Arsène Lupin, gentleman-cambrioleur. English

by Maurice Leblanc

  V. The Queen's Necklace

  Two or three times each year, on occasions of unusual importance,such as the balls at the Austrian Embassy or the soirees of LadyBillingstone, the Countess de Dreux-Soubise wore upon her whiteshoulders "The Queen's Necklace."

  It was, indeed, the famous necklace, the legendary necklace thatBohmer and Bassenge, court jewelers, had made for Madame Du Barry;the veritable necklace that the Cardinal de Rohan-Soubise intendedto give to Marie-Antoinette, Queen of France; and the same that theadventuress Jeanne de Valois, Countess de la Motte, had pulled topieces one evening in February, 1785, with the aid of her husbandand their accomplice, Retaux de Villette.

  To tell the truth, the mounting alone was genuine. Retaux deVillette had kept it, whilst the Count de la Motte and his wifescattered to the four winds of heaven the beautiful stones socarefully chosen by Bohmer. Later, he sold the mounting to Gastonde Dreux-Soubise, nephew and heir of the Cardinal, who re-purchasedthe few diamonds that remained in the possession of the Englishjeweler, Jeffreys; supplemented them with other stones of the samesize but of much inferior quality, and thus restored the marvelousnecklace to the form in which it had come from the hands of Bohmerand Bassenge.

  For nearly a century, the house of Dreux-Soubise had prided itselfupon the possession of this historic jewel. Although adversecircumstances had greatly reduced their fortune, they preferred tocurtail their household expenses rather than part with this relicof royalty. More particularly, the present count clung to it as aman clings to the home of his ancestors. As a matter of prudence,he had rented a safety-deposit box at the Credit Lyonnais in whichto keep it. He went for it himself on the afternoon of the day onwhich his wife wished to wear it, and he, himself, carried it backnext morning.

  On this particular evening, at the reception given at the Palais deCastille, the Countess achieved a remarkable success; and KingChristian, in whose honor the fete was given, commented on hergrace and beauty. The thousand facets of the diamond sparkled andshone like flames of fire about her shapely neck and shoulders, andit is safe to say that none but she could have borne the weight ofsuch an ornament with so much ease and grace.

  This was a double triumph, and the Count de Dreux was highly elatedwhen they returned to their chamber in the old house of thefaubourg Saint-Germain. He was proud of his wife, and quite asproud, perhaps, of the necklace that had conferred added luster tohis noble house for generations. His wife, also, regarded thenecklace with an almost childish vanity, and it was not withoutregret that she removed it from her shoulders and handed it to herhusband who admired it as passionately as if he had never seen itbefore. Then, having placed it in its case of red leather, stampedwith the Cardinal's arms, he passed into an adjoining room whichwas simply an alcove or cabinet that had been cut off from theirchamber, and which could be entered only by means of a door at thefoot of their bed. As he had done on previous occasions, he hid iton a high shelf amongst hat-boxes and piles of linen. He closedthe door, and retired.

  Next morning, he arose about nine o'clock, intending to go to theCredit Lyonnais before breakfast. He dressed, drank a cup ofcoffee, and went to the stables to give his orders. The conditionof one of the horses worried him. He caused it to be exercised inhis presence. Then he returned to his wife, who had not yet leftthe chamber. Her maid was dressing her hair. When her husbandentered, she asked:

  "Are you going out?"

  "Yes, as far as the bank."

  "Of course. That is wise."

  He entered the cabinet; but, after a few seconds, and without anysign of astonishment, he asked:

  "Did you take it, my dear?"

  "What?....No, I have not taken anything."

  "You must have moved it."

  "Not at all. I have not even opened that door."

  He appeared at the door, disconcerted, and stammered, in a scarcelyintelligible voice:

  "You haven't....It wasn't you?....Then...."

  She hastened to his assistance, and, together, they made a thoroughsearch, throwing the boxes to the floor and overturning the pilesof linen. Then the count said, quite discouraged:

  "It is useless to look any more. I put it here, on this shelf."

  "You must be mistaken."

  "No, no, it was on this shelf--nowhere else."

  They lighted a candle, as the room was quite dark, and then carriedout all the linen and other articles that the room contained. And,when the room was emptied, they confessed, in despair, that thefamous necklace had disappeared. Without losing time in vainlamentations, the countess notified the commissary of police, Mon.Valorbe, who came at once, and, after hearing their story, inquiredof the count:

  "Are you sure that no one passed through your chamber during thenight?"

  "Absolutely sure, as I am a very light sleeper. Besides, thechamber door was bolted, and I remember unbolting it this morningwhen my wife rang for her maid."

  "And there is no other entrance to the cabinet?"

  "None."

  "No windows?"

  "Yes, but it is closed up."

  "I will look at it."

  Candles were lighted, and Mon. Valorbe observed at once that thelower half of the window was covered by a large press which was,however, so narrow that it did not touch the casement on eitherside.

  "On what does this window open?"

  "A small inner court."

  "And you have a floor above this?"

  "Two; but, on a level with the servant's floor, there is a closegrating over the court. That is why this room is so dark."

  When the press was moved, they found that the window was fastened,which would not have been the case if anyone had entered that way.

  "Unless," said the count, "they went out through our chamber."

  "In that case, you would have found the door unbolted."

  The commissary considered the situation for a moment, then askedthe countess:

  "Did any of your servants know that you wore the necklace lastevening?"

  "Certainly; I didn't conceal the fact. But nobody knew that it washidden in that cabinet."

  "No one?"

  "No one....unless...."

  "Be quite sure, madam, as it is a very important point."

  She turned to her husband, and said:

  "I was thinking of Henriette."

  "Henriette? She didn't know where we kept it."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Who is this woman Henriette?" asked Mon. Valorbe.

  "A school-mate, who was disowned by her family for marrying beneathher. After her husband's death, I furnished an apartment in thishouse for her and her son. She is clever with her needle and hasdone some work for me."

  "What floor is she on?"

  "Same as ours....at the end of the corridor....and I think....the window of her kitchen...."

  "Opens on this little court, does it not?"

  "Yes, just opposite ours."

  Mon. Valorbe then asked to see Henriette. They went to herapartment; she was sewing, whilst her son Raoul, about six yearsold, was sitting beside her, reading. The commissary was surprisedto see the wretched apartment that had been provided for the woman.It consisted of one room without a fireplace, and a very small roomthat served as a kitchen. The commissary proceeded to questionher. She appeared to be overwhelmed on learning of the theft.Last evening she had herself dressed the countess and placed thenecklace upon her shoulders.

  "Good God!" she exclaimed, "it can't be possible!"

  "And you have no idea? Not the least suspicion? Is it possiblethat the thief may have passed through your room?"

  She laughed heartily, never supposing that she could be an objectof suspicion.

  "But I have not left my room. I never go out. And, perhaps, youhave not seen?"

  She opened the kitchen window, and said:

  "See, it is at least three metres to the ledge of the oppositewindow."

  "Who told you that we supposed the theft might have been committedin that way?" />
  "But....the necklace was in the cabinet, wasn't it?"

  "How do you know that?"

  "Why, I have always known that it was kept there at night. It hadbeen mentioned in my presence."

  Her face, though still young, bore unmistakable traces of sorrowand resignation. And it now assumed an expression of anxiety as ifsome danger threatened her. She drew her son toward her. Thechild took her hand, and kissed it affectionately.

  When they were alone again, the count said to the commissary:

  "I do not suppose you suspect Henriette. I can answer for her.She is honesty itself."

  "I quite agree with you," replied Mon. Valorbe. "At most, Ithought there might have been an unconscious complicity. But Iconfess that even that theory must be abandoned, as it does nothelp solve the problem now before us."

  The commissary of police abandoned the investigation, which was nowtaken up and completed by the examining judge. He questioned theservants, examined the condition of the bolt, experimented with theopening and closing of the cabinet window, and explored the littlecourt from top to bottom. All was in vain. The bolt was intact.The window could not be opened or closed from the outside.

  The inquiries especially concerned Henriette, for, in spite ofeverything, they always turned in her direction. They made athorough investigation of her past life, and ascertained that,during the last three years, she had left the house only fourtimes, and her business, on those occasions, was satisfactorilyexplained. As a matter of fact, she acted as chambermaid andseamstress to the countess, who treated her with great strictnessand even severity.

  At the end of a week, the examining judge had secured no moredefinite information than the commissary of police. The judgesaid:

  "Admitting that we know the guilty party, which we do not, we areconfronted by the fact that we do not know how the theft wascommitted. We are brought face to face with two obstacles: a doorand a window--both closed and fastened. It is thus a doublemystery. How could anyone enter, and, moreover, how could any oneescape, leaving behind him a bolted door and a fastened window?"

  At the end of four months, the secret opinion of the judge was thatthe count and countess, being hard pressed for money, which wastheir normal condition, had sold the Queen's Necklace. He closedthe investigation.

  The loss of the famous jewel was a severe blow to the Dreux-Soubise.Their credit being no longer propped up by the reservefund that such a treasure constituted, they found themselvesconfronted by more exacting creditors and money-lenders. They wereobliged to cut down to the quick, to sell or mortgage every articlethat possessed any commercial value. In brief, it would have beentheir ruin, if two large legacies from some distant relatives hadnot saved them.

  Their pride also suffered a downfall, as if they had lost aquartering from their escutcheon. And, strange to relate, it wasupon her former schoolmate, Henriette, that the countess vented herspleen. Toward her, the countess displayed the most spitefulfeelings, and even openly accused her. First, Henriette wasrelegated to the servants' quarters, and, next day, discharged.

  For some time, the count and countess passed an uneventful life.They traveled a great deal. Only one incident of record occurredduring that period. Some months after the departure of Henriette,the countess was surprised when she received and read the followingletter, signed by Henriette:

  "Madame,""I do not know how to thank you; for it was you, was it not, whosent me that? It could not have been anyone else. No one but youknows where I live. If I am wrong, excuse me, and accept mysincere thanks for your past favors...."

  What did the letter mean? The present or past favors of thecountess consisted principally of injustice and neglect. Why,then, this letter of thanks?

  When asked for an explanation, Henriette replied that she hadreceived a letter, through the mails, enclosing two bank-notes ofone thousand francs each. The envelope, which she enclosed withher reply, bore the Paris post-mark, and was addressed in ahandwriting that was obviously disguised. Now, whence came thosetwo thousand francs? Who had sent them? And why had they sentthem?

  Henriette received a similar letter and a like sum of money twelvemonths later. And a third time; and a fourth; and each year for aperiod of six years, with this difference, that in the fifth andsixth years the sum was doubled. There was another difference:the post-office authorities having seized one of the letters underthe pretext that it was not registered, the last two letters wereduly sent according to the postal regulations, the first dated fromSaint-Germain, the other from Suresnes. The writer signed thefirst one, "Anquety"; and the other, "Pechard." The addresses thathe gave were false.

  At the end of six years, Henriette died, and the mystery remainedunsolved.

  * * * * *

  All these events are known to the public. The case was one ofthose which excite public interest, and it was a strangecoincidence that this necklace, which had caused such a greatcommotion in France at the close of the eighteenth century, shouldcreate a similar commotion a century later. But what I am about torelate is known only to the parties directly interested and a fewothers from whom the count exacted a promise of secrecy. As it isprobable that some day or other that promise will be broken, I haveno hesitation in rending the veil and thus disclosing the key tothe mystery, the explanation of the letter published in the morningpapers two days ago; an extraordinary letter which increased, ifpossible, the mists and shadows that envelope this inscrutabledrama.

  Five days ago, a number of guests were dining with the Count deDreux-Soubise. There were several ladies present, including histwo nieces and his cousin, and the following gentlemen: thepresident of Essaville, the deputy Bochas, the chevalier Floriani,whom the count had known in Sicily, and General Marquis deRouzieres, and old club friend.

  After the repast, coffee was served by the ladies, who gave thegentlemen permission to smoke their cigarettes, provided they wouldnot desert the salon. The conversation was general, and finallyone of the guests chanced to speak of celebrated crimes. And thatgave the Marquis de Rouzieres, who delighted to tease the count, anopportunity to mention the affair of the Queen's Necklace, asubject that the count detested.

  Each one expressed his own opinion of the affair; and, of course,their various theories were not only contradictory but impossible.

  "And you, monsieur," said the countess to the chevalier Floriani,"what is your opinion?"

  "Oh! I--I have no opinion, madame."

  All the guests protested; for the chevalier had just related in anentertaining manner various adventures in which he had participatedwith his father, a magistrate at Palermo, and which established hisjudgment and taste in such manners.

  "I confess," said he, "I have sometimes succeeded in unravelingmysteries that the cleverest detectives have renounced; yet I donot claim to be Sherlock Holmes. Moreover, I know very littleabout the affair of the Queen's Necklace."

  Everybody now turned to the count, who was thus obliged, quiteunwillingly, to narrate all the circumstances connected with thetheft. The chevalier listened, reflected, asked a few questions,and said:

  "It is very strange....at first sight, the problem appears to be avery simple one."

  The count shrugged his shoulders. The others drew closer to thechevalier, who continued, in a dogmatic tone:

  "As a general rule, in order to find the author of a crime or atheft, it is necessary to determine how that crime or theft wascommitted, or, at least, how it could have been committed. In thepresent case, nothing is more simple, because we are face to face,not with several theories, but with one positive fact, that is tosay: the thief could only enter by the chamber door or the windowof the cabinet. Now, a person cannot open a bolted door from theoutside. Therefore, he must have entered through the window."

  "But it was closed and fastened, and we found it fastenedafterward," declared the count.

  "In order to do that," continued Floriani, without heeding theinterruption, "he had simply to construct a br
idge, a plank or aladder, between the balcony of the kitchen and the ledge of thewindow, and as the jewel-case---"

  "But I repeat that the window was fastened," exclaimed the count,impatiently.

  This time, Floriani was obliged to reply. He did so withthe greatest tranquility, as if the objection was the mostinsignificant affair in the world.

  "I will admit that it was; but is there not a transom in the upperpart of the window?"

  "How do you know that?"

  "In the first place, that was customary in houses of that date;and, in the second place, without such a transom, the theft cannotbe explained."

  "Yes, there is one, but it was closed, the same as the window.Consequently, we did not pay attention to it."

  "That was a mistake; for, if you had examined it, you would havefound that it had been opened."

  "But how?"

  "I presume that, like all others, it opens by means of a wire witha ring on the lower end."

  "Yes, but I do not see---"

  "Now, through a hole in the window, a person could, by the aid ofsome instrument, let us say a poker with a hook at the end, gripthe ring, pull down, and open the transom."

  The count laughed and said:

  "Excellent! excellent! Your scheme is very cleverly constructed,but you overlook one thing, monsieur, there is no hole in thewindow."

  "There was a hole."

  "Nonsense, we would have seen it."

  "In order to see it, you must look for it, and no one has looked.The hole is there; it must be there, at the side of the window, inthe putty. In a vertical direction, of course."

  The count arose. He was greatly excited. He paced up and down theroom, two or three times, in a nervous manner; then, approachingFloriani, said:

  "Nobody has been in that room since; nothing has been changed."

  "Very well, monsieur, you can easily satisfy yourself that myexplanation is correct."

  "It does not agree with the facts established by the examiningjudge. You have seen nothing, and yet you contradict all that wehave seen and all that we know."

  Floriani paid no attention to the count's petulance. He simplysmiled and said:

  "Mon Dieu, monsieur, I submit my theory; that is all. If I ammistaken, you can easily prove it."

  "I will do so at once....I confess that your assurance---"

  The count muttered a few more words; then suddenly rushed to thedoor and passed out. Not a word was uttered in his absence; andthis profound silence gave the situation an air of almost tragicimportance. Finally, the count returned. He was pale and nervous.He said to his friends, in a trembling voice:

  "I beg your pardon....the revelations of the chevalier were sounexpected....I should never have thought...."

  His wife questioned him, eagerly:

  "Speak....what is it?"

  He stammered: "The hole is there, at the very spot, at the side ofthe window---"

  He seized the chevalier's arm, and said to him in an imperioustone:

  "Now, monsieur, proceed. I admit that you are right so far, butnow....that is not all....go on....tell us the rest of it."

  Floriani disengaged his arm gently, and, after a moment, continued:

  "Well, in my opinion, this is what happened. The thief, knowingthat the countess was going to wear the necklace that evening, hadprepared his gangway or bridge during your absence. He watched youthrough the window and saw you hide the necklace. Afterward, hecut the glass and pulled the ring."

  "Ah! but the distance was so great that it would be impossible forhim to reach the window-fastening through the transom."

  "Well, then, if he could not open the window by reaching throughthe transom, he must have crawled through the transom."

  "Impossible; it is too small. No man could crawl through it."

  "Then it was not a man," declared Floriani.

  "What!"

  "If the transom is too small to admit a man, it must have been achild."

  "A child!"

  "Did you not say that your friend Henriette had a son?"

  "Yes; a son named Raoul."

  "Then, in all probability, it was Raoul who committed the theft."

  "What proof have you of that?"

  "What proof! Plenty of it....For instance---"

  He stopped, and reflected for a moment, then continued:

  "For instance, that gangway or bridge. It is improbable that thechild could have brought it in from outside the house and carriedit away again without being observed. He must have used somethingclose at hand. In the little room used by Henriette as a kitchen,were there not some shelves against the wall on which she placedher pans and dishes?"

  "Two shelves, to the best of my memory."

  "Are you sure that those shelves are really fastened to the woodenbrackets that support them? For, if they are not, we could bejustified in presuming that the child removed them, fastened themtogether, and thus formed his bridge. Perhaps, also, since therewas a stove, we might find the bent poker that he used to open thetransom."

  Without saying a word, the count left the room; and, this time,those present did not feel the nervous anxiety they had experiencedthe first time. They were confident that Floriani was right, andno one was surprised when the count returned and declared:

  "It was the child. Everything proves it."

  "You have seen the shelves and the poker?"

  "Yes. The shelves have been unnailed, and the poker is there yet."

  But the countess exclaimed:

  "You had better say it was his mother. Henriette is the guiltyparty. She must have compelled her son---"

  "No," declared the chevalier, "the mother had nothing to do withit."

  "Nonsense! they occupied the same room. The child could not havedone it without the mother's knowledge."

  "True, they lived in the same room, but all this happened in theadjoining room, during the night, while the mother was asleep."

  "And the necklace?" said the count. "It would have been foundamongst the child's things."

  "Pardon me! He had been out. That morning, on which you found himreading, he had just come from school, and perhaps the commissaryof police, instead of wasting his time on the innocent mother,would have been better employed in searching the child's deskamongst his school-books."

  "But how do you explain those two thousand francs that Henriettereceived each year? Are they not evidence of her complicity?"

  "If she had been an accomplice, would she have thanked you for thatmoney? And then, was she not closely watched? But the child,being free, could easily go to a neighboring city, negotiate withsome dealer and sell him one diamond or two diamonds, as he mightwish, upon condition that the money should be sent from Paris, andthat proceeding could be repeated from year to year."

  An indescribable anxiety oppressed the Dreux-Soubise and theirguests. There was something in the tone and attitude ofFloriani--something more than the chevalier's assurance which, from thebeginning, had so annoyed the count. There was a touch of irony,that seemed rather hostile than sympathetic. But the countaffected to laugh, as he said:

  "All that is very ingenious and interesting, and I congratulate youupon your vivid imagination."

  "No, not at all," replied Floriani, with the utmost gravity, "Iimagine nothing. I simply describe the events as they must haveoccurred."

  "But what do you know about them?"

  "What you yourself have told me. I picture to myself the life ofthe mother and child down there in the country; the illness of themother, the schemes of and inventions of the child sell theprecious stones in order to save his mother's life, or, at least,soothe her dying moments. Her illness overcomes her. She dies.Years roll on. The child becomes a man; and then--and now I willgive my imagination a free rein--let us suppose that the man feels adesire to return to the home of his childhood, that he does so, andthat he meets there certain people who suspect and accuse hismother....do you realize the sorrow and anguish of such aninterview in the
very house wherein the original drama was played?"

  His words seemed to echo for a few seconds in the ensuing silence,and one could read upon the faces of the Count and Countess deDreux a bewildered effort to comprehend his meaning and, at thesame time, the fear and anguish of such a comprehension. The countspoke at last, and said:

  "Who are you, monsieur?"

  "I? The chevalier Floriani, whom you met at Palermo, and whom youhave been gracious enough to invite to your house on severaloccasions."

  "Then what does this story mean?"

  "Oh! nothing at all! It is simply a pastime, so far as I amconcerned. I endeavor to depict the pleasure that Henriette's son,if he still lives, would have in telling you that he was the guiltyparty, and that he did it because his mother was unhappy, as shewas on the point of losing the place of a....servant, by which shelived, and because the child suffered at sight of his mother'ssorrow."

  He spoke with suppressed emotion, rose partially and inclinedtoward the countess. There could be no doubt that the chevalierFloriani was Henriette's son. His attitude and words proclaimedit. Besides, was it not his obvious intention and desire to berecognized as such?

  The count hesitated. What action would he take against theaudacious guest? Ring? Provoke a scandal? Unmask the man who hadonce robbed him? But that was a long time ago! And who wouldbelieve that absurd story about the guilty child? No; better farto accept the situation, and pretend not to comprehend the truemeaning of it. So the count, turning to Floriani, exclaimed:

  "Your story is very curious, very entertaining; I enjoyed it much.But what do you think has become of this young man, this model son?I hope he has not abandoned the career in which he made such abrilliant debut."

  "Oh! certainly not."

  "After such a debut! To steal the Queen's Necklace at six years ofage; the celebrated necklace that was coveted by Marie-Antoinette!"

  "And to steal it," remarked Floriani, falling in with the count'smood, "without costing him the slightest trouble, without anyonethinking to examine the condition of the window, or to observe thatthe window-sill was too clean--that window-sill which he had wipedin order to efface the marks he had made in the thick dust. Wemust admit that it was sufficient to turn the head of a boy at thatage. It was all so easy. He had simply to desire the thing, andreach out his hand to get it."

  "And he reached out his hand."

  "Both hands," replied the chevalier, laughing.

  His companions received a shock. What mystery surrounded the lifeof the so-called Floriani? How wonderful must have been the lifeof that adventurer, a thief at six years of age, and who, to-day,in search of excitement or, at most, to gratify a feeling ofresentment, had come to brave his victim in her own house,audaciously, foolishly, and yet with all the grace and delicacy ofa courteous guest!

  He arose and approached the countess to bid her adieu. Sherecoiled, unconsciously. He smiled.

  "Oh! Madame, you are afraid of me! Did I pursue my role ofparlor-magician a step too far?"

  She controlled herself, and replied, with her accustomed ease:

  "Not at all, monsieur. The legend of that dutiful son interestedme very much, and I am pleased to know that my necklace had such abrilliant destiny. But do you not think that the son of thatwoman, that Henriette, was the victim of hereditary influence inthe choice of his vocation?"

  He shuddered, feeling the point, and replied:

  "I am sure of it; and, moreover, his natural tendency to crime musthave been very strong or he would have been discouraged."

  "Why so?"

  "Because, as you must know, the majority of the diamonds werefalse. The only genuine stones were the few purchased from theEnglish jeweler, the others having been sold, one by one, to meetthe cruel necessities of life."

  "It was still the Queen's Necklace, monsieur," replied thecountess, haughtily, "and that is something that he, Henriette'sson, could not appreciate."

  "He was able to appreciate, madame, that, whether true or false,the necklace was nothing more that an object of parade, an emblemof senseless pride."

  The count made a threatening gesture, but his wife stopped him.

  "Monsieur," she said, "if the man to whom you allude has theslightest sense of honor---"

  She stopped, intimidated by Floriani's cool manner.

  "If that man has the slightest sense of honor," he repeated.

  She felt that she would not gain anything by speaking to him inthat manner, and in spite of her anger and indignation, tremblingas she was from humiliated pride, she said to him, almost politely:

  "Monsieur, the legend says that Retaux de Villette, when inpossession of the Queen's Necklace, did not disfigure the mounting.He understood that the diamonds were simply the ornament, theaccessory, and that the mounting was the essential work, thecreation of the artist, and he respected it accordingly. Do youthink that this man had the same feeling?"

  "I have no doubt that the mounting still exists. The childrespected it."

  "Well, monsieur, if you should happen to meet him, will you tellhim that he unjustly keeps possession of a relic that is theproperty and pride of a certain family, and that, although thestones have been removed, the Queen's necklace still belongs to thehouse of Dreux-Soubise. It belongs to us as much as our name orour honor."

  The chevalier replied, simply:

  "I shall tell him, madame."

  He bowed to her, saluted the count and the other guests, anddeparted.

  * * * * *

  Four days later, the countess de Dreux found upon the table in herchamber a red leather case bearing the cardinal's arms. She openedit, and found the Queen's Necklace.

  But as all things must, in the life of a man who strives for unityand logic, converge toward the same goal--and as a littleadvertising never does any harm--on the following day, the `Echo deFrance' published these sensational lines:

  "The Queen's Necklace, the famous historical jewelry stolen fromthe family of Dreux-Soubise, has been recovered by Arsene Lupin,who hastened to restore it to its rightful owner. We cannot toohighly commend such a delicate and chivalrous act."