Arsene Lupin. Морис Леблан
the explanation first- -"
Suddenly Beautrelet stopped. The document! In the middle of a left- hand page, his eyes saw the five mysterious lines of dots and figures! He made sure, with a glance, that the text was identical with that which he had studied so long; the same arrangement of the signs, the same intervals that permitted of the isolation of the word demoiselles and the separation of the two words aiguille and creuse.
A short note preceded it:
All the necessary indications, it appears, were reduced by King Louis XIII. into a little table which I transcribe below.
Here followed the table of dots and figures.
Then came the explanation of the document itself. Beautrelet read, in a broken voice:
As will be seen, this table, even after we have changed the figures into vowels, affords no light. One might say that, in order to decipher the puzzle, we must first know it. It is, at most, a clue given to those who know the paths of the labyrinth.
Let us take this clue and proceed. I will guide you.
The fourth line first. The fourth line contains measurements and indications. By complying with the indications and noting the measurements set down, we inevitably attain our object, on condition, be it understood, that we know where we are and whither we are going, in a word, that we are enlightened as to the real meaning of the Hollow Needle. This is what we may learn from the first three lines. The first is so conceived to revenge myself on the King; I had warned him, for that matter—
Beautrelet stopped, nonplussed.
"What? What is it?" said Massiban.
"The words don't make sense."
"No more they do," replied Massiban. "'The first is so conceived to revenge myself on the King—' What can that mean?"
"Damn!" yelled Beautrelet.
"Well?"
"Torn! Two pages! The next two pages! Look at the marks!"
He trembled, shaking with rage and disappointment. Massiban bent forward.
"It is true—there are the ends of two pages left, like bookbinders' guards. The marks seem pretty fresh. They've not been cut, but torn out—torn out with violence. Look, all the pages at the end of the book have been rumpled."
"But who can have done it? Who?" moaned Isidore, wringing his hands. "A servant? An accomplice?"
"All the same, it may date back to a few months since," observed Massiban.
"Even so—even so—some one must have hunted out and taken the book- -Tell me, monsieur," cried Beautrelet, addressing the baron, "is there no one whom you suspect?"
"We might ask my daughter."
"Yes—yes—that's it—perhaps she will know."
M. de Velines rang for the footman. A few minutes later. Mme. de Villemon entered. She was a young woman, with a sad and resigned face. Beautrelet at once asked her:
"You found this volume upstairs, madame, in the library?"
"Yes, in a parcel of books that had not been uncorded."
"And you read it?"
"Yes, last night."
"When you read it, were those two pages missing? Try and remember: the two pages following this table of figures and dots?"
"No, certainly not," she said, greatly astonished. "There was no page missing at all."
"Still, somebody has torn—"
"But the book did not leave my room last night."
"And this morning?"
"This morning, I brought it down here myself, when M. Massiban's arrival was announced."
"Then—?"
"Well, I don't understand—unless—but no."
"What?"
"Georges—my son—this morning—Georges was playing with the book."
She ran out headlong, accompanied by Beautrelet, Massiban and the baron. The child was not in his room. They hunted in every direction. At last, they found him playing behind the castle. But those three people seemed so excited and called him so peremptorily to account that he began to yell aloud.
Everybody ran about to right and left. The servants were questioned. It was an indescribable tumult. And Beautrelet received the awful impression that the truth was ebbing away from him, like water trickling through his fingers.
He made an effort to recover himself, took Mme. de Villemon's arm, and, followed by the baron and Massiban, led her back to the drawing room and said:
"The book is incomplete. Very well. There are two pages torn out; but you read them, did you not, madame?"
"Yes."
"You know what they contained?"
"Yes."
"Could you repeat it to us?"
"Certainly. I read the book with a great deal of curiosity, but those two pages struck me in particular because the revelations were so very interesting."
"Well, then, speak madame, speak, I implore you! Those revelations are of exceptional importance. Speak, I beg of you: minutes lost are never recovered. The Hollow Needle—"
"Oh, it's quite simple. The Hollow Needle means—"
At that moment, a footman entered the room:
"A letter for madame."
"Oh, but the postman has passed!"
"A boy brought it."
Mme. de Villemon opened the letter, read it, and put her hand to her heart, turning suddenly livid and terrified, ready to faint.
The paper had slipped to the floor. Beautrelet picked it up and, without troubling to apologize, read:
Not a word! If you say a word, your son will never wake again.
"My son—my son!" she stammered, too weak even to go to the assistance of the threatened child.
Beautrelet reassured her:
"It is not serious—it's a joke. Come, who could be interested?"
"Unless," suggested Massiban, "it was Arsene Lupin."
Beautrelet made him a sign to hold his tongue. He knew quite well, of course, that the enemy was there, once more, watchful and determined; and that was just why he wanted to tear from Mme. de Villemon the decisive words, so long awaited, and to tear them from her on the spot, that very moment:
"I beseech you, madame, compose yourself. We are all here. There is not the least danger."
Would she speak? He thought so, he hoped so. She stammered out a few syllables. But the door opened again. This time, the nurse entered. She seemed distraught:
"M. Georges—madame—M. Georges—!"
Suddenly, the mother recovered all her strength. Quicker than any of them, and urged by an unfailing instinct, she rushed down the staircase, across the hall and on to the terrace. There lay little Georges, motionless, on a wicker chair.
"Well, what is it? He's asleep!—"
"He fell asleep suddenly, madame," said the nurse. "I tried to prevent him, to carry him to his room. But he was fast asleep and his hands—his hands were cold."
"Cold!" gasped the mother. "Yes—it's true. Oh dear, oh dear—IF HE ONLY WAKES UP!"
Beautrelet put his hand in his trousers pocket, seized the butt of his revolver, cocked it with his forefinger, then suddenly produced the weapon and fired at Massiban.
Massiban, as though he were watching the boy's movements, had avoided the shot, so to speak, in advance. But already Beautrelet