he carvings from the
chapel were in a safe place and Mr. Harlington in prison. There remains
nothing, therefore, to be done but to release the unfortunate American,
because he was content to play the modest part of a dupe; to brand the
millionaire Cooley, because, for fear of possible unpleasantness, he
did not protest against his secretary's arrest; and to congratulate my
friend Etienne de Vaudreix, because he is revenging the outraged
morality of the public by keeping the hundred thousand francs which he
was paid on account by that singularly unattractive person, Cooley.

Pray, pardon the length of this letter and permit me to be, Sir,

Your obedient servant,

ARSENE LUPIN.

* * * * *

Isidore weighed the words of this communication as minutely, perhaps,
as he had studied the document concerning the Hollow Needle. He went on
the principle, the correctness of which was easily proved, that Lupin
had never taken the trouble to send one of his amusing letters to the
press without absolute necessity, without some motive which events were
sure, sooner or later, to bring to light.

What was the motive for this particular letter? For what hidden reason
was Lupin confessing his love and the failure of that love? Was it
there that Beautrelet had to seek, or in the explanations regarding Mr.
Harlington, or further still, between the lines, behind all those words
whose apparent meaning had perhaps no other object than to suggest some
wicked, perfidious, misleading little idea?

For hours, the young man, confined to his compartment, remained pensive
and anxious. The letter filled him with mistrust, as though it had been
written for his benefit and were destined to lead him, personally, into
error. For the first time and because he found himself confronted not
with a direct attack, but with an ambiguous, indefinable method of
fighting, he underwent a distinct sensation of fear. And, when he
thought of his good old, easy-going father, kidnapped through his
fault, he asked himself, with a pang, whether he was not mad to
continue so unequal a contest. Was the result not certain? Had Lupin
not won the game in advance?

It was but a short moment of weakness. When he alighted from his
compartment, at six o'clock in the morning, refreshed by a few hours'
sleep, he had recovered all his confidence.

On the platform, Froberval, the dockyard clerk who had given
hospitality to M. Beautrelet, senior,