Firmin's anxiety made him terribly thirsty. Tumbler after tumbler of wine flowed down the throat for which he feared. When he had finished his supper he went on satisfying his thirst. Madame Firmin lighted his pipe for him, and went and washed up the supper-dishes in the scullery. Then she came back, and sat down on the other side of the hearth, facing him. About the middle of his third bottle of wine, Firmin's cold, relentless courage was suddenly restored to him. He began to talk firmly about his duty to his master, his resolve to die, if need were, in defence of his interests, of his utter contempt for burglars--probably Parisians. But he did not go into the hall. Doubtless the pleasant warmth of the kitchen fire held him in his chair.
He had described to his wife, with some ferocity, the cruel manner in which he would annihilate the first three burglars who entered the hall, and was proceeding to describe his method of dealing with the fourth, when there came a loud knocking on the front door of the chateau.
Stricken silent, turned to stone, Firmin sat with his mouth open, in the midst of an unfinished word. Madame Firmin scuttled to the kitchen door she had left unlocked on her return from the scullery, and locked it. She turned, and they stared at one another.
The heavy knocker fell again and again and again. Between the knocking there was a sound like the roaring of lions. Husband and wife stared at one another with white faces. Firmin picked up his gun with trembling hands, and the movement seemed to set his teeth chattering. They chattered like castanets.
The knocking still went on, and so did the roaring.
It had gone on at least for five minutes, when a slow gleam of comprehension lightened Madame Firmin's face.
"I believe it's the master's voice," she said.
"The master's voice!" said Firmin, in a hoarse, terrified whisper.
"Yes," said Madame Firmin. And she unlocked the thick door and opened it a few inches.
The barrier removed, the well-known bellow of the millionaire came distinctly to their ears. Firmin's courage rushed upon him in full flood. He clumped across the room, brushed his wife aside, and trotted to the door of the chateau. He unlocked it, drew the bolts, and threw it open. On the steps stood the millionaire, Germaine, and Sonia. Irma stood at the horse's head.
"What the devil have you been doing?" bellowed the millionaire. "What do you keep me standing in the rain for? Why didn't you let me in?"
"B-b-b-burglars--I thought you were b-b-b-burglars," stammered Firmin.
"Burglars!" howled the millionaire. "Do I sound like a burglar?"
At the moment he did not; he sounded more like a bull of Bashan. He bustled past Firmin to the door of the hall.
"Here! What's this locked for?" he bellowed.
"I--I--locked it in case burglars should get in while I was opening the front door," stammered Firmin.
The millionaire turned the key, opened the door, and went into the hall. Germaine followed him. She threw off her dripping coat, and said with some heat: "I can't conceive why you didn't make sure that there was a train at a quarter to nine. I will not go to Paris to-night. Nothing shall induce me to take that midnight train!"
"Nonsense!" said the millionaire. "Nonsense--you'll have to go! Where's that infernal time-table?" He rushed to the table on to which he had thrown the time-table after looking up the train, snatched it up, and looked at the cover. "Why, hang it!" he cried. "It's for June--June, 1903!"
"Oh!" cried Germaine, almost in a scream. "It's incredible! It's one of Jacques' jokes!"
CHAPTER VIII
THE DUKE ARRIVES
The morning was gloomy, and the police-station with its bare, white-washed walls--their white expanse was only broken by notice-boards to which were pinned portraits of criminals with details of their appearance, their crime, and the reward offered for their apprehension--with its shabby furniture, and its dingy fireplace, presented a dismal and sordid appearance entirely in keeping with the September grey. The inspector sat at his desk, yawning after a night which had passed without an arrest. He was waiting to be relieved. The policeman at the door and the two policemen sitting on a bench by the wall yawned in sympathy.
The silence of the street was broken by the rattle of an uncommonly noisy motor-car. It stopped before the door of the police-station, and the eyes of the inspector and his men turned, idly expectant, to the door of the office.
It opened, and a young man in motor-coat and cap stood on the threshold.
He looked round the office with alert eyes, which took in everything, and said, in a brisk, incisive voice: "I am the Duke of Charmerace. I am here on behalf of M. Gournay-Martin. Last evening he received a letter from Arsene Lupin saying he was going to break into his Paris house this very morning."
At the name of Arsene Lupin the inspector sprang from his chair, the policemen from their bench. On the instant they were wide awake, attentive, full of zeal.
"The letter, your Grace!" said the inspector briskly.
The Duke pulled off his glove, drew the letter from the breast-pocket of his under-coat, and handed it to the inspector.
The inspector glanced through it, and said. "Yes, I know the handwriting well." Then he read it carefully, and added, "Yes, yes: it's his usual letter."
"There's no time to be lost," said the Duke quickly. "I ought to have been here hours ago-hours. I had a break-down. I'm afraid I'm too late as it is."
"Come along, your Grace--come along, you," said the inspector briskly.
The four of them hurried out of the office and down the steps of the police-station. In the roadway stood a long grey racing-car, caked with muds--grey mud, brown mud, red mud--from end to end. It looked as if it had brought samples of the soil of France from many districts.
"Come along; I'll take you in the car. Your men can trot along beside us," said the Duke to the inspector.
He slipped into the car, the inspector jumped in and took the seat beside him, and they started. They went slowly, to allow the two policemen to keep up with them. Indeed, the car could not have made any great pace, for the tyre of the off hind-wheel was punctured and deflated.
In three minutes they came to the Gournay-Martin house, a wide-fronted mass of undistinguished masonry, in an undistinguished row of exactly the same pattern. There were no signs that any one was living in it. Blinds were drawn, shutters were up over all the windows, upper and lower. No smoke came from any of its chimneys, though indeed it was full early for that.
Pulling a bunch of keys from his pocket, the Duke ran up the steps. The inspector followed him. The Duke looked at the bunch, picked out the latch-key, and fitted it into the lock. It did not open it. He drew it out and tried another key and another. The door remained locked.
"Let me, your Grace," said the inspector. "I'm more used to it. I shall be quicker."
The Duke handed the keys to him, and, one after another, the inspector fitted them into the lock. It was useless. None of them opened the door.
"They've given me the wrong keys," said the Duke, with some vexation. "Or no--stay--I see what's happened. The keys have been changed."
"Changed?" said the inspector. "When? Where?"
"Last night at Charmerace," said the Duke. "M. Gournay-Martin declared that he saw a burglar slip out of one of the windows of the hall of the chateau, and we found the lock of the bureau in which the keys were kept broken."
The inspector seized the knocker, and hammered on the door.
"Try