The Arsene Lupin MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан

      “Yes, that the Varin brothers had something to do with his disappearance.”

      “Is that your opinion?”

      “Yes.”

      “On what do you base your opinion?”

      “When he left our house, Louis Lacombe carried a satchel containing all the papers relating to his invention. Two days later, my husband, in a conversation with one of the Varin brothers, learned that the papers were in their possession.”

      “And he did not denounce them?”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “Because there was something else in the satchel—something besides the papers of Louis Lacombe.”

      “What was it?”

      She hesitated; was on the point of speaking, but, finally, remained silent. Daspry continued:

      “I presume that is why your husband has kept a close watch over their movements instead of informing the police. He hoped to recover the papers and, at the same time, that compromising article which has enabled the two brothers to hold over him threats of exposure and blackmail.”

      “Over him, and over me.”

      “Ah! over you, also?”

      “Over me, in particular.”

      She uttered the last words in a hollow voice. Daspry observed it; he paced to and fro for a moment, then, turning to her, asked:

      “Had you written to Louis Lacombe?”

      “Of course. My husband had business with him—”

      “Apart from those business letters, had you written to Louis Lacombe…other letters? Excuse my insistence, but it is absolutely necessary that I should know the truth. Did you write other letters?”

      “Yes,” she replied, blushing.

      “And those letters came into the possession of the Varin brothers?”

      “Yes.”

      “Does Mon. Andermatt know it?”

      “He has not seen them, but Alfred Varin has told him of their existence and threatened to publish them if my husband should take any steps against him. My husband was afraid…of a scandal.”

      “But he has tried to recover the letters?”

      “I think so; but I do not know. You see, after that last interview with Alfred Varin, and after some harsh words between me and my husband in which he called me to account—we live as strangers.”

      “In that case, as you have nothing to lose, what do you fear?”

      “I may be indifferent to him now, but I am the woman that he has loved, the one he would still love—oh! I am quite sure of that,” she murmured, in a fervent voice, “he would still love me if he had not got hold of those cursed letters—”

      “What! Did he succeed?… But the two brothers still defied him?”

      “Yes, and they boasted of having a secure hiding-place.”

      “Well?”

      “I believe my husband discovered that hiding-place.”

      “Well?”

      “I believe my husband has discovered that hiding-place.”

      “Ah! where was it?”

      “Here.”

      “Here!” I cried in alarm.

      “Yes. I always had that suspicion. Louis Lacombe was very ingenious and amused himself in his leisure hours, by making safes and locks. No doubt, the Varin brothers were aware of that fact and utilized one of Lacombe’s safes in which to conceal the letters…and other things, perhaps.”

      “But they did not live here,” I said.

      “Before you came, four months ago, the house had been vacant for some time. And they may have thought that your presence here would not interfere with them when they wanted to get the papers. But they did not count on my husband, who came here on the night of 22 June, forced the safe, took what he was seeking, and left his card to inform the two brothers that he feared them no more, and that their positions were now reversed. Two days later, after reading the article in the `Gil Blas,’ Etienne Varin came here, remained alone in this room, found the safe empty, and…killed himself.”

      After a moment, Daspry said:

      “A very simple theory.… Has Mon. Andermatt spoken to you since then?”

      “No.”

      “Has his attitude toward you changed in any way? Does he appear more gloomy, more anxious?”

      “No, I haven’t noticed any change.”

      “And yet you think he has secured the letters. Now, in my opinion, he has not got those letters, and it was not he who came here on the night of 22 June.”

      “Who was it, then?”

      “The mysterious individual who is managing this affair, who holds all the threads in his hands, and whose invisible but far-reaching power we have felt from the beginning. It was he and his friends who entered this house on 22 June; it was he who discovered the hiding-place of the papers; it was he who left Mon. Andermatt’s card; it is he who now holds the correspondence and the evidence of the treachery of the Varin brothers.”

      “Who is he?” I asked, impatiently.

      “The man who writes letters to the `Echo de France’…Salvator! Have we not convincing evidence of that fact? Does he not mention in his letters certain details that no one could know, except the man who had thus discovered the secrets of the two brothers?”

      “Well, then,” stammered Madame Andermatt, in great alarm, “he has my letters also, and it is he who now threatens my husband. Mon Dieu! What am I to do?”

      “Write to him,” declared Daspry. “Confide in him without reserve. Tell him all you know and all you may hereafter learn. Your interest and his interest are the same. He is not working against Mon. Andermatt, but against Alfred Varin. Help him.”

      “How?”

      “Has your husband the document that completes the plans of Louis Lacombe?”

      “Yes.”

      “Tell that to Salvator, and, if possible, procure the document for him. Write to him at once. You risk nothing.”

      The advice was bold, dangerous even at first sight, but Madame Andermatt had no choice. Besides, as Daspry had said, she ran no risk. If the unknown writer were an enemy, that step would not aggravate the situation. If he were a stranger seeking to accomplish a particular purpose, he would attach to those letters only a secondary importance. Whatever might happen, it was the only solution offered to her, and she, in her anxiety, was only too glad to act on it. She thanked us effusively, and promised to keep us informed.

      In fact, two days later, she sent us the following letter that she had received from Salvator:

      “Have not found the letters, but I will get them. Rest easy. I am watching everything. S.”

      I looked at the letter. It was in the same handwriting as the note I found in my book on the night of 22 June.

      Daspry was right. Salvator was, indeed, the originator of that affair.

      We were beginning to see a little light coming out of the darkness that surrounded us, and an unexpected light was thrown on certain points; but other points yet remained obscure—for instance, the finding of the two seven-of-hearts. Perhaps I was unnecessarily concerned about those two cards whose seven punctured spots had appeared to me under such startling circumstances! Yet I could not refrain from asking myself: