Arsene Lupin. Морис Леблан

I. I wish to have for son-in-law a duke who wears the Order of the Legion of Honour, and belongs to the Academic 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