He took the book with an anxious gesture. The description corresponded with that given by the author of the pamphlet. Outside was a parchment cover, dirty, stained and worn in places, and under it, the real binding, in stiff leather. With what a thrill Beautrelet felt for the hidden pocket! Was it a fairy tale? Or would he find the document written by Louis XVI. and bequeathed by the queen to her fervent admirer? At the first page, on the upper side of the book, there was no receptacle. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Nothing,” they echoed, palpitating with excitement. But, at the last page, forcing back the book a little, he at once saw that the parchment was not stuck to the binding. He slipped his fingers in between—there was something—yes, he felt something—a paper— “Oh!” he gasped, in an accent almost of pain. “Here—is it possible?” “Quick, quick!” they cried. “What are you waiting for?” He drew out a sheet folded in two. “Well, read it!—There are words in red ink—Look!—it might be blood—pale, faded blood—Read it!—” He read: To you, Fersen. For my son. 16 October, 1793. MARIE ANTOINETTE. And suddenly Beautrelet gave a cry of stupefaction. Under the queen’s signature there were—there were two words, in black ink, underlined with a flourish—two words: ARSÈNE LUPIN. All, in turns, took the sheet of paper and the same cry escaped from the lips of all of them: “Marie Antoinette!—Arsène Lupin!” A great silence followed. That double signature: those two names coupled together, discovered hidden in the book of hours; that relic in which the poor queen’s desperate appeal had slumbered for more than a century: that horrible date of the 16th of October, 1793, the day on which the Royal head fell: all of this was most dismally and disconcertingly tragic. “Arsène Lupin!” stammered one of the voices, thus emphasizing the scare that underlay the sight of that demoniacal name at the foot of the hallowed page. “Yes, Arsène Lupin,” repeated Beautrelet. “The Queen’s friend was unable to understand her desperate dying appeal. He lived with the keepsake in his possession which the woman whom he loved had sent him and he never guessed the reason of that keepsake. Lupin discovered everything, on the other hand—and took it.” “Took what?” “The document, of course! The document written by Louis XVI.; and it is that which I held in my hands. The same appearance, the same shape, the same red seals. I understand why Lupin would not leave me a document which I could turn to account by merely examining the paper, the seals and so on.” “And then?” “Well, then, since the document is genuine, since I have, with my own eyes, seen the marks of the red seals, since Marie Antoinette herself assures me, by these few words in her hand, that the whole story of the pamphlet, as printed by M. Massiban, is correct, because a problem of the Hollow Needle really exists, I am now certain to succeed.”