The Blonde Lady. Морис Леблан

walked up the front garden. The professor said:

      "Let's go and look at it before lunch."

      "Yes, that's a good idea."

      She went up the stairs first, but, on reaching the door of her room, she gave a cry of dismay.

      "What's the matter?" exclaimed M. Gerbois.

      He followed her into the room. The writing-desk was gone.

      What astonished the police was the wonderful simplicity of the means employed. While Suzanne was out and the maid making her purchases for the day, a ticket-porter, wearing his badge, had stopped his cart before the garden, in sight of the neighbours, and rung the bell twice. The neighbours, not knowing that the servant had left the house, suspected nothing, so that the man was able to effect his object absolutely undisturbed.

      This fact must be noted: not a cupboard had been broken open, not so much as a clock displaced. Even Suzanne's purse, which she had left on the marble slab of the desk, was found on the adjacent table, with the gold which it contained. The object of the theft was clearly determined, therefore, and this made it the more difficult to understand; for, after all, why should a man run so great a risk to secure so trivial a spoil?

      The only clue which the professor could supply was the incident of the day before:

      "From the first, that young man displayed a keen annoyance at my refusal; and I have a positive impression that he left me under a threat."

      It was all very vague. The dealer was questioned. He knew neither of the two gentlemen. As for the desk, he had bought it for forty francs at Chevreuse, at the sale of a person deceased, and he considered that he had re-sold it at a fair price. A persistent inquiry revealed nothing further.

      But M. Gerbois remained convinced that he had suffered an enormous loss. A fortune must have been concealed in some secret drawer and that was why the young man, knowing of the hiding-place, had acted with such decision.

      "Poor father! What should we have done with the fortune?" Suzanne kept saying.

      "What! Why, with that for your dowry, you could have made the finest match going!"

      Suzanne aimed at no one higher than her cousin Philippe, who had not a penny to bless himself with, and she gave a bitter sigh. And life in the little house at Versailles went on gaily, less carelessly than before, shadowed over as it now was with regret and disappointment.

      Two months elapsed. And suddenly, one after the other, came a sequence of the most serious events, forming a surprising run of alternate luck and misfortune.

      On the 1st of February, at half-past five, M. Gerbois, who had just come home, with an evening paper in his hand, sat down, put on his spectacles and began to read. The political news was uninteresting. He turned the page and a paragraph at once caught his eye, headed:

      "THIRD DRAWING OF THE PRESS-ASSOCIATION LOTTERY"

      "First prize, 1,000,000 francs: No. 514, Series 23."

      The paper dropped from his hands. The walls swam before his eyes and his heart stopped beating. Number 514, series 23, was the number of his ticket! He had bought it by accident, to oblige one of his friends, for he did not believe in luck; and now he had won!

      He took out his memorandum-book, quick! He was quite right: number 514, series 23, was jotted down on the fly-leaf. But where was the ticket?

      He flew to his study to fetch the box of stationery in which he had put the precious ticket away; and he stopped short as he entered and staggered back, with a pain at his heart: the box was not there and—what an awful thing!—he suddenly realized that the box had not been there for weeks.

      "Suzanne! Suzanne!"

      She had just come in and ran up the stairs hurriedly. He stammered, in a choking voice:

      "Suzanne … the box … the box of stationery. … "

      "Which one?"

      "The one I bought at Louvre … 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