have often
been asked this question:
CHAPTER
6: THE SEVEN OF HEARTS
have often
been asked this question:
"How did you come to know Arsène Lupin?"
No one doubts that I know him. The details which I am able to heap up concerning his bewildering personality, the undeniable facts which I set forth, the fresh proofs which I supply, the interpretation which I provide of certain acts of which others have seen only the outward manifestations, without following their secret reasons or their invisible mechanism: all this points, if not to an intimacy, which Lupin's very existence would render impossible, at least to friendly relations and an uninterrupted confidence.
But how did I come to know him? Why was I favored to the extent of becoming his biographer? Why I rather than another?
The answer presents no difficulty: accident alone determined a selection in which my personal merit goes for nothing. It was accident that threw me across his path. It was by accident that I was mixed up in one of his most curious and mysterious adventures; by accident, lastly, that I became an actor in a drama of which he was the wonderful stage-manager, an obscure and complicated drama bristling with such extraordinary catastrophes that I feel a certain perplexity as I sit down to describe them.
The first act passes in the course of that famous night of the twenty- second of June which has been so much discussed. And I may as well at once confess that I attribute my somewhat abnormal conduct on that occasion to the very peculiar condition of mind in which I found myself when I returned home. I had been dining with friends at the Restaurant de la Cascade, and throughout the evening, while we sat smoking and listening to the Bohemian band and their melancholy waltzes, we had talked of nothing but crimes, robberies, lurid and terrifying adventures. This is always a bad preparation for sleep.
The Saint-Martins had driven away in their motor-car. Jean Daspry -- the charming, reckless Daspry, who was to meet his death, six months later, in so tragic a fashion, on the Morocco frontier -- Jean Daspry and I walked back in the dark, hot night. When we reached the little house at Neuilly, on the Boulevard Maillot, where I had been living for the past twelve months, he said:
"Do you never feel frightened?"
"What an idea!"
"Well, this little house of yours is very lonely: no neighbors . . . surrounded by waste land . . . I'm no coward, as you know. And yet . . ."
"By Jove, you're in a cheerful mood to-night!"
"Oh, I said that as I might have said anything else. The Saint-Martins have impressed me with their stories about burglars and highwaymen."
We shook hands, and he walked away. I took out my key, and opened the door.
"That's pleasant!" I muttered. "Antoine has forgotten to leave a lighted candle for me."
And suddenly I remembered: Antoine was out; I had given him his night off.
I at once resented the darkness and the silence. I groped my way up- stairs to my room as quickly as I could, and, contrary to my custom, turned the key in the door, and shot the bolt.
The light of the candle restored my presence of mind. Nevertheless, I was careful to take my revolver -- a big, long-range revolver -- from its case, and laid it beside my bed. This precaution completed my composure. I went to bed, and, as usual, took up the book that lay on my night-table to read myself to sleep.
A great surprise awaited me. In the place of the paper-cutter with which I had marked my page the night before I now found an envelope sealed with five red seals. I seized it eagerly. It was addressed in my name, accompanied by the word "Urgent."
A letter! A letter addressed to me! Who could have put it there? Somewhat nervously I tore open the envelope, and read:
"From the moment when you open this letter, whatever happens, whatever you may hear, do not stir, do not make a movement, do not utter a sound. If you do, you are lost."
Now I am not a coward, and I know as well as another how a man should bear himself in the presence of real danger or smile at the fanciful perils that alarm our imagination. But, I repeat, I was in an abnormal and easily impressionable frame of mind; my nerves were on edge. Besides, was there not something perturbing in all this, something inexplicable -- enough to trouble the most undaunted soul?
My fingers feverishly pressed the sheet of notepaper, and my eyes incessantly read and reread the threatening words:
"Do not make a movement, do not utter a sound. If you do, you are lost."
"Nonsense!" I thought. "It's a joke, a silly trick!"
I was on the point of laughing, I even tried to laugh aloud. What was it that prevented me? What vague fear compressed my throat?
At least, I would blow out the candle. No, I could not blow it out.
"Not a movement, or you are lost," said the letter.
But why struggle against this kind of auto-suggestion, which is often more urgent than the most precise facts? There was nothing to do but to close my eyes. I closed my eyes.
At that moment a light sound passed through the silence, followed by a creaking noise. It seemed to me to come from a large adjoining room which I had fitted up as a study, and from which I was separated only by the passage.
The approach of real danger excited me, and I felt that I was going to jump up, seize my revolver, and rush into the other room. I did not jump up. One of the curtains of the window on my left had moved before my eyes.
There was no doubt possible; it had moved. It was still moving! And I saw -- oh, I distinctly saw! -- that in that narrow space between the curtains and the window there stood a human form, the thickness of which prevented the material from hanging down straight.
And the being saw me, too; it was certain that he could see me through the wide meshes of the stuff. Then I understood all. While the others were carrying off their booty, his mission consisted in terrorizing me. Jump out of bed? Seize a revolver? It was impossible . . . he was there! At the least movement, at the least sound, I was lost.
A violent blow shook the house, followed by smaller blows, in twos and threes, like those of a hammer driving in tacks and rebounding -- or, at least, that was what I imagined in the confusion of my brain; and other noises followed, a regular din of different noises, which proved that my visitors were doing as they pleased and acting in all security.
They were right: I did not budge. Was it cowardice on my part? No, it was annihilation rather, a complete incapacity to move a single muscle. Prudence also; for, after all, why struggle? Behind that man were ten others, who would come at his call. Was it worth while to risk my life to save a few hangings and knick-knacks?
And this torture lasted all night long: an intolerable torture, a terrible agony! The noise had stopped, but I never ceased waiting for it to begin again! And the man, the man who stood there watching me, weapon in hand! My terrified gaze never left him. And my heart beat, and the perspiration streamed from my forehead and my whole body!
Suddenly I was pervaded by an unspeakable sense of relief: a milk- cart, of which I knew the clatter well, passed along the boulevard; and at the same time, I received the impression that the dawn was filtering through the drawn blinds, and that a glimmer of daylight from the outside was mingling with the darkness within.
And the light entered my room. And other vehicles passed. And all the phantoms of the night vanished.
Then I put one arm out of bed slowly and stealthily. Opposite me nothing stirred. With my eyes I noted the fold in the curtain, the exact spot at which to take aim. I made a precise calculation of the movements which I should have to make. I grasped the revolver -- and I fired.
I sprang out of bed with a shout of deliverance, and leaped at the curtain. There was a hole through the material, and a hole in the pane behind it. As for the man, I had missed him . . . for the very good reason that there was nobody there.
Nobody! And so all night long I had been hypnotized by a fold in a curtain! And during that time, criminals had . . . . Furiously, with an impulse which nothing could have stopped, I turned the key in the lock, opened my door, crossed the passage, opened another door, and rushed into the room.
But a feeling of stupefaction rooted me to the threshold, panting, dumfounded, even more astonished than I had been by the absence of the man: nothing had disappeared! All the things which I had expected to find gone -- furniture, pictures, old silks, and velvets -- all these things were in their places!
It was an incomprehensible sight. I could not believe my eyes. And yet that din, those noises of moving furniture. . . . I went all round the room, inspected the walls, took an inventory of all the objects which I knew so well. There was not a thing missing! And what disconcerted me most of all was that nothing either revealed the passing of the evil-doers -- not a sign, not a chair out of place, not a footmark.
"Come, come," I said, clasping my head with my two hands, "after all, I'm not a madman! I heard what I heard! . . ."
I examined the room inch by inch, employing the most minute methods of investigation; it was to no purpose. Or, rather . . . but could I consider that a discovery? Under a small Persian rug, flung down on the floor, I picked up a card -- a playing-card. It was a seven of hearts, similar to the seven of hearts in any French pack of cards; but it attracted my attention because of a rather curious detail. The extreme lower end of each of the seven red, heart-shaped pips was pierced with a hole, the round and regular hole made by the point of an awl.
That, and no more. A card, and a letter found in a book! Beyond that, nothing. Was this enough to avouch that I had not been the sport of a dream?
I pursued my investigations throughout the day. It was a large-sized room, out of all proportion with the general smallness of the house, and its decoration bore witness to the eccentric taste of the man who had conceived it. The floor was made of a mosaic of tiny, parti- coloured stones, forming large symmetrical designs. The walls were covered with a similar mosaic, arranged in panels representing Pompeiian allegories, Byzantine compositions, mediaeval frescoes: a Bacchus sat astride a barrel; an emperor with a golden crown and a flowing beard held a sword uplifted in his right hand.
High up in the wall was a huge solitary window, something like the window of a studio. It was always left open at night, and the probability was that the men had entered by it with the aid of a ladder. But here again there was no certainty. The posts of the ladder would necessarily have left marks on the trodden ground of the yard: there were no such marks. The grass of the waste land surrounding the house would have been freshly trampled: it was not.
I confess that the idea of applying to the police never entered my head, so inconsistent and absurd were the facts which I should have had to lay before them. They would have laughed at me. But the next day but one was the day for my column in the Gil Blas, for which I was then writing. Obsessed as I was by my adventure, I described it at full length.
My article attracted some little attention, but I could see that it was not taken seriously, and that it was looked upon as a fanciful rather than a true story. The Saint-Martins chaffed me about it. Daspry, however, who was something of an expert in these matters, came to see me, made me explain the whole case to him, and studied it . . . but with no more success than myself.
A few mornings later the bell at the front gate rang, and Antoine came to tell me that a gentleman wished to speak to me. He had refused to give his name. I asked him up.
He was a man of about forty, with a very dark complexion and strongly marked features; and his clothes, which, though greatly worn, were neat and clean, proclaimed a taste for fashion that contrasted with his manners, which were rather common.
Coming straight to the point, he said, in a grating voice, and in an accent that confirmed my opinion as to the man's social status:
"I have been out of town, sir, and I saw the Gil Blas at a cafe. I read your article. It interested me . . . immensely."
"I thank you."
"And I came back."
"Ah!"
"Yes, to see you. Are all the facts which you describe correct?"
"Absolutely correct."
"Is there not a single one invented by yourself?"
"Not a single one."
"In that case, I may have some information to give you."
"Pray speak."
"No."
"How do you mean?"
"Before saying any more, I must make sure that I am right."
"And to do that? . . ."
"I must remain alone in this room."
I looked at him in surprise.
"I don't quite see . . ."
"It's an idea that came to me on reading your article. Certain details establish a really remarkable coincidence between your adventure and another which was revealed to me by chance. If I am wrong, it would be better for me to keep silence. And the only way of finding out is for me to remain alone . . ."
What was there underlying this proposal? Later I remembered that, in making it, the man wore an uneasy air, an anxious look. But at the same time, although feeling a little astonished, I saw nothing particularly abnormal in his request. And, besides, his curiosity stimulated me.
I replied:
"Very well. How long do you want?"
"Oh, three minutes, that's all. I shall join you in three minutes from now."
I left the room and went down-stairs. I took out my watch. One minute passed. Two minutes . . . What gave me that sense of oppression? Why did those moments seem to me more solemn than any others? . . .
Two minutes and a half. . . . Two minutes and three-quarters. . . . And suddenly a shot resounded.
I rushed up the stairs in half a dozen strides, and entered the room. A cry of horror escaped me.
The man lay motionless, on his left side, in the middle of the floor. Blood trickled from his head, mingled with portions of brains. A smoking revolver lay close by his hand.
He gave a single convulsion, and that was all.
But there was something that struck me even more than this awful sight -- something that was the reason why I did not at once call out for help, nor fling myself on my knees to see if the man was still breathing: at two paces from him a seven of hearts lay on the floor!
I picked it up. The lower point of each of the seven pips was pierced with a hole. . . .
==============================================
Half an hour later the commissary of police of Neuilly arrived, followed, in a few moments, by the police surgeon, and by M. Dudouis, the head of the detective service. I was careful not the touch the corpse. There was nothing to interfere with their first observations.
These were brief, the more so as, at the beginning, the officers discovered nothing, or very little. There were no papers in the dead man's pockets, no name on his clothes, no initials on his linen; in short, there was no clew whatever to his identity.
And in the room itself the same order prevailed as before. The furniture had not been moved, the different objects were all in their old places. And yet the man had not come to see me with the sole intention of killing himself, or because he considered my house better suited than another for the purpose of committing suicide. There must have been some motive to drive him to this act of despair, and this motive must have resulted from some new fact ascertained by himself in the course of the three minutes which he had spent alone.
But what fact? What had he seen? What had he discovered? What frightful secret had he surprised?
At the last moment, however, an incident occurred which seemed to us of great importance. Two policemen were stooping to lift the corpse in order to carry it away on a stretcher when they perceived that the left hand, till then closed and shrunk, had become relaxed, and a crumpled visiting-card fell from it. The card bore the words:
What did this mean? Georges Andermatt was a big Paris banker, the founder and chairman of the Metal Exchange, which has done so much to forward the prospects of the metal trade in France. He lived in great style, kept a drag, motor-cars, a racing-stable. His parties were very much frequented, and Madame Andermatt was well known for her charm and her personal beauty.
"Could that be the man's name?" I murmured.
The head of the detective service bent over the corpse.
"No. Monsieur Andermatt is a pale-faced man, with hair just turning grey."
"But why that card?"
"Have you a telephone, sir?"
"Yes, it's in the hall. If you will come this way . . ."
He turned up the directory, and asked for number 415.21.
"Is Monsieur Andermatt in? . . . My name is Dudouis. . . . Please ask him to come with all speed to 102, Boulevard Maillot. It's urgent."
Twenty minutes later M. Andermatt stepped out of his car. He was told the reason why he had been sent for, and was then taken up-stairs to see the body.
He had a momentary emotion that contracted his features, and said, in an undertone, as though involuntarily:
"Etienne Varin."
"Do you know him?"
"No . . . or, at least, yes . . . but only by sight. His brother . . ."
"He has a brother?"
"Yes, Alfred Varin. . . . His brother used to come and ask me to assist him. . . . I have forgotten in what connection . . ."
"Where does he live?"
"The two brothers used to live together . . . in the Rue de Provence, I think."
"And have you no suspicion of the reason why he shot himself?"
"None at all."
"Still, he was holding your card in his hand . . . your card, with your name and address."
"I can't understand it. It's obviously a mere accident which the inquiry will explain."
It was, in any case, a very curious accident, I thought, and I felt that we all received the same impression.
I noticed this impression again in the papers of the next morning, and among all my friends with whom I discussed the circumstances. Amid the mysteries that complicated it, after the renewed and disconcerting discovery of that seven of hearts seven times pierced -- after the two incidents, each as puzzling as the other, of which my house had been the scene -- that visiting-card seemed at last to promise a glimpse of light. By its means they would arrive at the truth.
But, contrary to the general expectation, M. Andermatt furnished not a single clew.
"I have said all that I know," he repeated. "What can I do more? I was the first to be thunderstruck by the fact that my card was found where it was; and, like everybody else, I shall expect this point to be cleared up."
It was not cleared up. The inquiry established that the Varins were two brothers, of Swiss origin, who had led a very checkered life under different aliases, frequenting the gambling-houses and connected with a whole gang of foreigners whose movements had been watched, and who had dispersed after a series of burglaries in which their participation was not proved until later. At No. 24, Rue de Provence, where the brothers Varin had, in fact, lived six years before, no one knew what had become of them.
I confess that, for my part, the case seemed to me so intricate that I scarcely believed in the possibility of a solution, and I tried hard to banish it from my mind. But Jean Daspry, on the contrary -- and I saw a great deal of him at that time -- grew daily more enthusiastic about it. It was he that called my attention to the following paragraph from a foreign paper, which was reproduced and commented upon throughout the press of the country:
"A new submarine is to be tried shortly in the presence of the Emperor. It is claimed on behalf of this vessel that her class will revolutionize the conditions of naval warfare in the future. The place of the trial will be kept secret until the last moment; but the name of the submarine has leaked out, through an indiscretion in official circles: she is called the Seven of Hearts."
The Seven of Hearts! Was this a chance coincidence? Or did it establish a link between the name of the new submarine and the incidents of which we have spoken? But what sort of link? Surely, there could be no possible connection between what was happening here and in Germany?
"How do you know?" said Daspry. "The most incongruous effects often arise from one and the same cause."
Two days later another piece of news was reprinted from the German papers:
"It is now contended that the Seven of Hearts, the submarine whose trials are to take place forthwith, has been designed by French engineers. These engineers, after vainly seeking the support of their own government, are said to have applied next, and with no more success, to the British Admiralty. We need hardly say that we publish this statement with all reserve."
I do not wish to insist too much upon the facts of an extremely delicate character which provoked considerable excitement, as the reader will remember, in France. Nevertheless, since all danger of international complications is now removed, I must speak of an article in the Echo de France which made a great deal of noise at the time, and which threw a more or less vague light upon "The Seven of Hearts Affair," as it was called.
Here it is, as it appeared under the signature of "Salvator":
"THE SEVEN OF HEARTS AFFAIR: A CORNER OF THE VEIL RAISED
"We will be brief. Ten years ago Louis Lacombe, a young engineer in the mines, wishing to devote his time and money to the studies which he was pursuing, resigned his appointment, and hired a small house, at 102, Boulevard Maillot, which had recently been built and decorated by an Italian nobleman. Through the intermediary of two brothers called Varin, of Lausanne, one of whom assisted him as a preparator of his experiments, while the other went in search of financial bankers for his schemes, Lacombe entered into relations with M. Georges Andermatt, who had then just founded the Paris Metal Exchange.
"After a number of interviews he succeeded in interesting M. Andermatt in the plans of a submarine upon which he was engaged; and it was understood that, as soon as the invention had been definitely perfected, M. Andermatt would employ his influence to persuade the Minister of Marine to grant a series of trials.
"For two years Louis Lacombe was constantly visiting the Hotel Andermatt, and submitting his improvements to the banker, until the day came when, having lighted upon the final formula which he was seeking and being fully satisfied with his labors, he asked M. Andermatt to set to work on his side.
"On that day Louis Lacombe dined at the Andermatts'. He left the house at half-past eleven in the evening. Since then he has not been seen by mortal eyes.
"On reading the newspapers of the day we find that the young man's family called in the police, and that the public prosecutor took the matter up. But the inquiries led to nothing, and it was generally believed that Louis Lacombe, who was looked upon as an eccentric and whimsical young fellow, had gone abroad without acquainting any of his friends with his intentions.
"If we accept this somewhat improbable suggestion, one question remains, a question of supreme importance to the country: what became of the plans of the submarine? Did Louis Lacombe take them with him? Were they destroyed?
"We have caused the most serious investigations to be made, resulting in the conclusion that the plans are in existence. The brothers Varin have had them in their hands. How did they obtain possession of them? This we have not yet succeeded in establishing, any more than we know why they did not try to sell them sooner. They may have feared lest they should be asked whence they obtained them. In any case, this fear subsided in course of time, and we are in a position to state as a certainty that Louis Lacombe's plans are now the property of a foreign power, and, if necessary, to publish the letters exchanged in this connection between the representatives of that power and the brothers Varin. At the moment of writing the Seven of Hearts conceived by Louis Lacombe has been brought into actual existence by our neighbors.
"Will the reality answer to the optimistic expectations of the men implicated in this act of treason? We have reasons for hoping the contrary, and we should like to think that these reasons will be justified by the event.
And a postscript added:
"Our hopes were well grounded. Private information received at the moment of going to press enables us to state that the trials of the Seven of Hearts have not proved satisfactory. It is quite probable that the plans delivered by the Varins lacked the last document which Louis Lacombe brought to M. Andermatt, on the evening of his disappearance, a document which was essential to the complete understanding of the project -- a sort of summary of definite conclusions, valuations and measurements contained in the other papers. Without this document the plans remain imperfect, even as the document is useless without the plans.
"There is, therefore, still time to take action and to recover what belongs to us. In undertaking this very difficult task we rely greatly upon the assistance of M. Andermatt. He will be anxious to explain the apparently inexplicable conduct which he has maintained from the first. He will say not only why he did not tell what he knew at the time of Etienne Varin's suicide, but also why he never mentioned the disappearance of the papers with the existence of which he was acquainted. He will also say why, for the past six years, he has had the brothers Varin watched by detectives in his pay.
"We look to him for deeds, not words. If not . . ."
The article ended with this brutal implied threat. But what force did it possess? What means of intimidation could "Salvator," the anonymous writer of the article, hope to exercise over M. Andermatt?
A host of reporters swept down on the banker, and a dozen interviews described the scorn with which he rejected the insinuations which seemed to bring the matter home to him. Thereupon the correspondent of the Echo de France retorted with these three lines:
"M. Andermatt may like it or dislike it, but from to-day he is our collaborator in the work which we have undertaken."
On the day when this rejoinder appeared Daspry and I dined together. After dinner, with the newspapers spread out on my table before us, we discussed the case, and went into it from every point of view, with the irritation which a man would feel if he were walking indefinitely in the dark, and constantly stumbling over the same obstacles.
Suddenly -- for the bell had not rung -- the door opened, and a lady covered with a thick veil, entered unannounced.
I at once rose to meet her. She said:
"Are you the gentleman that lives here?"
"Yes, madame. But I am bound to say . . ."
"The gate on the boulevard was open," she explained.
"But the hall door? . . ."
She made no reply, and I reflected that she must have gone round by the tradesmen's entrance. Then she knew the way?
A rather embarrassing pause ensued. She looked at Daspry. I introduced him to her mechanically -- as I would have done in a drawing-room. Then I offered her a chair, and asked her to tell me the object of her visit.
She raised her veil, and I saw that she was dark, with regular features, and that, though not very pretty,she possessed an infinite charm, which came, above all, from her eyes -- her grave, sad eyes.
She said simply:
"I am Madame Andermatt."
"Madame Andermatt!" I repeated, more and more surprised.
There was a fresh pause. And she resumed, in a calm voice and an exceedingly quiet manner:
"I have come about that matter . . . which you know of. I thought that perhaps you might be able to give me some particulars . . ."
"Upon my word, Madame, I know no more about it than what has appeared in the papers. Please tell me precisely how I can be of use to you."
"I don't know . . . I don't know . . ."
It was only then that I received an intuition that her calmness was assumed, and that a great agitation lay hidden under this air of perfect security. And we were silent, both equally embarrassed.
But Daspry, who had never ceased watching her, came up to her, and said:
"Will you allow me to put a few questions to you, Madame?"
"Oh yes!" she cried. "I will speak if you do that."
"You will speak . . . whatever the questions may be?"
"Whatever they may be."
He reflected, and then asked:
"Did you know Louis Lacombe?"
"Yes, through my husband."
"When did you see him last?"
"On the evening when he dined with us."
"On that evening did nothing lead you to think that you would never see him again?"
"No. He said something about a journey to Russia, but it was a vague allusion."
"So you expected to see him soon?"
"Yes, the next day but one, at dinner."
"And how do you account for his disappearance?"
"I can't account for it."
"And Monsieur Andermatt?"
"I don't know."
"Still . . ."
"Don't ask me about that."
"The article in the Echo de France seems to suggest . . ."
"What it seems to suggest is that the brothers Varin had something to do with his disappearance."
"Is that your own opinion?"
"Yes."
"On what do you base your conviction?"
"When Louis Lacombe left us he was carrying a portfolio containing all the papers relating to his scheme. Two days later my husband and one of the Varins, the one who is still alive, had an interview, in the course of which my husband acquired the certainty that those papers were in the hands of the two brothers."
"And did he not lodge an information?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because there was something in the portfolio besides Louis Lacombe's papers."
"What was that?"
She hesitated, made as though to answer, and, finally, kept silence. Daspry continued:
"So that is the reason why your husband had the two brothers watched without informing the police. He hoped to recover both the papers and that other . . . compromising thing, thanks to which the two brothers levied a sort of blackmail on him."
"On him . . . and on me."
"Ah, on you, too?"
"On me principally."
She uttered these three words in a dull voice. Daspry observed her, took a few steps aside, and, returning to her:
"Did you write Louis Lacombe?"
"Certainly . . . my husband had business . . ."
"Apart from those official letters, did you not write Louis Lacombe . . . any other letters? . . . Forgive me for insisting, but it is essential that I should know the whole truth. Did you write any other letters?"
She turned very red, and murmured:
"Yes."
"And are those the letters which the brothers Varin had in their possession?"
"Yes."
"So Monsieur Andermatt knows?"
"He never saw them, but Alfred Varin told him of their existence, and threatened to publish them if my husband took action. My husband was afraid . . . he dreaded a scandal."
"Only he did all he could to obtain the letters from them."
"He did all he could . . . at least, I presume so; for ever since the day of that last interview with Alfred Varin, and after the few very violent words in which he told me of it, there has been no intimacy, no confidence between my husband and myself. We live together like two strangers."
"In that case, if you have nothing to lose, what do you fear?"
"However indifferent I may have become to him, I am the woman he once loved, the woman he could still have loved -- oh, I am certain of that!" she whispered, in an eager voice. "He would still have loved me if he had not obtained possession of those accursed letters."
"What! Did he succeed? . . . But surely the two brothers were on their guard?"
"Yes; and it seems that they even used to boast of having a safe hiding-place."
"Well? . . ."
"I have reason to believe that my husband has discovered the hiding- place."
"Not really! Where was it?"
"Here."
I started.
"Here!"
"Yes; and I always suspected it. Louis Lacombe, who was very clever and had a passion for mechanics, used to amuse himself, in his spare time, by constructing locks and safes. The brothers Varin must have discovered one of these receptacles, and used it afterwards for the purpose of hiding the letters . . . and other things as well, no doubt."
"But they did not live here!" I exclaimed.
"This house stood empty until your arrival, four months ago. They probably, therefore, used to come here; and they will have thought, moreover, that your presence need not hinder them on the day when they might want to withdraw all their papers. But they reckoned without my husband, who, on the night of the twenty-second of June, forced the safe, took . . . what he was looking for, and left his card behind him to make it quite clear to the two brothers that the tables were turned, and that he no longer had any cause to fear them. Two days later, after seeing your article in the Gil Blas, Etienne Varin came to call on you in hot haste, was left alone in this room, found the safe empty . . . and shot himself."
After a moment's silence, Daspry asked:
"This is a mere conjecture, is it not? Has Monsieur Andermatt said anything to you?"
"No."
"Has his attitude towards you changed? Has he seemed to you to be brooding or betrayed any anxiety?"
"No."
"And don't you think that he would, if he had found the letters? For my part, I don't believe that he has them. In my opinion, it was some one else who entered here."
"But who can it have been?"
"The mysterious person who is managing this business, who holds all the threads of it, and who is directing it towards an object of which we can only catch a glimpse through all these complications; the mysterious person whose invisible and all-powerful action has been felt from the start. It was he and his friends who entered this house on the twenty-second of June; it was he who discovered the hiding-place; it was he who left Monsieur Andermatt's card behind him; it is he who has the correspondence of the brothers Varin and the proofs of their treason in his keeping."
"But who is 'he'?" I broke in, with some impatience.
"Why, the corespondent of the Echo de France, of course -- 'Salvator'. Isn't the evidence overpowering? Doesn't the article give details that could be known only to the man who had fathomed the secrets of the two brothers?"
"In that case," stammered Madame Andermatt, in dismay, "he has my letters as well, and he will threaten my husband in his turn! What, in Heaven's name, am I to do?"
"Write to him," said Daspry, plainly. "Confide in him straight out, tell him all that you know, and all that you can learn."
"What!"
"Your interests and his are identical. It is beyond all question that he is acting against the survivor of the two brothers. He is seeking a weapon against Alfred Varin, not against Monsieur Andermatt. Help him."
"How?"
"Has your husband that document which completes Louis Lacombe's plans and allows them to be employed?"
"Yes."
"Tell 'Salvator' so. If need be, try to procure the document for him. In short, enter into correspondence with him. What risk do you run?"
The advice was daring, at first sight even dangerous, but Madame Andermatt had very little choice. Besides, as Daspry said, what was she risking? If the unknown individual was an enemy, this step rendered the situation no worse than before. If he was a stranger pursuing some private aim, he must attach but a secondary importance to those letters.
In any case, it was an idea; and Madame Andermatt, in her mental disarray, was only too pleased to fall in with it. She thanked us effusively, and promised to keep us informed.
Two days later she sent us a line which she had received in reply:
"The letters were not there. But set your mind at rest: I shall have them. I am attending to everything.
"S"
I took up the note. It was in the same handwriting as the communication which I had found in my bedside book on the evening of the twenty-second of June.
So Daspry was right: "Salvator" was the great wire-puller in this affair.
====================================================
We were beginning, in fact, to discern a few gleams amid the surrounding darkness, and certain points became illuminated with an unexpected light. But others remained obscure, such as the discovery of the two sevens of hearts. I, on my side, always harked back to this, being more puzzled, perhaps, than I need have been by those two cards whose seven pierced pips had struck my eyes in such perturbing circumstances. What part did they play in the drama? What importance were we to attribute to them? What conclusion were we to draw from the fact that the submarine built in accordance with Louis Lacombe's plans bore the name of the Seven of Hearts?
As for Daspry, he paid little attention to the two cards, but devoted himself entirely to the study of another problem, the solution of which struck him as more urgent: he hunted indefatigably for the famous hiding-place.
"Who knows," he said, "That I shall not succeed in finding the letters which Salvator failed to find . . . through inadvertence, perhaps? It seems hardly credible that the Varins should have removed from a place which they considered inaccessible the weapon of which they knew the inestimable value."
And he went on hunting. Soon the big room had no secret left for him, and he extended his investigations to all the other rooms in the house, searched the inside and the outside, examined the stones and bricks of the walls, lifted up the slates of the roof.
One day he arrived with a pickaxe and a spade, gave me the spade, kept the pickaxe, and, pointing to the waste ground, said:
"Come along."
I followed him without enthusiasm. He divided the ground into a number of sections, which he inspected in sequence, until, in one corner, at the angle formed by the walls of two adjoining properties, his attention was attracted by a heap of stones and rubble overgrown with brambles and grass. He attacked it forthwith.
I had to help him. For an hour we labored to no purpose in the glaring sun. But when, after removing the stones, we came to the ground itself and opened it, Daspry's pickaxe laid bare a number of bones -- the remains of a skeleton with shreds of clothing still clinging to it.
And suddenly I felt myself turn pale. I saw, stuck into the earth, a small iron plate, cut in a rectangular shape, and seeming to bear some red marks. I stooped. It was as I thought: the iron plate was the size of a playing-card, and the marks, the color of red corroded in places, were seven in number, arranged like the pips of a seven of hearts, and pierced with a hole at each of the seven points.
"Listen to me, Daspry," I said. "I've had enough of all this business. It's very pleasant for you, if it interests you. But I shall leave you to enjoy it by yourself."
Was it the excitement? Was it the fatigue of a piece of work carried out in the heat of too fierce a sun? The fact remains that I staggered as I went, and that I had to take to my bed, where I remained for forty-eight hours in a burning fever, and obsessed by skeletons that danced around me and threw their blood-red hearts at one another's heads.
==================================================
Daspry was faithful to me. Every day he gave me three or four hours of his time, though it is true that he spent them in ferreting, tapping, and poking around the big room.
"The letters are in there, in that room," he came and told me, at intervals. "They're in there. I'll stake my life on it."
"Leave me alone, for goodness' sake," I replied, with my hair standing on end.
==================================================
On the morning of the third day I got up, feeling very weak still, but cured. A substantial lunch did me good. But an express letter which I received at about five o'clock contributed even more to my recovery and stimulated my curiosity anew, in spite of everything.
The letter contained these words:
"SIR -- The play of which the first act was performed on the night of the 22nd of June is approaching its conclusion. As the force of things requires that I should bring the two principal characters face to face, and that this the confrontation should take place at your house, I shall be infinitely obliged if you will let me have the use of your house this evening. It would be a good thing if your servant could be sent out from nine to eleven, and perhaps it would be as well if you yourself would be so extremely kind as to leave the field free to the adversaries. You were able to see for yourself, on the 22nd of June, that I made a point of respecting all your belongings. I, for my part, would consider that I was insulting you if I were for a moment to doubt your absolute discretion with regard to
"Yours sincerely,
"SALVATOR."
I was delighted with the tone of courteous irony in which this letter was couched, and with the pretty wit of the request it conveyed. It was so charmingly free and unconstrained, and my correspondent seemed so sure of my compliance! I would not for the world have disappointed him or replied to his confidence with ingratitude.
My servant, to whom I had given a ticket for the theatre, was out at eight o'clock when Daspry arrived. I showed him the letter. He said:
"Well?"
"Well, I shall leave the garden gate unlocked, so that he can come in."
"And are you going out?"
"Not if I know it!"
"But he asks you to . . ."
"He asks me to be discreet. I shall be discreet. But I am mad with curiosity to see what happens."
Daspry laughed:
"By Jove, you're right; and I shall stay too. Something tells me that we sha'n't be bored . . ."
He was interrupted by a ring at the bell.
"Are they there already?" he said, quietly. "Twenty minutes before their time? Impossible!"
I went to the hall, and pulled the cord that opened the garden gate. A woman's figure came down the path: it was Madame Andermatt.
She seemed greatly upset, and her voice caught as she stammered out:
"My husband . . . he's on his way. . . . He has an appointment here. . . . They're going to give him the letters . . ."
"How do you know?" I asked.
"By accident. My husband had a message during dinner."
"An express letter?"
"No, the message was telephoned. The servant handed it to me by mistake. My husband took it from me at once, but it was too late. . . . I had read it."
"What did it say?"
"Something like this: 'Be at the Boulevard Maillot at nine this evening with the documents relating to the business. In exchange, the letters.' When dinner was over, I went up to my room and came on here."
"Unknown to Monsieur Andermatt?"
"Yes."
Daspry looked at me.
"What do you think of it?"
"I think what you think, that Monsieur Andermatt is one of the adversaries summoned."
"By whom? And for what purpose?"
"That is exactly what we shall see."
I took them to the big room. We found that there was just space for the three of us under the chimney-mantel, and that we could hide behind the velvet curtain. Madame Andermatt sat down between Daspry and myself. We had a view of the whole room through the slits in the hangings.
The clock struck nine. A few minutes later the garden gate grated on its hinges.
I confess that I felt a certain pang, and that a new fever seized upon me. I was on the point of discovering the key to the mystery! The bewildering adventure whose successive phases had been unfolding themselves before me for weeks was at last about to adopt its real meaning, and the battle was to be fought before my eyes.
Daspry took Madame Andermatt's hand, and whispered:
"Be sure that you do not make a movement. Whatever you see or hear, remain impassive."
A man entered the room, and I at once recognized Alfred Varin by his strong resemblance to his brother Etienne. He had the same heavy gait, the same dark, bearded face.
He came in with the anxious air of a man who is accustomed to fear ambushes around him, who suspects them and avoids them. He cast a rapid glance all around the room, and I felt that that chimney hidden by a velvet curtain annoyed him. He took three steps in our direction. But an idea, doubtless more urgent than the first, diverted him from his intention; for, turning towards the wall, he stopped before the old mosaic emperor with the flowing beard and the gleaming sword, and examined the figure at length, mounting a chair, following the outline of the shoulders and the face with his finger, and touching certain portions as he did so.
But suddenly he jumped from his chair, and moved away from the wall. A sound of footsteps approached. M. Andermatt appeared upon the threshold.
The banker uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"You! You! Was it you that sent for me?"
"I? Not at all!" protested Varin, in a grating voice that reminded me of his brother's. "I came because of your letter."
"My letter!"
"A letter signed by you, in which you offer me . . ."
"I never wrote to you."
"You never wrote to me!"
Instinctively Varin took up a position of defense, not against the banker, but against the unknown foe who had drawn him into this snare. For the second time his eyes turned in our direction, and, with a quick step, he moved towards the door.
M. Andermatt blocked his way.
"What are you doing, Varin?"
"There's more in this than meets the eye. I don't like it. I'm going. Good-night."
"One moment."
"Come, Monsieur Andermatt, don't insist; you and I have nothing to say to each other."
"We have a great deal to say to each other, and the opportunity is too good. . . ."
"Let me pass."
"No, no, no, you shall not pass."
Varin fell back, cowed by the banker's resolute attitude, and mumbled:
"Be quick, then; say what you have to say, and be done with it!"
One thing astonished me, and I had no doubt that my two companions underwent the same feeling of disappointment. Why was "Salvator" not there? Did it not form part of his plan to interfere? Did the mere bringing together of the banker and Varin appear to him enough? I felt curiously ill at ease. By the fact of "Salvator's" absence, this duel, desired and contrived by himself, was assuming the tragic turn of an event created and controlled by the strict order of destiny; and the force that was now hurling these two men against each other was the more impressive inasmuch as it existed outside themselves.
After a moment M. Andermatt went up to Varin, and, standing right in front of him and looking him straight in the eyes, said:
"Now that the years have passed, and that you have nothing more to fear, answer me frankly, Varin. What have you done with Louis Lacombe?"
"There's a question! As if I could know what has become of him!"
"You do know! You do know! You and your brother followed his every footstep, you almost lived with him in this very house where we are standing. You knew all about his work, all about his schemes. An on that last evening, Varin, when I saw Louis Lacombe to my front door, I caught sight of two figures lurking in the shadow. That I am prepared to swear to."
"Well, and when you have sworn to it? . . ."
"It was your brother and you, Varin."
"Prove it."
"Why, the best proof is that, two days later, you yourself showed me the papers and plans which you had found in Lacombe's portfolio, and offered to sell them to me. How did those papers come into your possession?"
"I told you, Monsieur Andermatt, that we found them on Louis Lacombe's table the next morning after he had disappeared."
"That's a lie."
"Prove it."
"The police could have proved it."
"Why didn't you go to the police?"
"Why? Ah, why? . . ."
He was silent, with a gloomy face. And the other resumed:
"You see, Monsieur Andermatt, if you had the least certainty, you would not have allowed our little threat to prevent you . . ."
"What threat? Those letters? Do you imagine that I ever believed for a moment . . . ?"
"If you did not believe in those letters, why did you offer me untold money to give them up? And why, since then, did you have my brother and me hunted like wild beasts?"
"To recover the plans which I wanted."
"Nonsense! You wanted the letters! Once in possession of the letters, you would have informed against us. You didn't catch me parting with them!" A sudden fit of laughter interrupted him. "But enough of this. It's no use saying the same thing over and over again; we should get no further. So we'll drop the subject."
"We will do nothing of the kind," said the banker, "and, now that you have spoken of the letters, you shall not go from this place without handing them over to me."
"I shall go!"
"No, no, no!"
"Listen to me, Monsieur Andermatt: I advise you . . ."
"You shall not go."
"We shall see," said Varin, in so furious a tone that Madame Andermatt stifled a faint cry.
He must have heard it, for he tried to pass by force. M. Andermatt pushed him back violently. Then I saw him slip his hand into his jacket-pocket.
"For the last time!"
"The letters first."
Varin drew a revolver, and, pointing it at M. Andermatt, said:
"Yes or no?"
The banker stooped quickly.
A shot rang out. The weapon fell to the ground.
I was dumbfounded. The shot had been fired from my side. And it was Daspry who, with a pistol bullet, had dashed the revolver out of Alfred Varin's hand!
Standing suddenly between the two adversaries, facing Varin, he sneered:
"You're lucky, my friend, you're jolly lucky! I aimed at your hand and hit your revolver."
Both men stared at him in confusion. He said to the banker:
"Forgive me, sir, for interfering in what does not concern me. But really you play your cards very badly. Let me hold them for you."
Turning to the other:
"Now, then, my lad; and play the game please. Hearts are trumps, and I lead the seven!"
And he banged the iron plate with the seven red pips within three inches of Varin's nose.
Never did I see a man so taken aback. Livid, his eyes starting from his head, his features distorted with agony, Varin seemed hypnotized by the sight before him.
"Who are you?" he stammered.
"I have already told you: a gentleman who meddles with what does not concern him . . . but who meddles with it to the bitter end."
"What do you want?"
"All that you've brought."
"I've brought nothing."
"Yes, you have, or you wouldn't have come. You received a note this morning telling you to be here at nine o'clock, and to bring all the papers you had. Well, you're here. Where are the papers?"
There was an air of authority in Daspry's voice and attitude that nonplused me, a preemptory demeanor that was quite new to me in this rather easy-going and mild-mannered man. Varin, now entirely subdued, pointed to one of his pockets:
"The papers are in there."
"Are they all there?"
"Yes."
"All that you found in Louis Lacombe's portfolio and sold to Major von Lieben?"
"Yes."
"Are they the copies or the originals?"
"The originals."
"What do you want for them?"
"A hundred thousand francs."
Daspry burst out:
"You're mad! The major only gave you twenty thousand. Twenty thousand francs flung away, now that the trials have failed."
"They did not know how to use the plans."
"The plans are not complete."
"Then why do you ask for them?"
"I want them. I'll give you five thousand francs. Not a sou more."
"Ten thousand. Not a sou less."
Daspry turned to M. Andermatt.
"Be good enough, sir, to sign a check."
"But . . . I haven't my . . ."
"Your check-book? Here it is."
Astounded, M. Andermatt fingered the checkbook which Daspry handed him.
"It's my checkbook . . . But how . . . ?"
"My dear sir, please don't waste words: you have only to fill it in."
The banker took out his stylograph, and filled in and signed the check. Varin held out his hand.
"Paws off!" said Daspry. "We're not done yet."
And to the banker:
"There was a question also of some letters which you claim."
"Yes, a bundle of letters."
"Where are they, Varin?"
"I haven't them."
"Where are they, Varin?"
"I don't know. My brother took charge of them."
"They are hidden here, in this room."
"In that case, you know where they are."
"How should I know?"
"Considering it was you that went to the hiding-place! You seem to be as well informed as . . . 'Salvator'!"
"The letters are not in the hiding-place."
"They are."
"Open it."
A look of distrust passed over Varin's face. Were Daspry and 'Salvator' really one, as everything led him to presume? If so, he risked nothing by revealing a hiding-place that was already known. If not, there was no point in . . .
"Open it," repeated Daspry.
"I haven't a seven of hearts."
"Yes, here's one," said Daspry, holding out the iron plate.
Varin fell back in terror.
"No . . . no . . . I will not . . ."
"Never mind that. . . ."
Daspry went up to the old emperor with the flowing beard, climbed a chair, and applied the seven of hearts to the bottom of the sword, against the hilt, so that the edges of the plate exactly covered the two edges of the blade. The, with the point of an awl, which he pressed successively through each of the seven holes contrived in the end of the seven pips, he pressed upon seven of the tiny stones composing the mosaic. When the seventh stone was driven in, a catch was released, and the whole of the emperor's bust turned on a pivot, revealing a wide aperture arranged as a safe, iron-cased and fitted with two shelves of gleaming steel.
"You see, Varin, the safe is empty."
"Just so. . . . Then my brother must have removed the letters."
Daspry came back to the man, and said:
"Don't try to get the better of me. There is another hiding-place. Where is it?"
"There isn't one."
"Is it money you want? How much?"
"Ten thousand francs."
"Monsieur Andermatt, are those letters worth ten thousand francs to you?"
"Yes," said the banker, in a firm voice.
Varin shut the safe, took the seven of hearts, not without a visible repugnance, and applied it to the blade, at exactly the same place, against the hilt. He drove the awl successively through the end of the seven pips. There was a second release of a catch, but, this time, an unexpected thing occurred: only a part of the safe turned round, disclosing a smaller safe, contrived in the thickness of the door that closed the large one.
The bundle of letters was there, tied up with tape and sealed. Varin gave it to Daspry, who asked:
"Is the check ready, Monsieur Andermatt?"
"Yes."
"And have you also the last document, which Louis Lacombe left with you, completing the plans of the submarine?"
"Yes."
The exchange was made. Daspry pocketed the document and the check, and offered the packet to M. Andermatt.
"Here is what you wanted, sir."
The banker hesitated a moment, as though he were afraid to touch those cursed pages which he had been so eager to find. Then he took them, with a nervous movement.
I heard a groan by my side. I caught hold of Madame Andermatt's hand; it was icy cold.
And Daspry said to the banker:
"I think, sir, that our conversation is ended. Oh, no thanks, I beg of you. It was a mere accident that enabled me to serve you."
M. Andermatt withdrew, taking with him his wife's letters to Louis Lacombe.
"Splendid!" cried Daspry, with an air of delight. "Everything is arranged for the best. You and I have only to settle our business, my lad. Have you the papers?"
"They are all here."
Daspry looked through them, examined them closely, and stuffed them into his pocket.
"Quite right; you have kept your word."
"But . . ."
"But what?"
"The two checks? . . . The money? . . ."
"Well, you're a cool hand, you are! What! You dare put in a claim . . . !"
"I claim what is owed me."
"Do you mean to say that you're owed anything for papers which you stole?"
But the man was beside himself. He shook with rage; his eyes were shot with blood.
"Give me my money . . . the twenty thousand francs," he stuttered.
"Out of the question . . . I appropriate it."
"My money!"
"Come, be reasonable . . . and drop that dagger, will you?"
He caught him by the arm so roughly that the other roared with pain. And he added:
"Go away, my lad, the air will do you good. Would you like me to see you off? We will go by the waste ground, and I will show you a heap of stones and brambles under which . . ."
"It's not true! It's not true!"
"Yes, it is true. This little iron plate with the seven pips came from there. Louis Lacombe used to always carry it about with him, don't you remember? You and your brother buried it with the corpse . . . and with other things which will interest the police enormously."
Varin covered his face with his raging fists. Then he said:
"Very well. I have been done. Let's say no more about it. One word, however . . . just one word . . . I want to know . . ."
"I am listening . . ."
"There was a cash-box in that safe, in the larger of the two."
"Yes."
"Was it there when you came here on the night of the twenty-second of June?"
"Yes."
"What was inside it?"
"All that the brothers Varin had locked up in it: a pretty collection of jewels, diamonds, and pearls, pick up right and left by the brothers aforesaid."
"And did you take it?"
"By Jove! what would you have done in my place?"
"Then . . . it was after he discovered the disappearance of the cash- box that my brother committed suicide?"
"Probably." The disappearance of your correspondence with Major van Lieben would hardly have been enough. But the cash-box was another matter. . . . Is that all you wanted to know?"
"One thing more: your name?"
"You say that as though you were thinking of revenge."
"Quite right! One's luck turns. You're on top today To-morrow . . ."
"You may be."
"I hope so. What's your name?"
"Arsène Lupin."
"Arsène Lupin!"
The man staggered back as though he had received a blow on the head with a club. Those two words seemed to dash all his hopes. Daspry laughed.
"Ah, so you thought that some Monsieur Durand or Dupont had managed this fine business? Come, come, it must have needed an Arsène Lupin at least. And now that you know all you wanted to, old chap, go and prepare your revenge. You will find Arsène Lupin waiting for you."
And without another word, he pushed him out at the door.
"Daspry, Daspry!" I cried, still, in spite of myself, calling him by the name by which I had known him.
I pulled back the velvet curtain.
He ran up.
"What is it? What's the matter?"
"Madame Andermatt is fainting."
He hastened up, made her sniff at a bottle of salts, and, while he was bringing her round, asked:
"Well, but what happened?"
"The letters," I said. "The letters which you gave her husband."
He struck his forehead.
"What! She believed. . . . But, after all, why shouldn't she believe? . . . Fool that I am!"
Madame Andermatt, when she had recovered consciousness, listened to him greedily. He drew from his pocket a little bundle similar in every respect to that which M. Andermatt had taken away with him.
"Here are your letters, Madame -- the real ones."
"But . . . the others?"
"The others are like these, but were copied out by me last night, and carefully altered. Your husband will be all the better pleased when he reads them, as he has no idea that they are not the originals."
"But the writing . . ."
"There is no writing that can't be imitated."
She thanked him in the same terms of gratitude which she would have addressed to a man of her own station, and it was clear to me that she could not have heard the last sentences exchanged between Varin and Arsène Lupin.
As for myself, I looked at him with a certain perplexity, not quite knowing what to say to this old friend who was revealing himself to me in so unexpected a light. But Lupin, very much at his ease, said:
"You can say good-bye to Jean Daspry."
"Really!"
"Yes, Jean Daspry is going abroad. I am sending him to Morocco, where he will probably come to an end quite worthy of him; in fact, he has made up his mind."
"But Arsène Lupin remains . . . ?"
"I should think so! Arsène Lupin is only at the beginning of his career, and he fully means to . . ."
An impulse of irresistible curiosity attracted me to him, and, leading him to some distance from Madame Andermatt, I asked:
"So you ended by discovering the second hiding-place containing the letters?"
"It took me long enough, though! It was not until yesterday afternoon while you were still in bed. And yet goodness knows how easy it was! But the simplest things always occur to one last." And showing me the seven of hearts: "I had guessed that, to open the large safe, one had to rest this card against the sword of the old boy in mosaic . . ."
"How did you guess that?"
"Easily. From private information, I knew, when I came here, on the evening of the twenty-second of June . . ."
"After leaving me . . ."
"Yes; and after selecting my conversation so as to throw you into such a state of mind that a nervous and impressionable man like yourself was bound to let me act as I pleased without leaving his bed."
"The reasoning was sound."
"Well, I knew when I came here that there was a cash-box hidden in a safe with a secret lock, to which the seven of hearts formed the key. It was only a question of applying the seven of hearts to a place that was obviously intended for it. An hour's examination was enough for me."
"An hour!"
"Look at the old boy in mosaic."
"The emperor?"
"That old emperor is the exact image of Charlemagne, who figures as the king of hearts in every French pack."
"You're quite right. . . . But why should the seven of hearts open sometimes the large safe and sometimes the small one? And why did you open only the large safe at first?"
"Why?" Because I persisted in always applying my seven of hearts in the same way. Yesterday only I perceived that, by turning it round -- that is to say, by putting the seventh pip, the middle one, with its point up instead of down -- the position of the seven pips was altered."
"Of course."
"It's easy to say 'of course,' but I ought to have thought of it."
"Another thing: you knew nothing about the story of the letters until Madame Andermatt . . ."
"Spoke of it before me? Just so. I found nothing in the safe besides the cash-box, except the correspondence of the two brothers, which put me on the scent of their treason."
"So, when all is said, it was chance that made you first reconstruct the history of the two brothers, and next search for the plans and documents of the submarine?"
"Pure chance."
"But what was your object in making those researches? . . ."
Daspry interrupted me with a laugh.
"Bless my soul, how the thing interests you!"
"It interests me, madly."
"Well, presently, when I have seen Madame Andermatt home and sent a messenger to the Echo de France with a few lines which I want to write, I will come back, and we will go into details."
He sat down and wrote one of those monumental little paragraphs that delight his whimsical imagination. Who does not remember the noise which this particular one made throughout the world:
"Arsène Lupin has solved the problem which was set the other day by 'Salvator.' He has obtained possession of all the original plans and documents of Louis Lacombe, the engineer, and has forwarded them to the Minister of Marine. Moreover, Arsène Lupin is opening subscription to present the state with the first submarine constructed after these plans. And he himself has headed the list by subscribing twenty thousand francs."
"The twenty thousand francs of the Andermatt checks?" I said, when he had given me the paper to read.
"Exactly. It was only fair that Varin should at least partly redeem his treason."
===================================================
And that was how I came to know Arsène Lupin. That was how I learned that Jean Daspry, my acquaintance at the club and in society, was none other than Arsène Lupin, the gentleman-burglar. That was how I formed bonds of a very pleasant friendship with the great man, and how, thanks to the confidence with which he deigns to honor me, I gradually came to be his most humble, devoted, and grateful biographer.
