The Adventures of Arsène Lupin. Морис Леблан

impenetrable than ever. Why did he not go on with the case? Seeing how far he had carried it, he required but an effort to succeed.

      The question was put to him by a member of the staff of the Grand Journal, who had obtained admission to the Lycee Janson by assuming the name of Bernod, the friend of Beautrelet's father. And Isidore very sensibly replied:

      "My dear sir, there are other things besides Lupin in this world, other things besides stories about burglars and detectives. There is, for instance, the thing which is known as taking one's degree. Now I am going up for my examination in July. This is May. And I don't want to be plucked. What would my worthy parent say?"

      "But what would he say if you delivered Arsene Lupin into the hands of the police?"

      "Tut! There's a time for everything. In the next holidays—"

      "Whitsuntide?"

      "Yes—I shall go down on Saturday the sixth of June by the first train."

      "And, on the evening of that Saturday, Lupin will be taken."

      "Will you give me until the Sunday?" asked Beautrelet, laughing.

      "Why delay?" replied the journalist, quite seriously.

      This inexplicable confidence, born of yesterday and already so strong, was felt with regard to the young man by one and all, even though, in reality, events had justified it only up to a certain point. No matter, people believed in him! Nothing seemed difficult to him. They expected from him what they were entitled to expect at most from some phenomenon of penetration and intuition, of experience and skill. That day of the sixth of June was made to sprawl over all the papers. On the sixth of June, Isidore Beautrelet would take the fast train to Dieppe: and Lupin would be arrested on the same evening.

      "Unless he escapes between this and then," objected the last remaining partisans of the adventurer.

      "Impossible! Every outlet is watched."

      "Unless he has succumbed to his wounds, then," said the partisans, who would have preferred their hero's death to his capture.

      And the retort was immediate:

      "Nonsense! If Lupin were dead, his confederates would know it by now, and Lupin would be revenged. Beautrelet said so!"

      And the sixth of June came. Half a dozen journalists were looking out for Isidore at the Gare Saint-Lazare. Two of them wanted to accompany him on his journey. He begged them to refrain.

      He started alone, therefore, in a compartment to himself. He was tired, thanks to a series of nights devoted to study, and soon fell asleep. He slept heavily. In his dreams, he had an impression that the train stopped at different stations and that people got in and out. When he awoke, within sight of Rouen, he was still alone. But, on the back of the opposite seat, was a large sheet of paper, fastened with a pin to the gray cloth. It bore these words:

      "Every man should mind his own business. Do you mind yours. If not, you must take the consequences."

      "Capital!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with delight. "Things are going badly in the adversary's camp. That threat is as stupid and vulgar as the sham flyman's. What a style! One can see that it wasn't composed by Lupin."

      The train threaded the tunnel that precedes the old Norman city. On reaching the station, Isidore took a few turns on the platform to stretch his legs. He was about to re-enter his compartment, when a cry escaped him. As he passed the bookstall, he had read, in an absent-minded way, the following lines on the front page of a special edition of the Journal de Rouen; and their alarming sense suddenly burst upon him:

      STOP-PRESS NEWS

      We hear by telephone from Dieppe that the Chateau d'Ambrumesy was broken into last night by criminals, who bound and gagged Mlle. de Gesvres and carried off Mlle. de Saint-Veran. Traces of blood have been seen at a distance of five hundred yards from the house and a scarf has been found close by, which is also stained with blood. There is every reason to fear that the poor young girl has been murdered.

      Isidore Beautrelet completed his journey to Dieppe without moving a limb. Bent in two, with his elbows on his knees and his hands plastered against his face, he sat thinking.

      At Dieppe, he took a fly. At the door of Ambrumesy, he met the examining magistrate, who confirmed the horrible news.

      "You know nothing more?" asked Beautrelet.

      "Nothing. I have only just arrived."

      At that moment, the sergeant of gendarmes came up to M. Filleul and handed him a crumpled, torn and discolored piece of paper, which he had picked up not far from the place where the scarf was found. M. Filleul looked at it and gave it to Beautrelet, saying:

      "I don't suppose this will help us much in our investigations."

      Isidore turned the paper over and over. It was covered with figures, dots and signs and presented the exact appearance reproduced below:

      2.1.1..2..2.1..1..

       1...2.2. 2.43.2..2.

       .45..2.4...2..2.4..2

       D DF square 19F+44triangle357triangle

       13.53..2 ..25.2