The Crystal Stopper. Leblanc Maurice

palpable. He recognized by its shape, by its size, by the worn gilding of its facets, recognized beyond any possible doubt the crystal stopper which he had seen before. He even remarked a tiny, hardly noticeable little scratch on the stem which he remembered perfectly.

      However, while the thing presented all the same characteristics, it possessed no other that seemed out of the way. It was a crystal stopper, that was all. There was no really special mark to distinguish it from other stoppers. There was no sign upon it, no stamp; and, being cut from a single piece, it contained no foreign object.

      “What then?”

      And Lupin received a quick insight into the depth of his mistake. What good could the possession of that crystal stopper do him so long as he was ignorant of its value? That bit of glass had no existence in itself; it counted only through the meaning that attached to it. Before taking it, the thing was to be certain. And how could he tell that, in taking it, in robbing Daubrecq of it, he was not committing an act of folly?

      It was a question which was impossible of solution, but which forced itself upon him with singular directness.

      “No blunders!” he said to himself, as he pocketed the stopper. “In this confounded business, blunders are fatal.”

      He had not taken his eyes off Victoire. Accompanied by a shopman, she went from counter to counter, among the throng of customers. She next stood for some little while at the pay-desk and passed in front of Lupin.

      He whispered her instructions:

      “Meet me behind the Lycee Janson.”

      She joined him in an unfrequented street:

      “And suppose I’m followed?” she said.

      “No,” he declared. “I looked carefully. Listen to me. Where did you find the stopper?”

      “In the drawer of the table by his bed.”

      “But we had felt there already.”

      “Yes; and I did so again this morning. I expect he put it there last night.”

      “And I expect he’ll want to take it from there again,” said Lupin.

      “Very likely.”

      “And suppose he finds it gone?”

      Victoire looked frightened.

      “Answer me,” said Lupin. “If he finds it gone, he’ll accuse you of taking it, won’t he?”

      “Certainly.”

      “Then go and put it back, as fast as you can.”

      “Oh dear, oh dear!” she moaned. “I hope he won’t have had time to find out. Give it to me, quick.”

      “Here you are,” said Lupin.

      He felt in the pocket of his overcoat.

      “Well?” said Victoire, holding out her hand.

      “Well,” he said, after a moment, “it’s gone.”

      “What!”

      “Yes, upon my word, it’s gone… somebody’s taken it from me.”

      He burst into a peal of laughter, a laughter which, this time, was free from all bitterness.

      Victoire flew out at him:

      “Laugh away!… Putting me in such a predicament!…”

      “How can I help laughing? You must confess that it’s funny. It’s no longer a tragedy that we’re acting, but a fairy-tale, as much a fairy-tale as Puss in Boots or Jack and the Beanstalk. I must write it when I get a few weeks to myself: The Magic Stopper; or, The Mishaps of Poor Arsene.”

      “Well… who has taken it from you?”

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      See 813, by Maurice Leblanc, translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos.