ARSÈNE LUPIN By EDGAR JEPSON AND MAURICE LEBLANC Frontispiece by H. Richard Boehm Contents CHAPTER I THE MILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER CHAPTER II THE COMING OF THE CHAROLAIS CHAPTER III LUPIN’S WAY CHAPTER IV THE DUKE INTERVENES CHAPTER V A LETTER FROM LUPIN CHAPTER VI AGAIN THE CHAROLAIS CHAPTER VII THE THEFT OF THE MOTOR-CARS CHAPTER VIII THE DUKE ARRIVES CHAPTER IX M. FORMERY OPENS THE INQUIRY CHAPTER X GUERCHARD ASSISTS CHAPTER XI THE FAMILY ARRIVES CHAPTER XII THE THEFT OF THE PENDANT CHAPTER XIII LUPIN WIRES CHAPTER XIV GUERCHARD PICKS UP THE TRUE SCENT CHAPTER XV THE EXAMINATION OF SONIA CHAPTER XVI VICTOIRE’S SLIP CHAPTER XVII SONIA’S ESCAPE CHAPTER XVIII THE DUKE STAYS CHAPTER XIX THE DUKE GOES CHAPTER XX LUPIN COMES HOME CHAPTER XXI THE CUTTING OF THE TELEPHONE WIRES CHAPTER XXII THE BARGAIN CHAPTER XXIII THE END OF THE DUEL ARSÈNE LUPIN CHAPTER I THE MILLIONAIRE’S DAUGHTER The rays of the September sun flooded the great halls of the old château of the Dukes of Charmerace, lighting up with their mellow glow the spoils of so many ages and many lands, jumbled together with the execrable taste which so often afflicts those whose only standard of value is money. The golden light warmed the panelled walls and old furniture to a dull lustre, and gave back to the fading gilt of the First Empire chairs and couches something of its old brightness. It illumined the long line of pictures on the walls, pictures of dead and gone Charmeraces, the stern or debonair faces of the men, soldiers, statesmen, dandies, the gentle or imperious faces of beautiful women. It flashed back from armour of brightly polished steel, and drew dull gleams from armour of bronze. The hues of rare porcelain, of the rich inlays of Oriental or Renaissance cabinets, mingled with the hues of the pictures, the tapestry, the Persian rugs about the polished floor to fill the hall with a rich glow of colour. But of all the beautiful and precious things which the sun-rays warmed to a clearer beauty, the face of the girl who sat writing at a table in front of the long windows, which opened on to the centuries-old turf of the broad terrace, was the most beautiful and the most precious. It was a delicate, almost frail, beauty. Her skin was clear with the transparent lustre of old porcelain, and her pale cheeks were only tinted with the pink of the faintest roses. Her straight nose was delicately cut, her rounded chin admirably moulded. A lover of beauty would have been at a loss whether more to admire her clear, germander eyes, so melting and so adorable, or the sensitive mouth, with its rather full lips, inviting all the kisses. But assuredly he would have been grieved by the perpetual air of sadness which rested on the beautiful face—the wistful melancholy of the Slav, deepened by something of personal misfortune and suffering.