Arsene Lupin. Морис Леблан

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 at the time," said Sonia; "the telephone doesn't work as late as this. It's Sunday."

      The millionaire stopped dead.

      "It's true. It's appalling," he groaned.

      "But that doesn't matter. You can always telegraph," said Germaine.

      "But you can't. It's impossible," said Sonia. "You can't get a message through. It's Sunday; and the telegraph offices shut at twelve o'clock."

      "Oh, what a Government!" groaned the millionaire. And he sank down gently on a chair beside the telephone, and mopped the beads of anguish from his brow. They looked at him, and they looked at one another, cudgelling their brains for yet another way of communicating with the Paris police.

      "Hang it all!" said the Duke. "There must be some way out of the difficulty."

      "What way?" said the millionaire.

      The Duke did not answer. He put his hands in his pockets and walked impatiently up and down the hall. Germaine sat down on a chair. Sonia put her hands on the back of a couch, and leaned forward, watching him. Firmin stood by the door, whither he had retired to be out of the reach of his excited master, with a look of perplexity on his stolid face. They all watched the Duke with the air of people waiting for an oracle to deliver its message. The millionaire kept mopping the beads of anguish from his brow. The more he thought of his impending loss, the more freely he perspired. Germaine's maid, Irma, came to the door leading into the outer hall, which Firmin, according to his usual custom, had left open, and peered in wonder at the silent group.

      "I have it!" cried the Duke at last. "There is a way out."

      "What is it?" said the millionaire, rising and coming to the middle of the hall.

      "What time is it?" said the Duke, pulling out his watch.

      The millionaire pulled out his watch. Germaine pulled out hers. Firmin, after a struggle, produced from some pocket difficult of access an object not unlike a silver turnip. There was a brisk dispute between Germaine and the millionaire about which of their watches was right. Firmin, whose watch apparently did not agree with the watch of either of them, made his deep voice heard above theirs. The Duke came to the conclusion that it must be a few minutes past seven.

      "It's seven or a few minutes past," he said sharply. "Well, I'm going to take a car and hurry off to Paris. I ought to get there, bar accidents, between two and three in the morning, just in time to inform the police and catch the burglars in the very midst of their burglary. I'll just get a few things together."

      So saying, he rushed out of the hall.

      "Excellent! excellent!" said the millionaire. "Your young man is a man of resource, Germaine. It seems almost a pity that he's a duke. He'd do wonders in the building trade. But I'm going to Paris too, and you're coming with me. I couldn't wait idly here, to save my life. And I can't leave you here, either. This scoundrel may be going to make a simultaneous attempt on the chateau—not that there's much here that I really value. There's that statuette that moved, and the pane cut out of the window. I can't leave you two girls with burglars in the house. After all, there's the sixty horse-power and the thirty horse-power car—there'll be lots of room for all of us."

      "Oh, but it's nonsense, papa; we shall get there before the servants," said Germaine pettishly. "Think of arriving at an empty house in the dead of night."

      "Nonsense!" said the millionaire. "Hurry off and get ready. Your bag ought to be packed. Where are my keys? Sonia, where are my keys—the keys of the Paris house?"

      "They're in the bureau," said Sonia.

      "Well, see that I don't go without them. Now hurry up. Firmin, go and tell Jean that we shall want both cars. I will drive one, the Duke the other. Jean must stay with you and help guard the chateau."

      So saying he bustled out of the hall, driving the two girls before him.

      Chapter 6 AGAIN THE CHAROLAIS

      Hardly had the door closed behind the millionaire when the head of M. Charolais appeared at one of the windows opening on to the terrace. He looked round the empty hall, whistled softly, and stepped inside. Inside of ten seconds his three sons came in through the windows, and with them came Jean, the millionaire's chauffeur.

      "Take the door into the outer hall, Jean," said M. Charolais, in a low voice. "Bernard, take that door into the drawing-room. Pierre and Louis, help me go through the drawers. The whole family is going to Paris, and if we're not quick we shan't get the cars."

      "That comes of this silly fondness for warning people of a coup," growled Jean, as he hurried to the door of the outer hall. "It would have been so simple to rob the Paris house without sending that infernal letter. It was sure to knock them all silly."

      "What harm can the letter do, you fool?" said M. Charolais. "It's Sunday. We want them knocked silly for to-morrow, to get hold of the coronet. Oh, to get hold of that coronet! It must be in Paris. I've been ransacking this chateau for hours."

      Jean opened the door of the outer hall half an inch, and glued his eyes to it. Bernard had done the same with the door opening into the drawing-room. M. Charolais, Pierre, and Louis were opening drawers, ransacking them, and shutting them with infinite quickness and noiselessly.

      "Bureau! Which is the bureau? The place is stuffed with bureaux!" growled M. Charolais. "I must have those keys."

      "That plain thing with the brass handles in the middle on the left— that's a bureau," said Bernard softly.

      "Why didn't you say so?" growled M. Charolais.

      He dashed to it, and tried it. It was locked.

      "Locked, of course! Just my luck! Come and get it open, Pierre. Be smart!"

      The son he had described as an engineer came quickly to the bureau, fitting together as he came the two halves of a small jemmy. He fitted it into the top of the flap. There was a crunch, and the old lock gave. He opened the flap, and he and M. Charolais pulled open drawer after drawer.

      "Quick! Here's that fat old fool!" said Jean, in a hoarse, hissing whisper.

      He moved down the hall, blowing out one of the lamps as he passed it. In the seventh drawer lay a bunch of keys. M. Charolais snatched it up, glanced at it, took a bunch of keys from his own pocket, put it in the drawer, closed it, closed the flap, and rushed to the window. Jean and his sons were already out on the