.
let them confuse you.”
“Thank you, your Grace, I will try and be as clear as I can,” said Sonia; and she gave him an eloquent glance, full of gratitude for the warning; and went down the stairs with firm steps.
The Duke went on up the stairs, and knocked softly at the door of M. Gournay-Martin’s bedroom. There was no answer to his knock, and he quietly opened the door and looked in. Overcome by his misfortunes, the millionaire had sunk into a profound sleep and was snoring softly. The Duke stepped inside the room, left the door open a couple of inches, drew a chair to it, and sat down watching the staircase through the opening of the door.
He sat frowning, with a look of profound pity on his face. Once the suspense grew too much for him. He rose and walked up and down the room. His well-bred calm seemed to have deserted him. He muttered curses on Guerchard, M. Formery, and the whole French criminal system, very softly, under his breath. His face was distorted to a mask of fury; and once he wiped the little beads of sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. Then he recovered himself, sat down in the chair, and resumed his watch on the stairs.
At last, at the end of half an hour, which had seemed to him months long, he heard voices. The drawing-room door shut, and there were footsteps on the stairs. The inspector and Sonia came into view.
He waited till they were at the top of the stairs: then he came out of the room, with his most careless air, and said: “Well, Mademoiselle Sonia, I hope you did not find it so very dreadful, after all.”
She was very pale, and there were undried tears on her cheeks. “It was horrible,” she said faintly. “Horrible. M. Formery was all right—he believed me; but that horrible detective would not believe a word I said. He confused me. I hardly knew what I was saying.”
The Duke ground his teeth softly. “Never mind, it’s over now. You had better lie down and rest. I will tell one of the servants to bring you up a glass of wine.”
He walked with her to the door of her room, and said: “Try to sleep—sleep away the unpleasant memory.”
She went into her room, and the Duke went downstairs and told the butler to take a glass of champagne up to her. Then he went upstairs to the drawing-room. M. Formery was at the table writing. Guerchard stood beside him. He handed what he had written to Guerchard, and, with a smile of satisfaction, Guerchard folded the paper and put it in his pocket.
“Well, M. Formery, did Mademoiselle Kritchnoff throw any fresh light on this mystery?” said the Duke, in a tone of faint contempt.
“No—in fact she convinced me that she knew nothing whatever about it. M. Guerchard seems to entertain a different opinion. But I think that even he is convinced that Mademoiselle Kritchnoff is not a friend of Arsène Lupin.”
“Oh, well, perhaps she isn’t. But there’s no telling,” said Guerchard slowly.
“Arsène Lupin?” cried the Duke. “Surely you never thought that Mademoiselle Kritchnoff had anything to do with Arsène Lupin?”
“I never thought so,” said M. Formery. “But when one has a fixed idea…well, one has a fixed idea.” He shrugged his shoulders, and looked at Guerchard with contemptuous eyes.
The Duke laughed, an unaffected ringing laugh, but not a pleasant one: “It’s absurd!” he cried.
“There are always those thefts,” said Guerchard, with a nettled air.
“You have nothing to go upon,” said M. Formery. “What if she did enter the service of Mademoiselle Gournay-Martin just before the thefts began? Besides, after this lapse of time, if she had committed the thefts, you’d find it a job to bring them home to her. It’s not a job worth your doing, anyhow—it’s a job for an ordinary detective, Guerchard.”
“There’s always the pendant,” said Guerchard. “I am convinced that that pendant is in the house.”
“Oh, that stupid pendant! I wish I’d never given it to Mademoiselle Gournay-Martin,” said the Duke lightly.
“I have a feeling that if I could lay my hand on that pendant—if I could find who has it, I should have the key to this mystery.”
“The devil you would!” said the Duke softly. “That is odd. It is the oddest thing about this business I’ve heard yet.”
“I have that feeling—I have that feeling,” said Guerchard quietly.
The Duke smiled.
CHAPTER XVI
VICTOIRE’S SLIP
They were silent. The Duke walked to the fireplace, stepped into it, and studied the opening. He came out again and said: “Oh, by the way, M. Formery, the policeman at the front door wanted to stop me going out of the house when I went home to change. I take it that M. Guerchard’s prohibition does not apply to me?”
“Of course not—of course not, your Grace,” said M. Formery quickly.
“I saw that you had changed your clothes, your Grace,” said Guerchard. “I thought that you had done it here.”
“No,” said the Duke, “I went home. The policeman protested; but he went no further, so I did not throw him into the middle of the street.”
“Whatever our station, we should respect the law,” said M. Formery solemnly.
“The Republican Law, M. Formery? I am a Royalist,” said the Duke, smiling at him.
M. Formery shook his head sadly.
“I was wondering,” said the Duke, “about M. Guerchard’s theory that the burglars were let in the front door of this house by an accomplice. Why, when they had this beautiful large opening, did they want a front door, too?”
“I did not know that that was Guerchard’s theory?” said M. Formery, a trifle contemptuously. “Of course they had no need to use the front door.”
“Perhaps they had no need to use the front door,” said Guerchard; “but, after all, the front door was unbolted, and they did not draw the bolts to put us off the scent. Their false scent was already prepared”—he waved his hand towards the window—“moreover, you must bear in mind that that opening might not have been made when they entered the house. Suppose that, while they were on the other side of the wall, a brick had fallen on to the hearth, and alarmed the concierge. We don’t know how skilful they are; they might not have cared to risk it. I’m inclined to think, on the whole, that they did come in through the front door.”
M. Formery sniffed contemptuously.
“Perhaps you’re right,” said the Duke. “But the accomplice?”
“I think we shall know more about the accomplice when Victoire awakes,” said Guerchard.
“The family have such confidence in Victoire,” said the Duke.
“Perhaps Lupin has, too,” said Guerchard grimly.
“Always Lupin!” said M. Formery contemptuously.
There came a knock at the door, and a footman appeared on the threshold. He informed the Duke that Germaine had returned from her shopping expedition, and was awaiting him in her boudoir. He went to her, and tried to persuade her to put in a word for Sonia, and endeavour to soften Guerchard’s rigour.
She refused to do anything of the kind, declaring that, in view of the value of the stolen property, no stone must be left unturned to recover it. The police knew what they were doing; they must have a free hand. The Duke did not press her with any great vigour; he realized the futility of an appeal to a nature so shallow, so self-centred, and so lacking in sympathy. He took his revenge by teasing her about the wedding presents which were still flowing in. Her father’s business friends were still striving to outdo one another in the costliness of the jewelry they were giving her. The great houses of the Faubourg Saint-Germain were still refraining firmly from anything that savoured of extravagance or ostentation. While he was with her