. he opened the window gently. "hi!" he called out to the passing hansom. the man pulled up, got down, and came to the window. "i want you to take this box straight to lord ancoats. he lives in eaton square. tell him mr. birket rivers sent it, and he must open it at once. i will see him in the morning about it. here's a sovereign. if lord ancoats gets it within an hour, i'll give you another sovereign to-morrow. here you are. cut along. drive like blazes." as the man mounted his seat, the sentry came round the corner. rivers cautiously closed the window, and drew the blind. he then pulled a chair behind the curtain, and went to sleep on it till four o'clock, when he made his way to his own room. first thing in the morning he sent a message to john parker, who turned up in good health at ten o'clock, and claimed his post back. half an hour later rivers left, assured of mr. bradshaw's offer of the next vacancy in the household. he drove straight to the albany, and then to eaton square. the earl was at the foreign office. within the hour his lordship received him. "well, mr. rivers," said lord ancoats, producing the despatch box from a safe. "what is the meaning of this?" [illustration: "instead of the draft, there, on a purple velvet cushion, was the glittering order of the lion and the sun." (_p. ._)] "it explains itself, my lord." "indeed," said the statesman drily. "what do you think it contains?" "the draft of a new treaty between russia and persia." "open it." rivers did so, and, instead of the draft, there on a purple velvet cushion was the glittering order of the lion and the sun! rivers was stupefied. "was there nothing else?" he asked in bewilderment. "no, sir; and perhaps you will now explain how you came into possession of this, and why you sent it to me. it is surely the property of the persian mission." lord ancoats' demeanour was not reassuring, but rivers plunged boldly into the matter. "last night, at denton house, count moranoff visited the persian vizier," he commenced. "how do you know that?" "i saw him. i was present at the interview--unknown, of course. he brought with him the draft of a treaty supplementing the last one. it had chiefly reference to the acquisition of a russian port in the persian gulf." "ah!" said lord ancoats, "that's a bold move. go on, please." "the vizier placed the draft in one of three despatch boxes like this. i thought this was the one, and i sent it here so that your lordship could read the treaty for yourself. i deeply regret that i made a mistake in the box, but i can give the gist of the treaty from memory." "please do so now." rivers' memory was good, and the words of the treaty had burnt themselves on his brain. he recited the terms without hesitation. the minister heard him in silence, making notes. "thank you, rivers," he said at the end. "you will please let me have that in writing in time for to-morrow's cabinet." then he got up and paced the room. "it is an unfortunate situation. i think we shall be able to meet the political side of it, but the investiture takes place at windsor to-morrow, and this discovery is, to say the least, embarrassing. however, we have to thank you for being forewarned. you evidently anticipated this move." "i'm afraid not, sir. it was as much luck as anything else on my part." "but you were at denton house?" "i was there on other business," said rivers frankly. lord ancoats looked grave. "well, mr. rivers," he said, "i will not inquire too closely what that other business was. you have rendered a service to the state which will not be forgotten. now, what about this?" pointing to the box. "i will see that the vizier gets it." "at once?" rivers hesitated. only then did he remember he now had in his possession what he wanted. he could pay his entrance fee. "i will see that it is at denton house by the morning," he said. lord ancoats watched him intently. "does the burglars' club meet to-night?" he said quietly. "i--i beg your pardon," stammered rivers. lord ancoats laid a kindly hand on his shoulder. "i was only told of that institution within the hour," he said, "and till a moment ago i didn't believe the information. take my advice, rivers, and leave it. its existence, you see, is known to some of the outside world. as a friend i warn you that you will be watched to-night. don't spoil your career. why did you leave the service? oh, i remember; but you're not satisfied with merely killing time, are you? will you come back to us? the first secretaryship at vienna is vacant. would you take it?" rivers' face beamed. "i'd jump at it, my lord." "then be ready to start in a week. never mind thanks. i am still your debtor. now about this box? you might be unable to restore it. we must adopt other means." lord ancoats opened the door of an adjoining room with, "come forward, please." and the little detective whom rivers had last seen at denton house that very morning entered briskly. "i believe you have met before?" said lord ancoats. rivers was too astonished to reply. "yes, i have met james finny--i beg pardon--mr. birket rivers," said the detective drily. "mr. rivers has explained the mystery very satisfactorily, marvell," said lord ancoats. "the box should be restored without delay. will you do this, please?" mr. marvell tried to look pleased, but signally failed in the attempt. "certainly, my lord," he replied. there was a knock at the door, and a clerk appeared with a card in his hand. "i must leave you now," said the minister. "rivers, next week, remember. i am much obliged for your assistance, mr. marvell." with this the secretary for foreign affairs left the room. the detective took up the box. "how on earth did you come into this matter, mr. marvell?" asked rivers. "very simply, sir. when lord ancoats got the box he telephoned to scotland yard, and i was sent for at once. as a matter of fact, i opened the box for his lordship. you're sure you wouldn't like to restore it yourself? the vizier is ill in bed, and it won't be wanted till to-morrow." "sorry to disappoint you, mr. marvell," rivers laughed; "but i'm sure it's safer in your hands." mr. marvell nodded grimly. "sooner or later, sir. sooner or later," he said, as he walked to the door; "but don't try to be a footman next time." with these enigmatical remarks the interview terminated. * * * * * on the following day the investiture of the lion and the sun took place at windsor. after the ceremony prince ali azim and the vizier had a private interview with the secretary of state for foreign affairs. it was noted at the time that the persians emerged looking singularly subdued. that evening, in reply to a friendly question addressed by the leader of the opposition, lord ancoats took the opportunity to assure the house that the paramount influence of england in the persian gulf would be maintained at any cost, and a month later the union jack floated by the side of the arab sultan's flag on the castle towers of muscat. this was the answer given to the russian intrigue. that it was so effective and complete was owing to the action of mr. birket rivers, sometime a cadet member of the burglars' club. ix. the horseshoe and the peppercorn. the president rose and read: "'march th is the anniversary of the battle of towton. for valour on that desperate field john de mallaby received from edward iv. the barony of tadcaster, and an appropriate grant of land in yorkshire, at a yearly rental of a peppercorn and a golden horseshoe. that rent is still paid by the barons--now earls--of tadcaster. his late lordship used to bring his annual acknowledgment to town in a state coach with outriders, but the present peer takes it to his sovereign by motor-car, attended only by a chauffeur.' "in this paragraph, my lords and gentlemen," continued the duke, "we see indicated the quest of our distinguished fellow member captain prescott cunningham, whose subscription is now due." "what is the quest, mr. president?" inquired cunningham. "am i to capture the peer or the motor-car?" "neither, sir," replied his grace of dorchester. "you will kindly produce the horseshoe and the peppercorn intended for the king on the th. our meeting is arranged for the th, so that we may return the trophies in question, and enable his lordship of tadcaster to continue in possession of his remarkably low-rented estate." the right honourable john de mallaby, d.l., f.r.s., m.a., eighteenth baron and seventh earl of tadcaster, lived chiefly at his westmorland seat, kirkdale castle, which an ancestress in the time of george the first had obligingly brought into the family in addition to her own good looks. * * * * * a certain mr. shaw arrived one day of march last at the golden lion inn, kirkdale, and there spent a few days, talking much with the landlord and frequenters of the inn, and taking walks in the neighbourhood of the castle. on the latter occasions he might have been seen gazing somewhat disconsolately at the battlemented walls which had several times defied an army. once when he was so occupied, a thin, grizzly, stooping gentleman had passed, and with him a handsome dark-eyed girl. he learnt that this was the earl himself, a scientific and somewhat eccentric widower, and his only child eva, a _débutante_ of last season. prescott cunningham--for so was this mr. shaw designated in the more accurate books of the registrar-general--soon gave up any idea of entering the castle in his quest of the peppercorn and horseshoe. the task of finding them there was too big. he had learnt that on these annual occasions lord tadcaster, accompanied by his chauffeur, left the castle in his motor-car four days before the king received him. he also learnt full particulars of the route followed and of the halting places, and it was his final plan of campaign to waylay his lordship on the road, and, unashamed, to rob him of the articles desired. having spent three days in coming to this conclusion, cunningham moved on to bolton abbey, through which village he knew that his lordship would pass on his way to harrogate, where he would spend the night of the th. at five o'clock on the day in question, the tadcaster panhard drew up at the devonshire arms at bolton abbey, and cunningham saw to his amazement that, instead of the earl and his chauffeur, it contained his lordship and a lady--his daughter. cunningham groaned in spirit. to tackle two men single-handed might be counted sporting, but a woman--hang it all! mine host hurried to the door to assist his guests. "has your lordship lost mr. ackill?" he asked. "i hope not," replied the earl. "achille hurt his hand with a backfire this morning, and i sent him on by train to harrogate to have it attended to. you got my note? dinner at six?" "to the minute, my lord." the intervening time was chiefly spent by the earl in confidential communion with his motor, through the intermediary of a spanner and an oil can. while he was so engaged, and cunningham was lounging near the door, reflecting on his bad luck, another car drove up, and two loudly-dressed men emerged from their wraps. they entered the hotel, drank thirstily, and talked without restraint. lady eva de mallaby passed through the hall soon afterwards. struck by her beauty, one of the motorists, with the comradeship of one sportsman to another, addressed some remark to her, with a generous smile and a casual hat-lift. lady eva, showing a trace of surprise, stared icily at the man and passed on. "hoity, toity," said the motorist, without any sign of shame. "but i'd like to have the breaking-in of you, miss. wouldn't you, sammy?" addressing his companion. "too expensive," said sammy. "give me a four-year-old, like i bought to-day from sir william, an' i'm 'appy." "you're a bloomin' materialist, that's what you are, sammy," retorted the other--"a bloomin' materialist." he lingered lovingly over the rounded phrase, and drained his glass again. twenty minutes later the sound of a gramophone percolated the house. lord tadcaster was at dinner. it was his daily custom to dine to the accompaniment of music. when at home his private band officiated; when he was on his travels a musical-box or gramophone supplied the necessary melody. this was an eccentricity of the peer, who had decided, after long and recondite diagnosis, that music assists the digestion, and that certain music is more suited to a particular food than another. therefore he swallowed his soup to a dreamy prelude, his fish to a fugue. the _entrée_ was expedited by beethoven, the joint disappeared to a triumphal march. sweets demanded a waltz, cheese nothing more than a negro melody; but with wine and dessert were combined all the possibilities of grand opera. cunningham had learnt particulars of all this when at kirkdale, and now he listened to the programme emanating from the private dining-room. no doubt owing to the absence of achille, the music occasionally gave out, but by the intermittent tunes cunningham was still able to gauge the progress of the meal. the omission of a sonata denoted limitation of the repast, and when the strains of "lucia di lammermoor" throbbed on the air cunningham mounted his motor-cycle, and took the road that led through blubber-houses. a run of three-quarters of an hour brought him to the confines of haverah park, almost within sight of harrogate. it was here that he had decided to waylay the motor-car. it was a lonely spot indeed. moorland, grim pasture land, lean fir trees, stone walls and limestone road, was all that met the eye. all was cold and stern. cold and stern was his business that night; and there, close to the wood granted by john o' gaunt to one haverah, and tenanted since doomsday by the winds of the centuries, he waited. the air was springlike, but the wait was long and weary. the only satisfactory thing about it was that he had time to note the small amount of traffic on the road. a solitary dogcart was all that passed in an hour. the moon rose in cold splendour. the stars appeared. cunningham knew only one of them by name--betelgeuse, a red star, the apex of a triangle of which three stars formed the base. the name had struck him as remarkable, and he once had called a bull pup after it. for a moment he thought of his dog's untimely end. but was the panhard never coming? perhaps there had been a puncture, and in the absence of a chauffeur lord tadcaster was stranded. possibly he had returned to bolton abbey, or taken train forward, or, since he was short-handed, he might have altered his route and gone by the easier road through otley. in that case, he, prescott cunningham, was lost to the burglars' club. ah! there was the toot of a motor in the far distance, again repeated. it was the tadcaster toot--a base twentieth century substitute for the cry that on the field of towton in led another john de mallaby to a barony and an estate. cunningham recovered his cycle, be-straddled it, and gently mounted the rise in front. the panhard dashed up the hill, its acetylene lamps glaring like man-o'-war searchlights. cunningham advanced his spark. the motor responded, and sprang eagerly after the car. they were leaving him behind. he slowly opened his throttle valve. now he was making pace. he was gaining on them yard by yard, hand over fist. he was only a hundred yards behind now--fifty--twenty-five. could he do it? the psychological moment had come. he drew his revolver and aimed at the near back tyre of the car in front. ah! he had missed. he hit it with his second shot. it split with a rousing bang. the car listed and dragged. it swerved across the road in violent curves, but cunningham saw by the slowing of the speed that the driver had thrown out his clutch. at last it stopped. [illustration: "'softly, my lord,' said cunningham; 'i am covering you, you observe.'" (_p. ._)] "what's the meaning of this outrage, you scoundrel?" cried the infuriated motorist. "softly, my lord," said cunningham, now on his feet, and advancing with revolver in hand. "i am covering you, you observe!" "a highwayman, by george!" exclaimed the peer. "and edward vii. on the throne. a highwayman on castors!" "your lordship evidently recognises the situation," said cunningham. "this will save time and trouble, i hope." "i suppose you want my purse?" replied the peer. "this comes of travelling without my chauffeur," he added plaintively. "by george, if achille were here, he'd worry you. if i were ten years younger i'd tackle you myself." "regrets are futile, my lord," said cunningham, "but a purse will not satisfy me." "oh, you want two, do you? eva, i'm afraid you'll have to give him yours as well. shockin' luck for this to happen the first time we've travelled alone. i oughtn't to have let you come." "don't worry, dad, please," said lady eva. "i'm sorry i haven't got a purse, highwayman," she continued contemptuously, throwing back her thick veil to see what manner of man this could be, "but the few loose sixpences i have in my pocket are quite at your service." "you may keep them, madam," cunningham replied, with as much dignity as the occasion would permit. "i do not ask for money. i simply want the loan of a peppercorn and golden horseshoe until the th." "by george, he must be an antiquarian highwayman or a curio-collector gone mad," said his lordship. "d'ye think, sir, i'll give you what i'm taking to the king?" "his majesty shall have them, and from your hands, on the proper day. i simply ask for the loan of them till then." "you must think that i'm a fool," said the earl. in an instant he had grabbed the hoop of one of the heavy acetylene lamps, and pulled it from its socket. "take that, you blackguard!" he yelled, flinging it with all his force at the cyclist. cunningham dodged the missile, which crashed to the ground with light extinguished. "hands up, my lord," he shouted, "or i fire." the discomfited peer obeyed him. "you are quite at my mercy," said cunningham sternly. "the peppercorn and horseshoe at once, if you please, or i shall have to use force. i trust you will avoid a scene before your daughter. you may lower your right hand to your pocket." the earl did as he was bid, drew out the precious packet, and handed it to cunningham. "thank you, my lord," he replied. "you are wise. i promise you they shall be returned on the morning of the th. to what address?" "i don't believe you," retorted the peer. "but i stay at claridge's. now, if you've anything of a sportsman about you, you'll go on to the queen hotel at harrogate and tell my chauffeur, achille petibon, to come with a repairer at once. we can't spend the night here. i've got a spare cover and tube in the tonneau, but i can no more fit them than fly. my finger-nails are far too brittle." "i will convey your message with the greatest pleasure, my lord," replied cunningham. "i sincerely regret the inconvenience i have caused, though you may not think so." for a moment there was a pause, and cunningham could have gone. yet he hesitated. the moon shone down upon a desolate moorland glade, lighting up the green sward by the trees. the excitement of the adventure, the flush of victory, a pair of bright eyes, and the memory of some half-forgotten romance stirred his blood. "one final favour, my lord," he said. "no more, sir. by george, if i were ten years younger----" "you carry a gramophone with you." "you are remarkably well informed as to my luggage, sir. i do, but it's too bulky for you to carry away. they're cheap enough. a man of taste like yourself ought to be able to afford one of his own." "i don't want to take it away, my lord. i simply want the favour of a dance tune and a lady's hand." for a moment the earl looked puzzled. then he exclaimed: "by george! claude duval up to date! no, sir, i'll be hanged if----" his lordship stopped suddenly. he was keen of hearing, and as he spoke he had heard, or thought he heard, a distant car. even if it meant a dance with his daughter, he would detain the man until assistance arrived. in a moment he had altered his voice. "on second thoughts, sir," he said, "i don't know. after all, it's a tradition of your--er--profession. perhaps you will oblige the gentleman, eva." as he spoke he pressed the girl's hand so that she might know that something lay behind his words. "where's the gramophone?" he asked. while searching for the instrument his lordship actually started whistling, lest the highwayman should also hear the car. "ah, here it is," he said aloud. then, in a whisper to his daughter, "car coming. distract his attention." in his anxiety his lordship even hummed as he hurriedly manipulated the instrument, inserting the first record that came to hand. he wound up the toy, and a baritone voice sang raucously:-- "egypt! my cleopatra! i ain't no flatt'rer, but dis is true, (i'm a-goin' to tell her) egypt! if you don't want me. . . . in a trice lady eva had found a more suitable record, and after a momentary pause the instrument struck up "the darkie cake walk," as played by the new york municipal band, at manhattan beach, long island, u.s.a. "may i have the honour?" asked cunningham, hat in hand, with a low bow. lady eva inclined coldly, and took off her wraps. the man was certainly polite. he led her as though she were a princess, and any misgivings were soon at rest. it was a quaint scene. it is doubtful if betelgeuse had ever looked down upon a quainter. the firs formed a sombre background. the moon illuminated the green sward in front, and on it a highwayman and a lady motorist stepped to a catching dance tune, emanating from a gramophone on a panhard motor, controlled by a peer of the realm. the light of an acetylene lamp shone like a gigantic foot-light illuminating the front of the green stage. the floor was not an ideal one, though cattle had cropped it close and the winds had swept it dry, but the pair were accomplished dancers. thrice had they paced the length of the floor. now they turned again, hand in hand, with heads thrown back, and uplifted feet. there was the unmistakable sound of an approaching car. cunningham must have heard it, but recklessly he continued the dance. [illustration: "there was the unmistakable sound of an approaching car." (_p. ._)] with a toot it hove into sight, and lord tadcaster turned his own horn into a prolonged howl, signifying unimaginable trouble. this, and the unusual scene at the side, brought up the oncoming car to a smart halt. they backed abreast of the panhard. "robbery! help!" cried the earl. the two occupants of the new car hardly heard him. they were lost in astonishment. as the dancers reached the verge of the road in the full flare of the light, they were greeted with a round of applause. with a snap lord tadcaster turned off the gramophone. "well, i'm jiggered!" said one of the newcomers. "if it ain't little hoity toity!" the peer had jumped from the panhard. "help me to secure this highwayman," he said, pointing to cunningham. "he has robbed me." the man who had just spoken also got down, but his companion remained on the car, stolidly surveying the scene. "come along," said the peer to his recruit. "i think we can manage him between us." "stow it, old man," said the motorist. "you collar the highwayman, and i'll look after the lady." he brushed past the earl, and, with proffered arm, smirked, "may i have the next dance, miss?" lady eva drew back. the man came still nearer. instinctively she touched cunningham's arm for protection. "stand back, sir!" he commanded. "who the juggins are you?" sneered the man. "this old buffer says you're a highwayman, but you seem to think you're a bloomin' bobby. you git, and let me have my partner for the high-kick lancers." "if you come one step nearer i'll thrash you," said cunningham. the man needed no further encouragement. he even dared to touch the lady's arm. a second later he measured his length on the turf. his friend tumbled from his seat with anxious chivalry. "'ere, you leave my pal alone," he said, rolling up to cunningham. "shut up, sammy," said the other, rising slowly to his feet. "now, look you here, mr. highwayman," he continued vindictively. "you've had your score, now i'll have mine. either this lady has a hop with me to my own time and tune, and gives me a kiss at the end, or----" "or what?" "or i ride on to harrogate, and give the police information of highway robbery." "there's your car," said cunningham. "ride on." "he's not likely to wait for the arrival of the police," said the earl ruefully, yet anxious for the departure of these impossible helpers. "i shall be back with a bobby in twenty minutes," the man rejoined, "and we'll telephone to every town in the district so that he can't escape. i'm not in fightin' form myself to-night, so i'd rather do it in proper legal style. i'll bring a solicitor if i can find one. now, young feller," he continued, "you'd better consider well. it'll be a twelve months' touch for you for robbery and six for 'sault and battery. are you going to let your friend sacrifice himself on the altar of nonsense, miss? i think our steps 'ud soot each other amazing." cunningham advanced on him threateningly. "if you dare to speak another word to the lady you'll find yourself on the ground again," he said. the man retreated before him, and sammy fled. "right 'o," said the former. "you've had your choice. it's plank and skilly for you now. get up, sammy." he bundled his friend into his seat, himself followed, let in the clutch, and they disappeared. "oh, i'm so sorry," said the girl. "please don't worry about it," replied cunningham. "the whole thing is the result of my own folly. it serves me jolly well right if i suffer for it." "hadn't you better try to escape now?" she asked, only remembering his protection of her. cunningham shook his head. "i think not," he replied. "it's probably all a ruse on his part to get me away. then he might return and--and annoy you." lady eva was silent. "by george, sir," said the earl, "i like your spirit. what the deuce do you want with that peppercorn and shoe? give me 'em back and i'll say no more about it all." cunningham smiled a little sadly. "i'm afraid i can't. but you shall have them on the morning of the th without fail. perhaps you'll believe me now." then, after a pause, he added: "i'll make a dash for it if they aren't back in a quarter of an hour. in that case, i shall conclude that they really have gone to give the alarm." the minutes passed. lady eva bit her lips in thought. cunningham looked alternately from her to betelgeuse and the moon. the peer stared stolidly into space. "look here," said cunningham suddenly. "aren't we wasting time? why wait for assistance? i think i can put on a new tyre, if you will allow me. where are your spare tubes and covers, and your jack?" his lordship accepted the offer with alacrity, and the two men were soon busy round the wheel. cunningham ceased work for a moment to take lady eva her furs, and assist her into them. she sat down on a tree stump, holding the remaining lamp, and turning its light on the work. she did this mechanically. all the while she was thinking gravely. suddenly a smile passed over her face, and she nodded approvingly. the men were so busy that they did not pause at the sound of the returning car. sammy's friend was better than his word. they had barely been gone fifteen minutes. "that's the highwayman--that young feller. arrest him for robbery!" shouted the motorist, as he brought his car to a standstill, and a policeman sprang down. "is that the charge, sir?" said the policeman to lord tadcaster. what the earl would have replied is uncertain, for before he could answer lady eva had intervened. "robbery! what in the world do you mean?" she cried, standing up, and flashing the light on the policeman. "that gentleman has taken me off my beat to arrest a man for highway robbery." "that gentleman is mistaken," replied the girl. "we've had a breakdown. surely that is the person who promised to send assistance from harrogate. we want a repairer, not a policeman." "don't you believe her!" cried the motorist. "ask the old 'un." "is that so, sir?" inquired the officer. "you have heard my daughter," replied the earl, astonished but loyal. "of course it is so." the motorist's mouth opened, but no words came forth. he was absolutely speechless at this change of front. "anyway, there's an assault an' battery," said his friend hopefully. "'e knocked 'im down," pointing to the protagonists of the drama. "for insulting a lady, i think," said cunningham. "gor!" snorted the driver, recovering his speech. "sold again, sammy!" and with a frightful hoot they passed into the night. "well, i'm blowed!" exclaimed the policeman, with intense disgust. "and 'ere i am, miles off my beat." "my friends won't be long before they are ready to start again, officer," said cunningham, "and they'll no doubt give you a lift to harrogate. in the meantime you might relieve the lady of the trouble of directing the light. thank you," he whispered to lady eva, as he took the lamp from her. her eyes met his and smiled. the new tyre was at last adjusted. the earl, lady eva, and the policeman got on board and sped away, cunningham accompanying them on his motor-cycle. in the outskirts of harrogate the policeman resumed his interrupted beat, the richer by an unusual experience and a sovereign. at the town itself cunningham said his adieus. "a thousand thanks for your generosity, my lord," he added. "you will not find it misplaced," and with a low bow to lady eva he took the road to the right. the earl watched him go regretfully, for after all he had the horseshoe and peppercorn. what lady eva's feelings were she could not have stated precisely. the earl of tadcaster and his daughter arrived at their hotel in time to stop a relief expedition, organised by the anxious achille; and under his care they resumed their journey the next day. on the evening of the th, captain prescott cunningham renewed his subscription to the burglars' club; and at a.m. on the th there was delivered at claridge's hotel a registered packet containing a peppercorn and a golden horseshoe, which the eighteenth baron tadcaster presented to his sovereign that afternoon at buckingham palace. later on in the day a couple of new tyres, "with mr. duval's compliments and apologies," also reached the peer. here the story ends--for the present. this happened last march. cunningham now attends every possible dance, dinner, and reception, hoping that some day lady eva and he may meet again; and as for lady eva, does she not dream daily of witching moonlight, a greensward dance, and a brave and gallant partner? x. the holbein miniature. mr. adolph meyer, the friend of nations, the associate of kings, and the hope of the impecunious, had built himself a house on st. george's island, off the coast of hampshire. as mr. meyer's origin was german, and the country of his adoption was england, it was perhaps natural that he should have gone to tuscany for the architecture of his marine residence. its boldly projecting cornices, its rusticated base and quoins, the consoles of its upper windows, all betrayed its florentine birth; but the lower windows, reaching to the ground, were such as we associate with the name of france, and were doubtless intended as a compliment to the great and gay nation living directly across the water. to the south, a terrace, bounded by a low wall set with dogs, apparently petrified by their own ugliness, separated the villa from the beach. to the west were the orchid houses. to the north, before the front of the house, lay the bowling green; beyond it a wood, through which ran the path leading to the landing-stage and the neighbouring island of great britain. a spiral staircase at the east end of the house led to the observatory containing the powerful equatorial telescope through which, as opportunity offered, mr. meyer was wont to gaze thoughtfully at the satellites of jupiter, the canals on mars, and other eccentricities of the heavens. there was, of course, a fountain--between the bowling green and the cypress trees. there was also a sundial bearing a sentence of cryptic import; and in the woods, at the least expected places, stood marble columns, broken and ivy-wreathed, or supporting busts of socrates, pallas, homer, and other appropriate notabilities. inside the house were treasures that had cost the ransom of a millionaire. meyer was a bachelor, and here he spent his week-ends, absorbing ozone enough to see him through till the following saturday, and maturing titanic schemes for the federation of the world and the confounding of rival financiers. once only had he brought a guest with him--an african pro-consul--who had with much difficulty, though with ultimate success, joined his outward-bound ship from meyer's electric launch. each year a local mayor called, admired, wondered, and retired. occasionally some venturesome tourist was captured and turned back. other visitors were rare; and their reception depended on the mood of the lord of the island. one day last april a stranger with a camera rowed across from england. at the landing-stage he informed the man in charge that he had business with mr. meyer. this was telephoned to the house. "what business?" came the reply. "particular business," said the newcomer. "what particular business?" "pictures," was the answer. this was transmitted, and the reply taken. "you can go," said the man, hanging up the receiver. "straight up the path, and through the woods. turn to the left at the busk of 'omer." ten minutes later the visitor was shown into a room facing the sea, in which mr. meyer was seated by the open window, reading from a gigantic folio. he was a short, podgy man, with black curly hair, a rounded nose, and bright eyes. his moustache and imperial did not conceal the extraordinary firmness of his mouth and jaw. he rose as his visitor entered. he was, as usual, attired in a frock-coat and grey trousers. once he had been in flannels when an emergency had arisen demanding city attire, which was not immediately forthcoming. mr. meyer had lost an opportunity in life through carelessness. therefore on land he ever afterwards wore a frock-coat, except when in evening dress or pyjamas. the occasion should never again find him wanting. "you wished to see me on business?" he asked. "what is it?" his visitor, who was cast in a finer, less decided mould--a good-looking, clean-shaven man of something over thirty--replied: "i came to ask for permission to photograph the inside of your place." "you are not from mr. holzmann, den?" said meyer, curtly. "no." "you said your business was imbortant." "so it is--to myself." meyer looked sharply at him. "why do you want to photokraph my place?" "for insertion in a magazine." "which makkazine?" "any that will take the article--i am not proud. it is important that i should make some money. i have seen many interesting reproductions of interiors of the stately homes of england in the periodicals, but never one of your house. hence my appearance. i hope i may have your permission." "why should i krant you bermission?" said meyer. "i live here in solitude. i do not bring visitors. i do not want dem. your intrusion is imbertinent." his visitor flushed. "sorry if i have annoyed you," he said; "but it did not seem such a great favour to ask. most people are glad to have pictures of themselves and their houses in the papers." "most people are fools, as dommas carlyle said. have you a family?" "i am not married." "dere is no excuse for a sinkle man taking pictures of people's interiors. it is not de work for a man like you. i shall not encourage such tomfoolery. no, i do not give you bermission. but stay. dere is an orkit from de mittle of africa of which i should like to have a picture--de _cypripedium meyeri_--a new species which i have had de satisfaction to detect. berhaps you would be kind enough to photokraph it for me, and your journey would not be altokedder lost. come along. what is your name, please?" his visitor handed him a card on which was printed "john lucas, , brixton gardens, london, w." "you have come a long way," mr. meyer observed. "a very long way, sir. perhaps you wouldn't mind letting me look round your house, even if i may not photograph it. i am interested in domestic architecture and--er--curios." mr. meyer looked intently at his visitor. "yes, mr. lucas," he said slowly, "i will also show you round my house, since you have come so far, and are interested in domestic architecture and curios. i have blenty of both. den we will photokraph de orkit." mr. meyer led the photographer through his villa, pointing out its architectural beauties, and indicating the various treasures which it contained. mr. lucas was profuse in his expressions of appreciation. "are you not afraid of burglars?" he asked. "i am afraid of noding," replied mr. meyer. "odderwise i should not be here to-day in dis tuscan villa. i have gone into de question of dieves, and tink i should be able to meet de situation." they had made a tour of the rooms, had ascended the heights of the observatory and inspected the electric plant at its base. "is dere anyting else you would like to see?" asked mr. meyer politely. "i believe that you collect miniatures. might i look at them?" "come dis way." in a corner of the marble hall there was a cabinet facing a window. meyer stood before it. "see," he said; "i bress dis button, and it releases de trawers. so." the shutter flew back, and the drawers were free. meyer opened them, one by one, and indicated their contents. "dey are all choice examples of de best masters. dese are gosways. dis is an engleheart," and so on. he went through the collection till he had shown the last drawer but one. he was about to close the cabinet when mr. lucas asked: "have you any holbeins?" "one," replied meyer, "and dere was i necklecting to show it to you. dis last trawer is de most imbortant of de lot." he opened it and drew forth a small square frame. "here is de latest addition to my collection. a krand holbein. you notice de blue backkround, characteristic of dat kreat master, and de wonderful thin bainting. you can almost see through it. it is a bortrait of meyer of basle, berhaps a relation of mine, berhaps not. it does not matter. it is a fine picture. don't you tink so?" lucas handed it back. "i envy you," he said. "dere is no need," mr. meyer responded, as he closed the cabinet. "'enfy no man till he is dead,' said de old kreek philosopher, and i am very much alife. now come to de orkit house, and photokraph de _cypripedium meyeri_." an hour later, after taking photographs of the rare exotic from every point of the compass, mr. lucas made his way to the landing-stage, and from thence he rowed thoughtfully across to bournemouth. on the following monday night a boat with a solitary oarsman put off from the mainland, and after several changes of route was successfully beached on the south shore of st. george's island. under the protection of the trees its occupant--none other, indeed, than mr. john lucas--stealthily approached the tuscan villa, which stood out in bold relief in the vivid moonlight. he gained the terrace, and, keeping as much as possible within the shadow of the balustrade and dogs, he crept to the fourth window, the one at which mr. meyer was sitting on the preceding saturday. there is no use disguising the fact any longer. mr. lucas was a burglar, and he now proceeded to act after the manner of his craft. after affixing some adhesive material to the pane, he began to cut out a square of the window. the glass was thick, so the process was long, but mr. lucas toiled at it with a patience and perseverance worthy of a better cause. only once did he desist--to follow the suggestion of a sudden impulse, and try all the windows of the house. but each was fastened, and mr. lucas resumed his original labour. it was fully an hour before he drew out the square of glass which enabled him to undo the catch inside. then nearly as long passed before the removal of a second square at the foot allowed him to unscrew the bottom fastening. the window was open at last, and lucas stepped inside. it was the second burglary of his life, and he reflected that so far all that had happened was greatly to the credit of his professional abilities. a moment afterwards he was chilled by the later thought that nothing in particular had happened so far, and that the possibilities of the near future were very great indeed. with his stealthy entry into mr. meyer's villa the personality of that gentleman had suddenly oppressed him. at bournemouth all that day, with the sun shining, and the band playing popular airs, mr. meyer had occurred to him merely as an eccentric german gentleman; but now, at something after midnight, in the deathly stillness of his villa, mr. lucas only remembered the teuton's sharp, decisive utterances, his piercing glances, and his large general reputation for unpleasantness as an enemy. perhaps it was the sight of mr. meyer's empty chair that had brought this train of thought to his mind. the big folio he had been reading was still at its side. lucas flashed his electric pocket light on the open page. "love's labour's lost" met his eyes. this struck him as ominous. lucas pulled himself together. what had he to do with empty chairs, and old folios, and omens? he was a burglar, out for the night on urgent business. let him attend to it, and keep his dreams and soliloquies for the daytime. he walked across the polished floor, his rubber soles being absolutely noiseless. he raised the heavy curtain, and passed beneath it through the archway. there in front of him was the marble hall, bathed in coloured moonlight. the fountain played softly to the tones of gold, azure and red cast from the stained-glass window. if mr. lucas had been conversant with keats he would doubtless have thought of st. agnes' eve; but presumably mr. lucas did not, for, keeping well to the wall, he stole quickly across to where stood the case containing the miniatures. [illustration: "lucas dropped it carefully into the pocket of his norfolk jacket." (_p. ._)] "you bress de button, and it releases de trawers. so." he smiled as mr. meyer's pronunciation came back to him. he followed the instructions, and the drawers were free. cosway and engleheart did not detain him to-night. he opened the bottom drawer. there lay the holbein for which mr. meyer had recently paid three thousand guineas. lucas dropped it carefully into the pocket of his norfolk jacket, shut the drawer, and closed the case. so far all was well--very well indeed. only a few yards, a curtain, and a few yards more, lay between him and freedom. then again there fell upon him a sense of mr. meyer's personality. what had that man not done? he had browbeaten an emperor, hoodwinked a couple of wily chancellors, and decimated the ranks of rival practitioners. was he, john lucas, a mere tyro in the burglary profession, able to outwit the smartest man of the day? had he only to break a window, step across a floor, seize a treasure, and depart? no--it was impossible. the very ease with which everything had been accomplished was the worst sign of all. "i have gone into de question of dieves, and tink i should be able to meet de situation." meyer's words came back to him now. he himself was in town--lucas had seen him depart that morning, to make it absolutely certain--but his myrmidons were doubtless hidden around. an electric shock would suddenly hold him fast, and meyer's butler or stage manager, or whatever he was called, would appear and wing him--unless the servants were asleep in their master's absence. but nothing was ever left to chance in mr. meyer's life or his house. the very silence was eloquent of impending catastrophe. again mr. lucas reproached himself with nervous folly. "it is only my second burglary," he reflected apologetically. he stepped across the hall, and once more raised the curtain. "ah!" the room, which ten minutes ago was dark and empty, was now brilliantly illuminated, and there was mr. adolph meyer, seated in his chair! meyer rose and came forward. "ah, mr. lucas," he said, "dis is indeed a pleasure. not altokedder unexbected, i admit; but it is always satisfactory to find one's conclusions brove correct. i taught you would have to return to make some final notes on my domestic architecture and my curios. you have seen my place by day. now you visit me by night. dat is charming." lucas stood by the curtain, overwhelmed with confusion. not by a word did mr. meyer betray any resentment at his presence, but there was a thinly disguised vein of banter in his speech that made the burglar's pulses quicken. "berhaps you have not noticed de view i have here, mr. lucas," said meyer. "come and look." he threw open the window wide. the moon was playing on the waters of the channel. clouds were scurrying across the sky. a lighthouse flashed in the far distance. "i like dis view," said meyer. "de sea is always de same--deep and treacherous. one always knows what to exbect, but man you never know. how do you look upon de sea, mr. lucas?" "good for boating, and--er--bathing," responded lucas desperately. "goot for boating and bading," repeated meyer. "dat is so. you are practical. dat is where you islanders have the advantage over us treamers. but somehow the treams have a habit of outlasting de practice. i do not tink of boating and bading when i look on de sea. i tink of all dat is above it, and below it. on de top, ships carrying men and women and children to continents; below de waves, dead men and women and children, dose who have died by de way, floating by de cables which are carrying words dat make and unmake nations and men. life and death are dere togedder. did you never tink of de sea in dat way, mr. lucas, when you was not studying domestic architecture and curios?" "i can't say that i have," said lucas, trying vainly to rise to the situation. a man with a weapon he could have met and fought any day, at a moment's notice, but smooth words and soliloquies, how could he meet them, though there was a hidden meaning in every phrase, a subtle danger indicated in every intonation? "i should practise it den, mr. lucas," said meyer gravely. "a little more tinking and a little less action is de new brescription de doctors are giving to dis country." he turned away from the window, after closing it. he did not appear to notice the two great holes in the glass which stared him in the face. "den i shut my window tight, for fear of dieves, mr. lucas," he went on, "and go to my observatory, where we went de odder day. i go up dose steps to my delescope, and bring de stars widdin speaking distance. have you ever spoken wid de stars, mr. lucas?" "no," replied the burglar curtly. "ah, i taught not. somehow you did not give me dat imbression. you should study de moon for a bekinning, mr. lucas. it is a poor worn-out star of a sort. what does it tell of? of life run down, as many men's are. but after all, de moon had its day. it was not cut off in its prime, like some men's lives are, mr. lucas, because of a comet-like taught, or a meteor suggestion of evil. a kreat science is astronomy, mr. lucas. do you not tink so?" mr. lucas did not reply. "why do i speak of dese things, mr. lucas?" said meyer with increasing earnestness. "because you are young, very young, dough you are nearly so old as me. i speak of dem because you are wasting your life entering my house in de mittle of de night to take photokraphs, when de stars are singing outside, and de world is calling for de man who, as dommas carlyle says, is not dere. what would dommas carlyle have said if he had known dat you were here all de time, taking photokraphs in mr. adolph meyer's villa--robbing mr. meyer, widout de excuse of necessity?" lucas made an attempt to speak, but meyer stopped him. the little man's voice rose, his eyes gleamed, his very stature seemed to swell. the room was full of him. "be silent, sare," he said, with a gesture of an emperor. "i am speaking! listen! i know what you will say: it is for sport dat you do dis--sport dat eats up your race, and makes men like me your master. you take your gun and kill. see," pointing through the window at a problematical object. "dat bird--dat beautiful white gull. it is flying--seeking for food or its mate. you shoot it----" "never!" shouted lucas indignantly. "you do. i know you do. you take dat wonderful ding we call life--for sport. you rob me. dat is a smaller ding, but it is sport also. mein gott! but you shall rob and kill no more." he struck a bell. lucas backed to the wall to be ready for emergencies. a little sharp-featured man entered. "here he is, mr. marvell," said meyer. "i have got him red-handed and cold-souled." "that's right, sir," said the little man briskly, producing a pair of handcuffs. "i'll take him across to bournemouth, and we'll have him up at the police court in the morning." mr. meyer did not appear to have heard him. "strange, is it not?" he resumed, "dat you and i and mr. marvell, de clever detective, should be here, mr. lucas? no, i will call you by your broper name. sir rubert inkledree, i ask you to listen." he took up a red volume from the table. "dis is a useful book," he said, as he opened it. "we are all entered up here, all our public appearances, dat is--not our midnight photokraphings. ah, here it is: "'sir rubert inkledree, seventh baronet, born , only son of sixth baronet and mary, daughter of viscount morecambe. educated eton and christ church, oxford. owns twenty tousand acres. address: inkledree castle, leicestershire; , brook street, w. clubs: bachelor's, boodle's, turf.' "dat is fine--for a bekinning," continued meyer; "but what an end, sir rubert, in dis room wid mr. meyer whom you have robbed, and a detective, and de bournemouth police court in de morning. dat is not very fine. now listen akain." he turned over the leaves and read:-- "'adolph meyer, born . financier. son of jacob meyer of düsseldorf. m.a. london university, commander of de victorian order, chevalier of de legion of honour. address: , lombard street, e.c., and st. george's island, bournemouth.' dat is all. dere are no clubs and no acres. i have de orders because i did service to england and france. i am m.a. of london university because, when i was a young man behind de counter in de bank all day, i worked for my dekree by night; and now i am here, and you are where i like to put you, sir rubert inkledree." "bournemouth police station," suggested mr. marvell, who was aching to get to business. "bournemouth police station?" repeated mr. meyer slowly. "no, mr. marvell; i tink not. i am master of arts of london university and reader of blato, letting alone de odder dings. he shall go free, and mr. marvell, you will blease forket de incident. i telekraft for you on saturday. you came, but dere was noding. dat is what you will report, please, at scotland yard. "but you, sir rubert, you will not forket. you will remember. you will neider kill nor rob akain, because it is de wish of mr. adolph meyer, who makes you free instead of sending you to de police station. "also, sir rubert, i suchest dat you give up dat club dat mr. marvell speaks of. see, you have my holbein in your pocket. take it, since you want it. show it to your friends, and say dat mr. meyer, who is m.a. of london university, commander, chevalier and tcheneral treamer, says dat dey had better disbant, for de stars are singing, and mr. marvell is watching." mr. marvell folded up his handcuffs methodically, and replaced them in his pocket. he was too well trained to show the intense disgust he felt at the turn the proceedings had taken. again the burglar endeavoured to speak, but once more mr. meyer commanded silence. "mr. marvell will see you to your boat, sir rubert," he said. "i drust dat you will weigh my words well. it is not often dat i say so many, and dey have caused me some inconvenience to speak, as i am not accustomed to spend monday nights in my marine villa. to be here i had dis afternoon to postpone an interview wid de turkish ambassador, which i have since learnt by telekram from constantinople has been misconstrued. de sultan will not sleep much to-night, and in de morning newspapers dere will be talk of drouble in de balkan states. some peoples will be fearing war, sir rubert, and all on account of you and your midnight photokraphings. i wonder what dommas carlyle would say to a mess like dat. goot night." mr. meyer turned abruptly on his heels, and left the room. "come along, sir rupert, please," said mr. marvell. in the brilliant moonshine they went along the terrace by the stone dogs, and down the steps to the beach. they found the boat by the trees. "how did mr. meyer come to suspect my errand?" said ingletree suddenly. the detective smiled a wan smile. "well, sir," he replied, "i wasn't present when you saw him on saturday, but i think that mr. meyer read you through as if you were a book--printed in pretty big letters, too. it was a rather thin tale, that about the magazine article, and when you asked to see round the house mr. meyer was certain that you had some special object in view. when you inquired after the miniatures he knew what you were after, as the papers had lately been full of the holbein. to make sure on the point he didn't show it to you, and of course you asked to see it. then he telegraphed to scotland yard, and they sent me." "how did you find out who i was, and why i wanted the miniature?" "ah," said mr. marvell drily, "i'll tell you that some day later on, sir rupert. we shall probably meet again." then the baronet put out to sea, and the detective went back to the tuscan villa. * * * * * on the following evening, at the meeting of the burglars' club, the secretary produced the holbein miniature, and read a letter from sir rupert ingletree which accompanied it. then the president rose. "my lords and gentlemen," he said, "we have just heard the singular adventure which has befallen one of our members. the holbein miniature is here, but only owing to the goodwill of its owner. sir rupert ingletree is at liberty owing to the forbearance of the same gentleman. under the circumstances i think we have no option but to accept the resignation of sir rupert, who does not appear to have acted with the adroitness which is a necessary qualification of our members. it may well be that you or i would have done no better under similar circumstances, but i need hardly remind you that in this club we judge only by results, and the results in this instance are not satisfactory. "there is a further matter to consider--a message from mr. meyer, which demands a reply. colonel altamont, as the _doyen_ of our club, we look to your premature grey hairs for guidance." altamont rose amidst general applause. "your grace, my lords and gentlemen," he began. "it is surely unnecessary to ask for my opinion on the situation. our existence is now known to the outside world. twice has this detective, marvell, been within reach of us. someone has betrayed us, and i for one do not intend to rest until i have traced that traitor. but this is not the matter before us now. "though mr. meyer objects to sport, he has behaved like a perfect sportsman. (hear, hear.) for his courtesy we wish to express our hearty thanks and appreciation; but for his suggestion that we should disband we surely have one answer only, and that is: never, never, never." the words were re-echoed on all sides. "our club would indeed have fallen on degenerate days," continued altamont, when quiet was restored, "if the fact of its existence being known were promptly to bring about its end. surely the fact that we are watched should give an added zest to our proceedings, which have been all too monotonously serene. the knowledge that scotland yard is acting, and that we carry our personal liberty in our hands, should spur us on to the homeric deeds for the perpetration of which we exist. "ingletree's postscript is pathetic, and vividly shows the present unbalanced state of his mind. he asks whether we consider that under mr. meyer's terms he is at liberty to fish. my own feeling is that i would have suffered a long period of incarceration rather than have surrendered my right to act as a free and independent englishman; but ingletree, having accepted his liberty on mr. meyer's stupendous terms, has surely forfeited his right to again take life in any form. if he so much as nets a minnow he has no option but to surrender himself forthwith at the bournemouth police station. "we all regret the loss of our once brilliant member, but it is obvious from ingletree's behaviour during the last few days that he is not the man he was when he paid his entrance fee by the production of--what was it, mr. secretary?--the mace of the house of commons?" "no, sir," replied the secretary. "that was mr. henderson's fee. sir rupert ingletree entered with the portland vase, from the british museum." "ah, quite so. thank you. and a very smart bit of work it was, i remember. it is regrettable that sir rupert could not be here in person this evening to advance any extenuating circumstances; but as he is probably under the surveillance of scotland yard we appreciate his reason for adopting the medium of the postmaster-general for communicating with us. i therefore propose that sir rupert ingletree's resignation be accepted, and that, with the holbein picture, which we at once return to its owner in accordance with our rule, we send a letter expressing our appreciation of mr. meyer's magnanimity, and our regret that we are unable to disband. we can leave it to our secretary to couch this in the neat epigrammatic style for which he is famed in the chancelleries of europe." xi. the victoria cross. "it seems to me," said his grace of dorchester, "that the army has been abominably neglected by us. on looking through our archives, i do not come across the record of a single military achievement. in the church and in the state, in diplomacy and commerce, in science, art, and literature, our activities are marked, but we have unaccountably left the services alone. our enemies--if such there be--might unkindly suggest that we have purposely refrained from interfering with the most vigorous portion of the community. to avoid this reproach, and to make good the omission, i therefore propose a series of three military raids, the first to be immediately undertaken by mr. maxwell-pitt, who will have the opportunity of renewing his subscription at our next meeting by the production of the last victoria cross bestowed by his majesty." as the result of inquiries, mr. maxwell-pitt learned that the last victoria cross had been given to captain sefton richards, who had rescued a wounded soldier from the somali, and, single-handed, had kept the enemy at bay till support arrived. "h'm!" reflected maxwell-pitt. "he'll be a tough customer to tackle. it strikes me that if i pull this off i shall have earned the blue riband of the club. i wonder where the beggar is stationed?" further inquiries elicited the fact that captain richards was at present spending his well-earned leave with his sister, who lived at bamburn, in lincolnshire. the next meeting of the club had been fixed for the nd of the month. on the th maxwell-pitt set out for bamburn. it was an ancient country town. once it had been an ecclesiastical centre--as its minster still bore witness--but now it was given up to the sale of sheep and the manufacture of chocolate. in its outskirts was a number of highly eligible residences, and in one of these, the bequest of an uncle who was the inventor of chocolate caramels, lived miss richards. maxwell-pitt learnt some of this from the local directory, and some from the waiter at the inn, the night of his arrival; and on the following morning he made his way to the neighbourhood of burgoyne lodge--so miss richards' house was styled--and sat down on a seat thoughtfully provided by the local district council. he waited there a long time, apparently deeply absorbed in the columns of a sporting paper, but in reality rarely taking his eyes from the house. at eleven o'clock his patience was rewarded. the gate opened, and two people came out. the man--tall, straight, and bronzed--was obviously captain richards, the lady probably his sister. mr. maxwell-pitt saw them disappear along the road in the direction of the town, and then he approached the house to take in its bearings. it was the last building on the road, and it was closely surrounded by a belt of trees; behind the trees were thick bushes. this screen effectually concealed the house from the road--for the inventor of chocolate caramels had been a recluse by nature--so, in order to obtain a better view of it, maxwell-pitt got over the wall, and peered through the bushes. it was a solid georgian dwelling, with two windows on each side of the door. which window should he attempt to force? the end ones would be farthest from the hall, and perhaps the safest. or would it be better to try the back? confound it! his eyes had been so intently fixed on the house that he had omitted to notice an occupant of the garden, but now he was aware that a trimly and plainly gowned little woman who was engaged in cutting flowers had stopped in her work, and was watching him. the position was ridiculous. what excuse could he offer? he turned round, got over the wall again, and walked quickly away, with the conviction that he had made a blunder, criminal in a professional, and unpardonable even for an amateur. during the afternoon, while he was walking down the main street of the town, wondering at the number of sheep the land contained--for it was market day--he came face to face with the same good-looking, dapper little person he had seen in the grounds of burgoyne lodge. she had appeared from a side street, and no escape was open to him. he fixed his eyes on the celebrated perpendicular architecture of the minster tower, hoping to escape her attention, but, to his surprise, she stopped him. "pardon me, i think we have seen one another before," she said slowly, and with a marked foreign intonation. "of course we have," he replied, as he took off his hat. "i remember the occasion perfectly. how do you do?" then he added, unblushingly, "and how is your sister?" "i thank you," she answered. "my sister would, no doubt, be quite well if i had one. but please do not make romances. i saw you this morning at burgoyne lodge. i know what you want." "the dickens you do!" he exclaimed in blank amazement. "and pray what is it?" "i think it is something that does not belong to you," she said, her dark eyes looking steadily at him. "indeed! and how do you know that?" she shrugged her shoulders expressively. "_cela n'importe_," she answered. "if you please, let us walk on so that we do not draw attention. yes, i know what you want, and i think that i can assist you a little." "it's very good of you to suggest it," said maxwell-pitt as they walked along the street; "and i'm sure i'm much obliged to you. i'm not accustomed to this sort of business, you know." "you have made the same business once before," she said. "you are really remarkably well informed," he replied. "the least you can do is to tell me how you come to know these things." "do not waste the time," she said impatiently. "i am adèle, miss richards' maid. she is in town with her brother, the captain. they must not see us together. when do you intend to--to----" she hesitated. "to pick mushrooms, shall we call it?" he answered. "to--pick--mushrooms?" she repeated, with a puzzled look. then she smiled. "ah, i understand. yes, when do you intend to pick the fine mushrooms?" "as soon as i know where they are, and how to get them. if you assist me it will, of course, make matters easy for me." "to-night?" "mademoiselle, you are a thought-reader. you anticipate my wishes. to-night, by all means." "then i will see that one of the windows is left unlatched. _mon dieu!_ meet me here at this place at nine o'clock." with this she turned abruptly round the corner they were passing, and disappeared into a shop. maxwell-pitt glanced ahead, and saw captain and miss richards approaching. they might not have seen him with the maid, for they were in earnest conversation. captain richards only glanced casually at him in passing. "well, this is what i call remarkable--simply re-markable," said maxwell-pitt to himself as he walked to his hotel. "how on earth should she know of the v.c. business, and, what is more, that i had to pay my entrance fee by a previous burglary? who could have told her? i wonder why any member should be so extremely anxious to assist me. . . . stop! was it really a member? there's that man marvell--the detective. he has been present at two former burglaries--called in by accident, certainly, but he has his eye on us, and perhaps he now has some means of finding out in advance the task set to members. the remarkably obliging adèle may be merely a female detective. she may assist me to get into the house, and show me where the v.c. is, and then, when i get it, her friend marvell will appear. in that case richards and his sister are in the know, and this apparently casual meeting just now, and adèle's annoyance, was pre-arranged to throw me off the scent. it seems to me, maxwell-pitt, that you'll have to be very careful what you are about, or you'll be landed to-night, and by a woman." that evening he kept his appointment at the street-corner. the maid was late. the clocks had chimed the quarter before she came, hot and breathless--not her cool, nonchalant self of the morning. "it has been so difficult to leave," she explained. "miss richards would have me to read to her after the dinner. walter scott! and me dying all the time to be here, mr.---- what shall i call you?" "jones," said maxwell-pitt, "is a dreamy, romantic name, very suitable for a mushroom picker." "yes; jones is a beautiful name," she replied. "have you decided to pick to-night, mr. jones?" "i should like to." "you wish me to leave that window open?" "if you will." "and what do you give me, if you please?" "i beg your pardon?" "what am i going to have of it all?" "'all.' that is rather a big word for the little mushroom i shall take away; but if you would like some memento of the occasion, what shall it be? a bracelet?" "a bracelet? _comment!_ absurd! with my help, _m'sieu_, it will not be a little mushroom, _point du tout_. for me myself i demand fifty pounds." maxwell-pitt stared at her blankly. "what is it now?" she cried angrily. "_mais_, you are too stupid--more stupid than the ordinary englishman. miss richards has some fine pearls, and her diamonds are _magnifiques_, and i can give them to you. this is not to be another wedderburn mistake." "ah, quite so--quite so," replied maxwell-pitt, who was absolutely nonplussed by the turn the conversation had taken. then he drew his bow at a venture. "wedderburn made a bit of a mistake, didn't he?" he said. she looked at him sharply. "'he.' who's 'he'? you know precisely that i speak of the burglary at wedderburn 'ouse last week, where you were not very clever." "oh, of course, of course. i understand," said maxwell-pitt. "of course you do understand. why do you so pretend to me? i knew it was you when i saw you seeking round our 'ouse. i saw you were big and dark, with a long moustache, like the butler at wedderburn 'ouse said. how else did you think i could have known you were a burglar? you are to look at only like a gentleman?" "ah, i see--i see," said maxwell-pitt, the light at last breaking in upon him. "it seems that i have done friend marvell an injustice." "i do not know who your friend is, nor what you talk about," said mademoiselle adèle. "i must return at once. is it to be a bargain or not? fifty pounds is little compared to your share." "mademoiselle," said maxwell-pitt, "you are not only an accomplished thought-reader, but you appear to have the business instinct strongly developed as well. you can quite understand that when i planned this--er--botanical expedition i did not anticipate such a drain on my resources. in plain words, i haven't fifty pounds on me." "you can get it, and come to-morrow night instead." "there will still be time," said maxwell-pitt thoughtfully. "of course there will. now i go. it is settled?" "yes; i'll come to-morrow night and bring fifty pounds with me." "in gold sovereigns, please." "in gold, if you wish it." "good. and i'll have the jewellery ready. the pearl necklace cost more than a thousand sovereigns. there will be no need to take anything else, i hope. that big mushroom should satisfy you enough." "amply. i don't want any more jewels, but where does captain richards keep his decorations--his victoria cross, for instance?" "you don't want that?" "i do." "it is only worth a few centimes--not half a franc, they tell me." "never mind its value. i am a collector of such trifles, and want this specimen particularly." "he won it in battle. it would be cruel--abominable--to take it. you cannot have it." "mademoiselle adèle, your scruples do you credit; but, after all, are mushroom-pickers the people to talk about scruples? here you are planning what is, in plain english, the robbery of your employer, so why stick at a trifle like that?" "_Ã�coutez_, mr. jones. you are only a burglar, so your opinion is no matter, but i shall tell you why i do this thing. i come to your country to get riches. i am clever, but there are no riches, even for clever people, in my own valley of the durance. first i was maid to one lady with a title so long," and she extended her arms to their full width. "i was 'appy. then i met an aëronaut--you understand, one who makes ascensions in a balloon--who talked my language like myself. he persuades me to leave my place and marry him. i was idiot to do so. then one day he goes up in his balloon at--what you call it?--birmingham, for a brief voyage. but he disappears in the clouds. he sends me postcard from ostend to tell me that he is landed all-right. then i never found him again." she paused dramatically. maxwell-pitt felt that something was demanded of him, and hastened to murmur some words of sympathy, but she did not listen. "then i took a place again as lady's maid," she went on. "there was trouble over some jewels. they blamed me. bah! i was innocent. but they say 'no,' and 'you go at once,' and 'no character.' so i am alone in england, with no money and _mon mari_ gone. i come here, and i think this lady so kind to take me without a character written. then i find the ones who have the characters written will not stay with her--not one month--so that is why she takes me. she is black slave-driver, and her temper--_mon dieu_, it is dis-graceful! it is a horrible time here. then there is alphonse, who is waiter at the Ã�lysée palace, who wants me to marry him and assist him to found a restaurant, and i must continually tell him 'wait.' "when i see you, mr. jones, i see my way to escape from it all. it came at one jump--the thought, 'i will help him, and he will give me fifty gold sovereigns, and i shall go to belgium at once. my 'usband is either dead, or i find him and tell him what i think of him, and get a divorce, and then return and marry the good alphonse, who adores me.' so you see that i am no common thief. bah! as for madame's jewellery, _ça ne fait rien_. she is rich. i shall be glad to have annoyed her. but at once i tell you, you shall not have the victoria medal. that is not to be. captain richards is the only man in this miserable country who has been kind to me. and he is a brave soldier. i shall not permit that you annoy him." "i promise to return it." "then for why do you take it?" "that is my affair. i will bring the fifty pounds to-morrow night, but i must have the cross whether you help me to get it or not. where does he keep it?" "keep it? _attendez._ oh, i know. in the strong box locked in his bedroom. he is a man to shoot certain, and he always has his pistol to hand. you will give me the money instantly you are in the 'ouse, for if you go upstairs you will be a dead man at once. i tell you so myself." "that is an extremely unpleasant prospect. i must see my lawyer--my _notaire_, mademoiselle--in the morning, and arrange my affairs. which window will you unlatch for me?" "the one at the front, the nearest to where you stood when i saw you. if you will come at one o'clock i will be in the room with the beautiful pearls. now i must fly. _bon soir, cher_ mr. jones." on the following morning maxwell-pitt paid his hotel bill and went up to town. in the evening he returned with his bicycle, getting out at the station beyond bamburn. at a few minutes to one o'clock he entered the grounds of burgoyne lodge, and made his way stealthily to the window fixed on. it open noiselessly, and he clambered through. mademoiselle adèle was not there. perhaps she was reading sir walter scott to miss richards. he would wait for half an hour, at any rate, before making any move. perhaps adèle had thought better of her determination about the cross, and would bring it with her rather than risk trouble. he sat down and mused. a queer life, that of a burglar. reminiscences of detective tales came back to him. he thought of sherlock holmes. the doings of the burglars' club would have puzzled him at first. then there was his great predecessor, poe's dupin, the detective of the murders in the rue morgue, of the mystery of marie rogêt, and the purloined letter. ah, the purloined letter! they were searching for that all over, probing every inch of space in the house for it, and there it was all the time, underneath their noses, hanging in a card-rack beneath the mantelpiece. maxwell-pitt rose and flashed his light over the mantelpiece. there was the usual assortment of odds and ends, but the v.c. was not there. no; it was too much to expect. where did richards keep it? adèle had hesitated before replying that it was in the strong box in his bedroom. it might be--or it might not. here, at any rate, were obvious traces of its owner--his letters and pipe on a side table, his service magazines on the chair. if the v.c. wasn't on the mantelpiece, it might be elsewhere in the room. there was a bookcase with a cupboard and drawers. he opened the bookcase, but closed it quickly at the sight of the serried ranks of the "encyclopædia britannica." he had no better luck in the cupboard, but in the first drawer he pulled out, his eye was at once caught by two small cases. he eagerly opened one, to find the south african medal, but in the second--ye gods! it was the victoria cross! maxwell-pitt's fingers closed over it. at this moment the door opened gently. "who is there?" whispered a voice. by this time he had moved to the table. he turned his light on again. adèle was there--pale and excited. from a pocket which she must have specially constructed she produced a large case. she opened it, disclosing a necklace of large pearls. "here it is," she whispered. "where are the fifty sovereigns?" maxwell-pitt drew out a bag and gave it to her. she opened it, and looked at the contents, then put it in her pocket. "now go," she said. "_vite!_" maxwell-pitt moved towards the window. "i don't want this," he said, pointing to the case. "you don't want it?" she exclaimed in astonishment. for a moment they stood there facing one another. then a sudden thought struck her. she went to the bookcase, opened the drawer, and saw only one case there. "you are more clever than i thought," she said. "i wished to take these away upstairs to-night, but the captain he remained here late, and then madame wanted me. you have got the medal, but you shall not go away with it. give it back to me." [illustration: "he was walking in his sleep, conscious of nothing." (_p. ._)] maxwell-pitt shook his head. her eyes blazed in anger. "you will not? _mon dieu!_ then i sound the alarm." "how will you account for this?" said maxwell-pitt, pointing to the case on the table. "i do not know. i do not care," she answered. "give me the medal, or i ring." her hand clutched the bell rope. "shall i ring or not?" she demanded. again there was a sound at the door. once more he turned off his light. the door opened wide, and captain richards entered, carrying a lighted candle in his hand. maxwell-pitt and adèle stood there transfixed. the light shone full on them, but captain richards took no heed of them. his eyes were fixed, staring into space. he was walking in his sleep, conscious of nothing that was going on around him. he placed his candle on the side table, sat down in his easy chair, drew the book-rest towards him, and leaned back, staring vacantly at the pages of the open book. adèle released the bell rope and held a warning finger to her lips. she stepped lightly to maxwell-pitt. "sh! it is dangerous to awaken him," she whispered. "once they awakened my cousin suddenly when he walked like that in his sleep. he was never the same here again," and she tapped her forehead. "now go at once, but softly." he clambered out, and then looked back through the window into the room. adèle picked up the jewel case and put it into her pocket. there she touched the bag of gold. she pulled it out, looked at it for a moment, then stepped hastily to the window and flung it from her into the garden. she leaned out, and whispered, vindictively, "take your money. i shall help the police. they shall catch you before the clock is round." then she stepped gently to the door. it closed behind her, and the sleep-walker was alone in the room. maxwell-pitt picked up the bag of gold, and then cycled thirty miles. he caught an early train to london, and that evening he renewed his subscription to the burglars' club by exhibiting the victoria cross lately bestowed on captain sefton richards by his majesty. on the following day, to his great astonishment, captain richards received the cross in a registered postal packet, with no word to explain the reason of its temporary absence; and a few days later a larger postal packet came for mademoiselle adèle, which, on being opened, disclosed to her enraptured eyes fifty sovereigns. thus did maxwell-pitt attempt to atone for the burglary he had perpetrated. "after all," he thought, "the only person who will have been seriously inconvenienced by the transaction is the balloonist in belgium--and he deserves it." xii. the last chronicle. gilbert brown, second baron lothersdale, was generally regarded as being the best business man in the country. his talent for affairs was doubtless hereditary, as his father had successfully kept a big emporium before seeking the parliamentary honours which led to higher things. his son, in his turn, entered parliament, and quickly ran the gamut of two under-secretaryships and the cabinet. the lord lieutenancy of ireland and the governor-generalship of india would undoubtedly have been his, but for the impossibility of associating brown's bayswater bazaar with those regal positions. when, therefore, the last of six successive schemes for the reorganisation of the british army had fallen to the parliamentary floor and broken in pieces, it was felt that there was only one man who could tackle the matter, and bring it to a successful issue. lord lothersdale's tenure of the postmaster-generalship was remembered with pride by a grateful nation. under his management the reply-postcard business, which had hitherto dragged and lost money, had become a popular and remunerative department, while his penny-in-the-slot form of application for government annuities was an innovation as brilliant in conception as it was profitable in results. when the country learnt that to lord lothersdale had been entrusted the task of reforming the army it heaved a sigh of content, for it knew that the work was now as good as done; and when the news reached the continent the officers of the great general staff of the german army were noticed to wear a sad and pensive look unusual to them. to accomplish the work that in the past twenty years alone had cost thousands of lives and millions of money, besides incidentally destroying six first-class parliamentary reputations, lord lothersdale retired to moors, his berkshire seat, and there, in his study overlooking the deer park, he accumulated his evidence and dictated his report. from time to time paragraphs appeared in the papers that lord lothersdale was busy at his work, or that he was making progress therein, and at last word went round that he was now putting the final touches to his report, which would be laid before the cabinet the following week. then it was that his grace of dorchester decided that mr. drummond eyre must show the same report at the next meeting of the burglars' club, if he wished to continue his membership thereof. george drummond eyre was a leicestershire man, an ex-guardsman, and a shooter of big game. he received the news of his mission without comment, and proceeded to make himself acquainted with the habits of his lordship of lothersdale. he was still pursuing these investigations when he read in the _morning mail_:-- "lord lothersdale is just completing his work of reorganising the british army on paper with the thoroughness which we associate with his name. not content with revising the duties attached to the highest offices, with altering the length of service, and the pay of officer and private, his lordship is actually winding up with suggestions for a new full-dress uniform for our soldiers. the traditional red is to be discarded, and hues more in keeping with the aesthetic taste of the age will supplant it, in the hope of attracting a superior class of men to the army. we hear that mr. bower, the eminent tailor, was last week at moors, and that to-day a member of his staff will arrive there with sample uniforms for his lordship's inspection. history is in making at moors." "good!" said eyre, with obvious satisfaction, as he read this paragraph. "this fits in well. i'm in luck's way." that was at nine o'clock in the morning. at ten o'clock he drove up to mr. bower's well-known establishment, and sent in a card on which was printed in unostentatious letters, "mr. luke sinnott," and in the bottom corner "criminal investigation dept., new scotland yard." in a few minutes he was shown into mr. bower's private room. mr. bower was a ponderous gentleman. in a higher station of life he would have been a dean. "what can i do for you, mr. sinnott?" he inquired, eyeing his visitor over the top of his gold-rimmed glasses. "i have come on important business, sir," said the pseudo-sinnott. he went back to the door, and closed it cautiously, then deposited his hat and gloves on the table with a precision which impressed the tailor with a sense of deep mystery. "i think you have just been to moors," he said, after these preliminaries. "that is so," replied the tailor, with unnatural indifference. "and one of your people is going there to-day with some sample uniforms?" "i am going there to-day with a sample uniform." "quite so. you are aware that lord lothersdale is working on a very important report?" "of course i am." mr. sinnott came a step nearer to the tailor, and dropped his voice to an impressive whisper. "what i am going to tell you," he continued, "is in the strictest confidence. a continental power that shall be nameless, but whose identity you, as a man of the world, will be able to guess, is moving heaven and earth to get to know what that report contains. it is certain that whatever lord lothersdale suggests will be carried out by our government, and this will immediately influence the military policy of the power in question. moreover, there are some secret portions of this report which will never be made public. therefore this foreign power is striving to get sight of it before it leaves lord lothersdale's hands. "one spy has already been detected and warned off by our man who is established in the village, but we have just learnt that another agent has obtained admission to the house itself, by taking service as a footman. on a previous occasion we alarmed lord lothersdale, without any real grounds, as it eventually turned out, and we should not care to repeat the incident. it is therefore essential that i, who know this man, should have the opportunity of seeing if he really is there, without anyone--not even his lordship--knowing who i am. with your assistance this will be possible; and i have come from scotland yard to ask you to allow me to go with you to moors to-day, ostensibly as connected with your firm. if you will assist us in this matter you will not find us ungrateful. scotland yard does not forget, and some day it may be in our power to be of use to you. in the meantime, you will have done your country a great service." mr. bower was considerably impressed by this speech. he had come back from moors full of importance. he was most certainly assisting in preserving the integrity of the empire, and it was quite in keeping with this feeling that he should take part in the international complication outlined by his visitor. he appeared to weigh the matter judicially for a few minutes. then he said solemnly, "we will give you our co-operation in this affair, mr. sinnott." "thank you, mr. bower," said the "detective." so at one o'clock that afternoon mr. bower, accompanied by his new assistant, took train for moors. in another compartment travelled a sample corporal of the british army, who was to show off the uniform which mr. bower had designed under lord lothersdale's instructions. it was a two-hours' journey, but mr. sinnott found it all too short in mr. bower's improving society, for that gentleman expounded views on life from a new standpoint. "no, sir," he said, "things are not what they used to be. gentlemen--noblemen, especially, i regret to state--do not display that intelligent attention to dress which they used to, even within my own recollection lord lothersdale is a notable exception, but enumerate any other statesmen you like, and if left to their own unaided judgment--i say it with all due deference--they would go to pieces. i assure you, upon my honour, at the end of six months you would be liable to mistake any one of them for a foreigner. you would scarcely think it, mr. sinnott, but no less than five members of the present government are too busy to give a thought to their dress at all." "you don't say so!" exclaimed mr. sinnott. "i do. 'bower,' they say, 'keep your eye on us, and whenever you think that we are gettin' shabby make us some new clothes, and we will wear them. we leave it all to you.' it is flatterin', sir, i suppose, to have such reliance placed in your judgment, but it demonstrates the absence of--shall i term it proper self-respect?--which is deplorable, absolutely deplorable. it has made me a firm believer in the degeneration of the race. "of course, to keep the cabinet well-dressed is the principal object of my existence, and i flatter myself that under my superintendence the present cabinet will compare favourably in taste and style with any previous one. but it is anxious, even harassin' work to decide what particular cut, colour, and texture will most suitably harmonise with each individual temperament. they cannot afford the time for interviews, so i have to anticipate the movements of ministers, and go out of my way to meet them. i track them down, as it were, and make my observations in the street, as best i can. would you believe it, mr. sinnott, i was one day actually arrested for suspiciously followin' the secretary of state for india? his trousers were positively baggin' at the knees. i couldn't take my eyes off them, and one of your smart young constables took me to bow street. most humiliatin', i call it; and all because of my devotion to duty and the honour of the nation." "shocking," said mr. sinnott. "i sympathise with you, mr. bower. i should like to know the name of that constable." "his name was simpson--archibald simpson," replied the tailor. mr. sinnott made a note of the name, and mr. bower continued: "but, as i previously observed, lord lothersdale is a horse of another colour, if i may make use of such an expression. it is an inspiration to meet him. he is the busiest gentleman in england--bar none--but he is never too busy for a try-on or for a consultation. he is gifted, sir. he has ideas that would amaze you. the single-breasted frock-coat was his creation. what do you think of that?" "you do astonish me, mr. bower. i had no idea of it." "i knew you had not--that is where the greatness of the man comes in. it is his conception, and he is fully aware that the credit of it is attributed to me--but he does not mind. there is no petty jealousy of the profession about him. then, silk breeches for evenin' wear. that is another of his grand ideas. you must have silk breeches if you visit at moors, or you do not receive a second invitation. he is drastic in his methods, is my lord--a regular roman. mark my words, mr. sinnott, if the fashion takes it will be owin' to the influence of lord lothersdale, and once get the nation into silk breeches, and you do not know to what heights it may attain. it will be the beginnin' of a new era, the like of which no man livin' has known. i only hope i shall be here to witness its dawn." mr. bower's eyes glistened, and his cheeks flushed in anticipation. even mr. sinnott caught a little of his enthusiasm. it was half-past three when they reached moors. lord lothersdale could not see them until after dinner. at that moment a japanese surgeon-general was with him, explaining how they managed their field hospitals in the far east. he had come by special permission of the mikado, and had to return to the seat of war by the six o'clock train. at nine o'clock the corporal was arrayed in the proposed new uniform for the line--a taking arrangement in heliotrope, the outcome of lord lothersdale's creative genius and mr. bower's executive ability. at nine-thirty they were admitted into lord lothersdale's study. the great man was in a genial mood, the result, no doubt, of an instructive afternoon and a good dinner. he walked round the corporal, and inspected him critically. "by jove! bower," he said at last, "you've done the trick. capital! and your idea of primrose facings was quite right, after all." "i am glad that you approve of it, my lord," said the beaming tailor. "i do. and the country will, too. there'll be some recruiting when this gets out." then he knitted his brows. "i think the cuffs are a shade too deep, though. i'm sure they are. but half-an-inch--no, a quarter--will put it right." "a quarter-of-an-inch off the cuff facin's. make a note of that," said mr. bower to his assistant, who had his pocket-book ready. "you'll have it done by breakfast time, please," said lord lothersdale, "so that i can see how it looks by daylight. a photographer will be here, as i want some coloured prints for the appendix." then the little deputation withdrew. the whole interview had not occupied more than five minutes, and most of that time the tailor's assistant had been taking his bearings, and trying to locate the report. that was surely it--a business-like foolscap volume on the desk. the secretary was writing in it when they entered, and later on he had carefully put it in the top left-hand drawer. the assistant manoeuvred round to the desk during the interview, and after taking particulars of the alterations required, he laid down his notebook, and deliberately left it there. at two o'clock in the morning, when the whole household was presumably fast asleep, mr. bower's assistant suddenly remembered that he had left his notebook downstairs, and decided to recover it at once rather than wait till morning. he therefore made his way cautiously to lord lothersdale's study. he accomplished the return journey without any untoward event happening; but he brought back with him, in addition to the notebook, a manuscript volume, which he deposited in his handbag. the alterations in the cuff facings were duly made by breakfast time. at nine o'clock lord lothersdale approved of the result. by nine-fifteen the corporal had been photographed in several attitudes--one of which now adorns the recruiting posters--and by nine-thirty the party was driving to the railway station, incidentally meeting a troop of hussars on the march to moors for purposes of the appendix. "that is what i call business," said mr. bower, as they took their seats in the train at the last moment. "no time is lost in dealin' with lord lothersdale. i hope that you got to know all you wanted." "all," replied mr. sinnott. "we have evidently been misinformed, for the man i wanted is not there. if we'd made a fuss about it to lord lothersdale we should have been sorry. as it is, we are very much obliged to you, mr. bower, and we shan't forget it." * * * * * "the next business," said the hon. sec. at the burglars' club meeting that same evening, "is the payment by mr. drummond eyre of his subscription for the next two years by the production of lord lothersdale's report on the army." "here it is," said eyre, producing a manuscript volume. a subdued murmur of applause ran round. the president took up the book and glanced at it. "this seems to be in order," he said, turning to the end. "lothersdale signs----" he broke off suddenly. the door had opened without any warning, and a little sharp-featured individual entered, followed by half a dozen other men. "in the name of the king," said the first comer, "i arrest george drummond eyre for feloniously stealing, taking, and carrying away certain papers, namely a report, the property of the right honourable gilbert brown, baron lothersdale, and i arrest all others present as accessories." members rose to their feet, and simultaneously made a move towards the door, with the evident intention of resisting the intrusion. mr. marvell--for it was he--held up his hand warningly. "there are more men outside," he said. "resistance is useless." "where's your authority for all this?" demanded the secretary. "here, sir," said marvell, pulling out a bundle of papers from a capacious pocket. "here are the warrants. 'mr. george drummond eyre,'" he called out, reading from the pile. "here you are, sir. 'the duke of dorchester.' here, your grace. 'the earl of ribston.' here, my lord. 'mr. hilton,' 'major anstruther,'" and so on through the list of members. "you will find these quite in order, i think. now, gentlemen, if you please. i have concluded that you would prefer to ride. thompson, fetch the hansoms round." "stop!" called out ribston. "what are you going to do with us?" "take you to vine street station." "nonsense. we're not criminals." "you can argue that out with the magistrate to-morrow, my lord," said the detective. "here are the warrants, and i'm going to execute them. if the proceedings are not in order, you can claim reparation in the usual way. now, gentlemen, please. if you will give your word to come quietly you will save time and trouble." "does the home secretary know of this?" asked the duke. "we don't report police court details to the home secretary," said marvell, acidly. "no, sir, he doesn't." "then i demand to see him before these warrants are executed," said dorchester. "impossible, your grace," said marvell, who twice before had been defrauded of his legitimate prey. not again was he going to run the risk of undue favour staying the hand of justice. he had now in his possession a batch of prisoners so notable that next day his name would ring from one end of the world to the other. "impossible," was the obvious reply. "may i write a letter?" asked the duke. "no, your grace, you may not," replied marvell firmly. "you are now a prisoner, and you will please come with me without more delay. now, gentlemen, will you pass your words to come quietly? you can cause trouble if you like, but we are more than equal to you in numbers, so there could only be one end to the matter." dorchester consulted ribston and the secretary. the others nodded reluctant consent. word was given, and they passed out. the house doors were flung open, and they filed into the street, where a dozen hansoms were in line, a dozen policemen in waiting, and a small but inevitable crowd had collected. "ask colonel altamont to see the home secretary at once," said dorchester to his butler, as he was helped into his coat. the old man stood there petrified by the horror of the proceedings. he had been in the family for generations. three dukes of dorchester had he known in all their glory. kings, queens, and potentates had flitted in and out of the ducal mansion with his masters, and now he had lived to see the last of the line taken away like a thief, for some terrible crime. he heard the duke's words to him, but they conveyed no impression to his brain. he did not reply. the police, the bustle in the hall, the crowd outside, the driving away of the prisoners, all was as a horrible nightmare to him. "his grace said you were to tell colonel altamont to go at once to the home secretary, mr. bolton," said the footman, who had held the duke's coat. "ha!" said bolton, waking from his stupor. he caught hold of a hat, and ran out of the house. altamont had not been able to be present that evening. business of importance had detained him, and he had only just got back to his rooms when bolton turned up. he started off at once to the home secretary, and after exasperating interviews with a footman, a butler, and a private secretary, was at length admitted to the presence of that high personage, who was in his dressing gown, and considerably annoyed at this interruption to his slumbers. the colonel explained the situation. "is that all?" asked the home secretary when he had finished. "all, sir!" cried the indignant colonel. "dorchester, ribston, anstruther, and a dozen others, arrested by your policemen, and you ask 'is that all?'" "colonel," said the minister, emphasising his remarks with his forefinger in old bailey style, "dorchester, ribston, and the whole lot should have known better--very much better. they've had their sport, and now they've got to pay for it. i can't interfere. if the jury recommend them to mercy i'll give them the benefit of any doubt, and will save them from hanging; but that's all i can promise. now have a whiskey and soda, and go to bed." altamont declined the whiskey and soda, and left the minister indignantly. on his doorstep he was promptly arrested by marvell, who had a couple of warrants left over after depositing his prisoners at vine street. the last warrant could not be served that night, as the member in question happened to be visiting a friend in nova zembla. mr. marvell took good care that the news of the arrest of the duke of dorchester, the earl of ribston, and the other more or less distinguished members of the burglars' club, should be at once communicated to the press in case some influential friend should intervene at the last moment, and once more defraud him of his due. the morning's papers were full of the news, with the result that the marlborough street police court was filled to overflowing long before the proceedings commenced. the peerage, the diplomatic service, the commons, the army and the navy, the stage and sport, were well represented. every inch of space, including the bench itself, was filled, and fair women and brave men were turned away. half a dozen ordinary cases were quickly disposed of. then the extraordinary case was called, and the spectators involuntarily rose to their feet as the burglars filed into the dock, and took their stand two deep behind the brass rail. a murmur of sympathy went round as they stood there--some of them obviously interested in the proceedings, others apparently bored by them--all well-groomed, straight set-up men, though their evening dress looked incongruous enough in the daylight, and their crumpled shirt-fronts did not show to advantage. one by one the prisoners' names were called. one by one the prisoners answered. then counsel for the crown stood up, and having stated that the charge against the prisoners was that of stealing a report, the property of lord lothersdale, he opened his case and called the first witness--mr. bower. mr. bower entered the box, and adjusted his pince-nez with extreme nicety. under counsel's lead he detailed how the so-called sinnott had introduced himself. "i had no doubt at all as to his _bona fides_," said the tailor, lingering lovingly over the latin words; "but immediately afterwards i had a wire from moors asking me to postpone my visit to his lordship. i rang up scotland yard to inform mr. sinnott of the alteration, and learnt that he was unknown there. then i informed the authorities of the whole matter, with the result that our original intention was followed, and every facility allowed to mr. sinnott for carry out his plans." "done! by jove!" gasped eyre. lord lothersdale's secretary then gave evidence that the report now produced in court was the property of his lordship. "of course," he added smilingly, "the real report is still at moors. this one, though signed for the present purpose by lord lothersdale, has no value. it was drawn up three years ago by a former secretary of state for war," he explained. then there was formal evidence of the arrest from mr. marvell, who was allowed to speak at length. "for some time past, your worship," he said, "we have been aware of the existence of what is called 'the burglars' club,' composed of noblemen and gentlemen such as your worship sees before you. our information was derived in the first instance from a discharged servant of one of the members. in revenge for his dismissal he told us of proceedings he had witnessed at his master's house on one occasion, when he was concealed behind a curtain in the room. "he furnished us with a list of members, and ever since then we have had them under observation. these gentlemen amuse themselves by stealing articles of great value or of public interest. we know for a fact that at one time and another they have obtained unlawful possession of the koh-i-noor diamond, the mace of the house of commons, lord illingworth's black pearl, an ounce of radium from professor blyth's laboratory, and even the great seal of the united kingdom itself." "good old burglars!" called out an admiring listener at the back of the court. "silence!" shouted an indignant usher. "we have waited, your worship, until we could interfere successfully, knowing that it was only a question of time for us to do so. i have twice been called in on the occasion of a burglary committed by a member of the club, and in each case--of course against my wishes--no charge was made. in this particular instance the member walked straight into the trap." this closed the case for the crown, and counsel proceeded to urge the seriousness of the offence, and the necessity for a severe sentence, not only as a just punishment, but as an example. counsel for the prisoners now rose. he was the famous mr. spiller, who had earned the well-deserved sobriquet of "the prisoner's pal." he stood up with a twinkle in his eye, and an air of confidence that gladdened the hearts of the ladies on the bench. "your worship," he began, "i shall not detain the court more than a very few minutes, for i admit all the evidence that has been tendered. the last witness gave a list of articles illegally taken by my clients. if he wishes, i will add to the list another half-dozen instances of equal importance." "bravo! go it, spiller!" called out the sympathiser at the back, whose sporting instincts were too strong for him. this time he was surrounded by ushers and ejected. "but, sir," continued counsel, when quiet had again been restored, "i must emphasize a point which has been completely and unaccountably lost sight of by the prosecution. not one of the articles taken by my clients has been retained by them for longer than twenty-four hours. within that period every article has been restored to its owner. restitution has always been made, and compensation given whenever compensation was necessary. "we in this court have many times had occasion to admire the abilities of mr. marvell as a detective, but i would now suggest that he should go through a course of stephen's 'commentaries' in order to obtain a little knowledge of the law which he is in the constant habit of putting into force. i cannot too strongly denounce the unwarrantable action of scotland yard in submitting my clients to the indignity of an arrest and these proceedings upon the evidence in their possession. they must know--or their office-boy or charwoman is capable of instructing them in the fact--that by english law no person can be guilty of larceny who does not intend permanently to deprive its owner of the article of which he has gained possession. mere conversion, though accompanied by trespass, is nothing more than a civil wrong, for which possibly my clients might be liable to a farthing damages. "surely," concluded mr. spiller, "life is dull and prosaic enough without this high-handed and unwarranted attempt of scotland yard to extinguish an original, if not laudable, effort on the part of my clients to add to the dexterity and the gaiety of the nation. your worship, i submit there is no evidence against my clients, and ask for the immediate discharge of the prisoners." as mr. spiller spoke, the countenance of the prosecuting counsel was observed to become exceedingly gloomy, while mr. marvell's complexion turned distinctly green. [illustration: "mr. marvell . . . thanked the company for the gift, which he would treasure." (_p. _)] then the magistrate spoke. he began with the usual reprimand to the spectators, and the usual threat to have the place cleared if the ordinary decencies of a court of justice were not maintained. then he turned to the prisoners, and said: "i am sorry to see men of your social position in the dock before me, but you have only yourselves to thank for it. your counsel has spoken of your laudable and original effort to add to the gaiety of the nation. people's idea of humour varies, and, personally, i see nothing very funny in what you have done. i certainly think that your efforts might have been more worthily engaged. some of you are members of the houses of parliament, and i really do not know how you reconcile this club with your position as the law-makers of the land; but of course it may be that this is part of the humour to which your counsel referred. with regard to the legal aspect of the matter, it is clear that no criminal offence has been committed, though if lord lothersdale desires, you may have to answer elsewhere a claim for damages. you are discharged." it was in vain that the ushers tried to stop the cheers that went up as the magistrate concluded, and as the doors of the dock opened and the prisoners came forth. but one little man crept away from the well of the court, unnoticed and unrejoicing. two days later a special meeting of the club was held, at which it was proposed by colonel altamont and seconded by the president:-- "that, as according to the decision of the marlborough street police court magistrate, the proceedings of the burglars' club are neither criminal nor humorous, and its members run no danger of suffering personal inconvenience, it is hereby resolved that the club has no connection with sport, and therefore no reason for existence, and that it be disbanded forthwith." a fortnight later the disbanding of the club was celebrated by a dinner, the guest of the evening being mr. marvell. after dessert the detective was presented with the minute-book of the club, which had been kept in cipher by the hon. sec., who alone had the key to it. the ex-president, in making the presentation, expressed the hope that mr. marvell would spend many happy and profitable years in endeavouring to decipher it. mr. marvell, in reply, thanked the company for their kind reception of him, and for the gift, which he would treasure. he would certainly follow his grace's suggestion and endeavour to decipher the minutes, and he still hoped that with this additional evidence and a more intimate acquaintance with the "commentaries" of mr. stephen, he would before long be enabled to return their hospitality at his majesty's expense. mr. marvell's speech was received with acclamation; but his hopes have not been realised. this is the last chronicle of the burglars' club. printed by cassell and company, ltd., la belle sauvage, e.c. . * * * * * transcriber's note: obvious punctuation errors repaired. page , the first word was placed in small capitals in the html version and all capitals in the text version to conform to the rest of the book. page , "adolf" changed to "adolph" (mr. adolph meyer, the friend)