on a Thursday … it used to stand at the end of the table."
"But don't you remember, father?… We put it away together...."
"When?"
"That evening … you know, the day before...."
"But where?… Quick, tell me … it's more than I can bear...."
"Where?… In the writing-desk."
"In the desk that was stolen?"
"Yes."
"In the desk that was stolen!"
He repeated the words in a whisper, with a sort of terror. Then he took her hand, and lower still:
"It contained a million, Suzanne...."
"Oh, father, why didn't you tell me?" she murmured innocently.
"A million!" he repeated. "It was the winning number in the press lottery."
The hugeness of the disaster crushed them and, for a long time, they maintained a silence which they had not the courage to break. At last Suzanne said:
"But, father, they will pay you all the same."
"Why? On what evidence?"
"Does it require evidence?"
"Of course!"
"And have you none?"
"Yes, I have."
"Well?"
"It was in the box."
"In the box that has disappeared?"
"Yes. And the other man will get the money."
"Why, that would be outrageous! Surely, father, you can stop the payment?"
"Who knows? Who knows? That man must be extraordinarily clever! He has such wonderful resources.... Remember … think how he got hold of the desk...."
His energy revived; he sprang up and, stamping his foot on the floor.
"No, no, no," he shouted, "he shan't have that million, he shan't! Why should he? After all, sharp as he may be, he can do nothing, either. If he calls for the money, they'll lock him up! Ah, we shall see, my friend!"
"Have you thought of something, father?"
"I shall defend our rights to the bitter end, come what may! And we shall succeed!… The million belongs to me and I mean to have it!"
A few minutes later, he dispatched this telegram:
"Governor,
"Crédit Foncier,
"Rue Capucines,
"Paris.
"Am owner number 514, series 23; oppose by every legal method payment to any other person.
"Gerbois."
At almost the same time, the Crédit Foncier received another telegram:
"Number 514, series 23, is in my possession.
"Arsène Lupin."
Whenever I sit down to tell one of the numberless adventures which compose the life of Arsène Lupin, I feel a genuine embarrassment, because it is quite clear to me that even the least important of these adventures is known to every one of my readers. As a matter of fact, there is not a move on the part of "our national thief," as he has been happily called, but has been described all over the country, not an exploit but has been studied from every point of view, not an action but has been commented upon with an abundance of detail generally reserved for stories of heroic deeds.
Who, for instance, does not know that strange case of the blonde lady, with the curious episodes which were reported under flaring headlines as "NUMBER 514, SERIES 23!" … "THE MURDER IN THE AVENUE HENRI-MARTIN!" … and "THE BLUE DIAMOND!" … What an excitement there was about the intervention of Holmlock Shears, the famous English detective! What an effervescence surrounded the varying fortunes that marked the struggle between those two great artists! And what a din along the boulevards on the day when the newsboys shouted:
"Arrest of Arsène Lupin!"
My excuse is that I can supply something new: I can furnish the key to the puzzle. There is always a certain mystery about these adventures: I can dispel it. I reprint articles that have been read over and over again; I copy out old interviews: but all these things I rearrange and classify and put to the exact test of truth. My collaborator in this work is Arsène Lupin himself, whose kindness to me is inexhaustible. I am also under an occasional obligation to the unspeakable Wilson, the friend and confidant of Holmlock Shears.
My readers will remember the Homeric laughter that greeted the publication of the two telegrams. The name of Arsène Lupin alone was a guarantee of originality, a promise of amusement for the gallery. And the gallery, in this case, was the whole world.
An inquiry was immediately set on foot by the Crédit Foncier and it was ascertained that number 514, series 23, had been sold by the Versailles branch of the Crédit Lyonnais to Major Bressy of the artillery. Now the major had died of a fall from his horse; and it appeared that he told his brother officers, some time before his death, that he had been obliged to part with his ticket to a friend.
"That friend was myself," declared M. Gerbois.
"Prove it," objected the governor of the Crédit Foncier.
"Prove it? That's quite easy. Twenty people will tell you that I kept up constant relations with the major and that we used to meet at the café on the Place d'Armes. It was there that, one day, to oblige him in a moment of financial embarrassment, I took his ticket off him and gave him twenty francs for it."
"Have you any witnesses to the transaction?"
"No."
"Then upon what do you base your claim?"
"Upon the letter which he wrote me on the subject."
"What letter?"
"A letter pinned to the ticket."
"Produce it."
"But it was in the stolen writing-desk!"
"Find it."
The letter was communicated to the press by Arsène Lupin. A paragraph inserted in the Écho de France—which has the honour of being his official organ and in which he seems to be one of the principal shareholders—announced that he was placing in the hands of Maître Detinan, his counsel, the letter which Major Bressy had written to him, Lupin, personally.
There was a burst of delight: Arsène Lupin was represented by counsel! Arsène Lupin, respecting established customs, had appointed a member of the bar to act for him!
The reporters rushed to interview Maître Detinan, an influential radical deputy, a man endowed with the highest integrity and a mind of uncommon shrewdness, which was, at the same time, somewhat skeptical and given to paradox.
Maître Detinan was exceedingly sorry to say that he had never had the pleasure of meeting Arsène Lupin, but he had, in point of fact, received his instructions, was greatly flattered at being selected, keenly alive to the honour shown him and determined to defend his client's rights to the utmost. He opened his brief and without hesitation showed the major's letter. It proved the sale of the ticket, but did not mention the purchaser's name. It began, "My dear friend," simply.
"'My dear friend' means me," added Arsène Lupin, in a note enclosing the major's letter. "And the best proof is that I have the letter."
The bevy of reporters at once flew off to M. Gerbois, who could do nothing but repeat:
"'My dear friend' is no one but myself. Arsène Lupin stole the major's letter with the lottery-ticket."
"Tell him to prove it," was Lupin's rejoinder to the journalists.
"But he stole the desk!" exclaimed M. Gerbois in front of the same journalists.
"Tell him to prove it!" retorted Lupin once again.
And a delightful entertainment was provided for the public by this duel between the two owners of number 514, series 23, by the constant coming and