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СКАЧАТЬ Baron had ever erred in his taste or judgment. He loved them—his bibelots. He loved them intensely, like a miser; jealously, like a lover. Every day, at sunset, the iron gates at either end of the bridge and at the entrance to the court of honor are closed and barred. At the least touch on these gates, electric bells will ring throughout the castle.

      One Thursday in September, a letter-carrier presented himself at the gate at the head of the bridge, and, as usual, it was the Baron himself who partially opened the heavy portal. He scrutinized the man as minutely as if he were a stranger, although the honest face and twinkling eyes of the postman had been familiar to the Baron for many years. The man laughed, as he said:

      “It is only I, Monsieur le Baron. It is not another man wearing my cap and blouse.”

      “One can never tell,” muttered the Baron.

      The man handed him a number of newspapers, and then said:

      “And now, Monsieur le Baron, here is something new.”

      “Something new?”

      “Yes, a letter. A registered letter.”

      Living as a recluse, without friends or business relations, the baron never received any letters, and the one now presented to him immediately aroused within him a feeling of suspicion and distrust. It was like an evil omen. Who was this mysterious correspondent that dared to disturb the tranquility of his retreat?

      “You must sign for it, Monsieur le Baron.”

      He signed; then took the letter, waited until the postman had disappeared beyond the bend in the road, and, after walking nervously to and fro for a few minutes, he leaned against the parapet of the bridge and opened the envelope. It contained a sheet of paper, bearing this heading: Prison de la Santé, Paris. He looked at the signature: Arsène Lupin. Then he read:

      “Monsieur le Baron:

       “There is, in the gallery in your castle, a picture of Philippe

       de Champaigne, of exquisite finish, which pleases me beyond

       measure. Your Rubens are also to my taste, as well as your

       smallest Watteau. In the salon to the right, I have noticed the

       Louis XIII cadence-table, the tapestries of Beauvais, the Empire

       gueridon signed ‘Jacob,’ and the Renaissance chest. In the salon

       to the left, all the cabinet full of jewels and miniatures.

       “For the present, I will content myself with those articles that

       can be conveniently removed. I will therefore ask you to pack

       them carefully and ship them to me, charges prepaid, to the

       station at Batignolles, within eight days, otherwise I shall be

       obliged to remove them myself during the night of 27 September;

       but, under those circumstances, I shall not content myself with

       the articles above mentioned.

       “Accept my apologies for any inconvenience I may cause you, and

       believe me to be your humble servant,

       “Arsène Lupin.”

       “P.S.—Please do not send the largest Watteau. Although you

       paid thirty thousand francs for it, it is only a copy, the

       original having been burned, under the Directoire by Barras,

       during a night of debauchery. Consult the memoirs of Garat.

       “I do not care for the Louis XV chatelaine, as I doubt its

       authenticity.”

      That letter completely upset the baron. Had it borne any other signature, he would have been greatly alarmed—but signed by Arsène Lupin!

      As an habitual reader of the newspapers, he was versed in the history of recent crimes, and was therefore well acquainted with the exploits of the mysterious burglar. Of course, he knew that Lupin had been arrested in America by his enemy Ganimard and was at present incarcerated in the Prison de la Santé. But he knew also that any miracle might be expected from Arsène Lupin. Moreover, that exact knowledge of the castle, the location of the pictures and furniture, gave the affair an alarming aspect. How could he have acquired that information concerning things that no one had ever seen?

      The baron raised his eyes and contemplated the stern outlines of the castle, its steep rocky pedestal, the depth of the surrounding water, and shrugged his shoulders. Certainly, there was no danger. No one in the world could force an entrance to the sanctuary that contained his priceless treasures.

      No one, perhaps, but Arsène Lupin! For him, gates, walls and drawbridges did not exist. What use were the most formidable obstacles or the most careful precautions, if Arsène Lupin had decided to effect an entrance?

      That evening, he wrote to the Procurer of the Republique at Rouen. He enclosed the threatening letter and solicited aid and protection.

      The reply came at once to the effect that Arsène Lupin was in custody in the Prison de la Santé, under close surveillance, with no opportunity to write such a letter, which was, no doubt, the work of some imposter. But, as an act of precaution, the Procurer had submitted the letter to an expert in handwriting, who declared that, in spite of certain resemblances, the writing was not that of the prisoner.

      But the words “in spite of certain resemblances” caught the attention of the baron; in them, he read the possibility of a doubt which appeared to him quite sufficient to warrant the intervention of the law. His fears increased. He read Lupin’s letter over and over again. “I shall be obliged to remove them myself.” And then there was the fixed date: the night of 27 September.

      To confide in his servants was a proceeding repugnant to his nature; but now, for the first time in many years, he experienced the necessity of seeking counsel with some one. Abandoned by the legal official of his own district, and feeling unable to defend himself with his own resources, he was on the point of going to Paris to engage the services of a detective.

      Two days passed; on the third day, he was filled with hope and joy as he read the following item in the ‘Réveil de Caudebec’, a newspaper published in a neighboring town:

      “We have the pleasure of entertaining in our city, at the present time, the veteran detective Mon. Ganimard who acquired a world-wide reputation by his clever capture of Arsène Lupin. He has come here for rest and recreation, and, being an enthusiastic fisherman, he threatens to capture all the fish in our river.”

      Ganimard! Ah, here is the assistance desired by Baron Cahorn! Who could baffle the schemes of Arsène Lupin better than Ganimard, the patient and astute detective? He was the man for the place.

      The baron did not hesitate. The town of Caudebec was only six kilometers from the castle, a short distance to a man whose step was accelerated by the hope of safety.

      After several fruitless attempts to ascertain the detective’s address, the baron visited СКАЧАТЬ