The Hollow Needle FURTHER ADVENTURES OF ARSÈNE LUPIN by Maurice Leblanc AUTHOR OF “ARSÈNE LUPIN,” “THE BLONDE LADY,” ETC. TRANSLATED BY ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS Contents Chapter I. The Shot Chapter II. Isidore Beautrelet, Sixth-form Schoolboy Chapter III. The Corpse Chapter IV. Face to Face Chapter V. On the Track Chapter VI. An Historic Secret Chapter VII. The Treatise of the Needle Chapter VIII. From Cæsar to Lupin Chapter IX. Open, Sesame! Chapter X. The Treasures of the Kings of France ILLUSTRATIONS Valméras loved Raymonde’s melancholy charm She put the gun to her shoulder, calmly took aim and fired Two huge letters, each perhaps a foot long, appeared cut in relief in the granite of the floor “We’re going now. What do you think of my cockle-shell, Beautrelet?” THE HOLLOW NEEDLE CHAPTER ONE THE SHOT Raymonde listened. The noise was repeated twice over, clearly enough to be distinguished from the medley of vague sounds that formed the great silence of the night and yet too faintly to enable her to tell whether it was near or far, within the walls of the big country-house, or outside, among the murky recesses of the park. She rose softly. Her window was half open: she flung it back wide. The moonlight lay over a peaceful landscape of lawns and thickets, against which the straggling ruins of the old abbey stood out in tragic outlines, truncated columns, mutilated arches, fragments of porches and shreds of flying buttresses. A light breeze hovered over the face of things, gliding noiselessly through the bare motionless branches of the trees, but shaking the tiny budding leaves of the shrubs. And, suddenly, she heard the same sound again. It was on the left and on the floor below her, in the living rooms, therefore, that occupied the left wing of the house. Brave and plucky though she was, the girl felt afraid. She slipped on her dressing gown and took the matches. “Raymonde—Raymonde!” A voice as low as a breath was calling to her from the next room, the door of which had not been closed. She was feeling her way there, when Suzanne, her cousin, came out of the room and fell into her arms: “Raymonde—is that you? Did you hear—?” “Yes. So you’re not asleep?” “I suppose the dog woke me—some time ago. But he’s not barking now. What time is it?” “About four.” “Listen! Surely, some one’s walking in the drawing room!” “There’s no danger, your father is down there, Suzanne.” “But there is danger for him. His room is next to the boudoir.” “M. Daval is there too—” “At the other end of the house. He could never hear.” They hesitated, not knowing what course to decide upon. Should they call out? Cry for help? They dared not; they were frightened of the sound of their own voices. But Suzanne, who had gone to the window, suppressed a scream: “Look!—A man!—Near the fountain!”