The only clue the professor could furnish was the strange incident of the preceding evening. He declared:
“The young man was greatly provoked at my refusal, and I had an idea that he threatened me as he went away.”
But the clue was a vague one. The shopkeeper could not throw any light on the affair. He did not know either of the gentlemen. As to the desk itself, he had purchased it for forty francs at an executor’s sale at Chevreuse, and believed he had resold it at its fair value. The police investigation disclosed nothing more.
But Mon. Gerbois entertained the idea that he had suffered an enormous loss. There must have been a fortune concealed in a secret drawer, and that was the reason the young man had resorted to crime.
“My poor father, what would we have done with that fortune?” asked Suzanne.
“My child! with such a fortune, you could make a most advantageous marriage.”
Suzanne sighed bitterly. Her aspirations soared no higher than her cousin Philippe, who was indeed a most deplorable object. And life, in the little house at Versailles, was not so happy and contented as of yore.
Two months passed away. Then came a succession of startling events, a strange blending of good luck and dire misfortune!
On the first day of February, at half-past five, Mon. Gerbois entered the house, carrying an evening paper, took a seat, put on his spectacles, and commenced to read. As politics did not interest him, he turned to the inside of the paper. Immediately his attention was attracted by an article entitled:
“Third Drawing of the Press Association Lottery.
“No. 514, series 23, draws a million.”
The newspaper slipped from his fingers. The walls swam before his eyes, and his heart ceased to beat. He held No. 514, series 23. He had purchased it from a friend, to oblige him, without any thought of success, and behold, it was the lucky number!
Quickly, he took out his memorandum-book. Yes, he was quite right. The No. 514, series 23, was written there, on the inside of the cover. But the ticket?
He rushed to his desk to find the envelope-box in which he had placed the precious ticket; but the box was not there, and it suddenly occurred to him that it had not been there for several weeks. He heard footsteps on the gravel walk leading from the street.
He called:
“Suzanne! Suzanne!”
She was returning from a walk. She entered hastily. He stammered, in a choking voice:
“Suzanne … the box … the box of envelopes?”
“What box?”
“The one I bought at the Louvre … one Saturday … it was at the end of that table.”
“Don’t you remember, father, we put all those things away together.”
“When?”
“The evening … you know … the same evening. …”
“But where? … Tell me, quick! … Where?”
“Where? Why, in the writing-desk.”
“In the writing-desk that was stolen?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, mon Dieu! … In the stolen desk!”
He uttered the last sentence in a low voice, in a sort of stupor. Then he seized her hand, and in a still lower voice, he said:
“It contained a million, my child.”
“Ah! father, why didn’t you tell me?” she murmured, naively.
“A million!” he repeated. “It contained the ticket that drew the grand prize in the Press Lottery.”
The colossal proportions of the disaster overwhelmed them, and for a long time they maintained a silence that they feared to break. At last, Suzanne said:
“But, father, they will pay you just the same.”
“How? On what proof?”
“Must you have proof?”
“Of course.”
“And you haven’t any?”
“It was in the box.”
“In the box that has disappeared.”
“Yes; and now the thief will get the money.”
“Oh! that would be terrible, father. You must prevent it.”
For a moment he was silent; then, in an outburst of energy, he leaped up, stamped on the floor, and exclaimed:
“No, no, he shall not have that million; he shall not have it! Why should he have it? Ah! clever as he is, he can do nothing. If he goes to claim the money, they will arrest him. Ah! now, we will see, my fine fellow!”
“What will you do, father?”
“Defend our just rights, whatever happens! And we will succeed. The million francs belong to me, and I intend to have them.”
A few minutes later, he sent this telegram:
“Governor Crédit Foncier
“rue Capucines, Paris.
“Am holder of No. 514, series 23. Oppose by all legal means any other claimant.
“Gerbois.”
Almost at the same moment, the Crédit Foncier received the following telegram:
“No. 514, series 23, is in my possession.
“Arsène Lupin.”
Every time I undertake to relate one of the many extraordinary adventures that mark the life of Arsène Lupin, I experience a feeling of embarrassment, as it seems to me that the most commonplace of those adventures is already well known to my readers. In fact, there is not a movement of our “national thief,” as he has been so aptly described, that has not been given the widest publicity, not an exploit that has not been studied in all its phases, not an action that has not been discussed with that particularity usually reserved for the recital of heroic deeds.
For instance, who does not know the strange history of “The Blonde Lady,” with those curious episodes which were proclaimed by the newspapers with heavy black headlines, as follows: “Lottery Ticket No. 514!” … “The Crime on the Avenue Henri-Martin!” … “The Blue Diamond!” … The interest created by the intervention of the celebrated English detective, Herlock Sholmes! The excitement aroused by the various vicissitudes which marked the struggle between those famous artists! And what a commotion on the boulevards, the day on which the newsboys announced: “Arrest of Arsène Lupin!”
My excuse for repeating these stories at this time is the fact that I produce the key to the enigma. Those adventures have always been enveloped in a certain degree of obscurity, which I now remove. I reproduce old newspaper articles, I relate old-time interviews, I present ancient letters; but I have arranged and classified all that material and reduced it to the exact truth. My collaborators in this work have been Arsène Lupin himself, and also the ineffable Wilson,
