The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsene Lupin, Gentleman-Burglar. Морис Леблан

      “I do not care.”

      “In that case … but, after all, what do we know about this devil Lupin! He may have quite a numerous band of robbers with him. Are you sure of your servants?”

      “My faith—”

      “Better not count on them. I will telegraph for two of my men to help me. And now, go! It is better for us not to be seen together. Tomorrow evening about nine o’clock.”

      The following day—the date fixed by Arsène Lupin—Baron Cahorn arranged all his panoply of war, furbished his weapons, and, like a sentinel, paced to and fro in front of the castle. He saw nothing, heard nothing. At half-past eight o’clock in the evening, he dismissed his servants. They occupied rooms in a wing of the building, in a retired spot, well removed from the main portion of the castle. Shortly thereafter, the baron heard the sound of approaching footsteps. It was Ganimard and his two assistants—great, powerful fellows with immense hands, and necks like bulls. After asking a few questions relating to the location of the various entrances and rooms, Ganimard carefully closed and barricaded all the doors and windows through which one could gain access to the threatened rooms. He inspected the walls, raised the tapestries, and finally installed his assistants in the central gallery which was located between the two salons.

      “No nonsense! We are not here to sleep. At the slightest sound, open the windows of the court and call me. Pay attention also to the water-side. Ten metres of perpendicular rock is no obstacle to those devils.”

      Ganimard locked his assistants in the gallery, carried away the keys, and said to the baron:

      “And now, to our post.”

      He had chosen for himself a small room located in the thick outer wall, between the two principal doors, and which, in former years, had been the watchman’s quarters. A peep-hole opened upon the bridge; another on the court. In one corner, there was an opening to a tunnel.

      “I believe you told me, Monsieur le Baron, that this tunnel is the only subterranean entrance to the castle and that it has been closed up for time immemorial?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then, unless there is some other entrance, known only to Arsène Lupin, we are quite safe.”

      He placed three chairs together, stretched himself upon them, lighted his pipe and sighed:

      “Really, Monsieur le Baron, I feel ashamed to accept your money for such a sinecure as this. I will tell the story to my friend Lupin. He will enjoy it immensely.”

      The baron did not laugh. He was anxiously listening, but heard nothing save the beating of his own heart. From time to time, he leaned over the tunnel and cast a fearful eye into its depths. He heard the clock strike eleven, twelve, one.

      Suddenly, he seized Ganimard’s arm. The latter leaped up, awakened from his sleep.

      “Do you hear?” asked the baron, in a whisper.

      “Yes.”

      “What is it?”

      “I was snoring, I suppose.”

      “No, no, listen.”

      “Ah! yes, it is the horn of an automobile.”

      “Well?”

      “Well! it is very improbable that Lupin would use an automobile like a battering-ram to demolish your castle. Come, Monsieur le Baron, return to your post. I am going to sleep. Good-night.”

      That was the only alarm. Ganimard resumed his interrupted slumbers, and the baron heard nothing except the regular snoring of his companion. At break of day, they left the room. The castle was enveloped in a profound calm; it was a peaceful dawn on the bosom of a tranquil river. They mounted the stairs, Cahorn radiant with joy, Ganimard calm as usual. They heard no sound; they saw nothing to arouse suspicion.

      “What did I tell you, Monsieur le Baron? Really, I should not have accepted your offer. I am ashamed.”

      He unlocked the door and entered the gallery. Upon two chairs, with drooping heads and pendent arms, the detective’s two assistants were asleep.

      “Tonnerre de nom d’un chien!” exclaimed Ganimard. At the same moment, the baron cried out:

      “The pictures! The credence!”

      He stammered, choked, with arms outstretched toward the empty places, toward the denuded walls where naught remained but the useless nails and cords. The Watteau, disappeared! The Rubens, carried away! The tapestries taken down! The cabinets, despoiled of their jewels!

      “And my Louis XVI candelabra! And the Regent chandelier! … And my twelfth-century Virgin!”

      He ran from one spot to another in wildest despair. He recalled the purchase price of each article, added up the figures, counted his losses, pell-mell, in confused words and unfinished phrases. He stamped with rage; he groaned with grief. He acted like a ruined man whose only hope is suicide.

      If anything could have consoled him, it would have been the stupefaction displayed by Ganimard. The famous detective did not move. He appeared to be petrified; he examined the room in a listless manner. The windows? … closed. The locks on the doors? … intact. Not a break in the ceiling; not a hole in the floor. Everything was in perfect order. The theft had been carried out methodically, according to a logical and inexorable plan.

      “Arsène Lupin. … Arsène Lupin,” he muttered.

      Suddenly, as if moved by anger, he rushed upon his two assistants and shook them violently. They did not awaken.

      “The devil!” he cried. “Can it be possible?”

      He leaned over them and, in turn, examined them closely. They were asleep; but their response was unnatural.

      “They have been drugged,” he said to the baron.

      “By whom?”

      “By him, of course, or his men under his discretion. That work bears his stamp.”

      “In that case, I am lost—nothing can be done.”

      “Nothing,” assented Ganimard.

      “It is dreadful; it is monstrous.”

      “Lodge a complaint.”

      “What good will that do?”

      “Oh; it is well to try it. The law has some resources.”

      “The law! Bah! it is useless. You represent the law, and, at this moment, when you should be looking for a clue and trying to discover something, you do not even stir.”

      “Discover something with Arsène Lupin! Why, my dear monsieur, Arsène Lupin never leaves any clue behind him. He leaves nothing to chance. Sometimes I think he put himself in my way and simply allowed me to arrest him in America.”

      “Then, I must renounce my pictures! He has taken the gems of my collection. I would give a fortune to recover them. If there is no other way, let him name his own price.”

      Ganimard regarded the baron attentively, as he said:

      “Now, that is sensible. Will you stick to it?”

      “Yes, yes. But why?”

      “An idea that I have.”

      “What is it?”

      “We will discuss it later—if the official examination does not succeed. But, not one word about me, if you wish my assistance.”

      He added, between his teeth:

      “It is true I have nothing to boast of in this affair.”

      The assistants were gradually regaining consciousness with the bewildered air of people who come out of an hypnotic sleep. They opened their eyes and looked about