he house as
though it were a fortress, the colonel gave a great house-warming, a
sort of private view, to which he invited the members of both his
clubs, as well as a certain number of ladies, journalists, art-patrons
and critics.

They felt, as they passed through the garden-gate, much as if they were
walking into a prison. The three private detectives, posted at the foot
of the stairs, asked for each visitor's invitation card and eyed him up
and down suspiciously, making him feel as though they were going to
search his pockets or take his finger-prints.

The colonel, who received his guests on the first floor, made laughing
apologies and seemed delighted at the opportunity of explaining the
arrangements which he had invented to secure the safety of his hangings.
His wife stood by him, looking charmingly young and pretty, fair-haired,
pale and sinuous, with a sad and gentle expression, the expression of
resignation often worn by those who are threatened by fate.

When all the guests had come, the garden-gates and the hall-doors were
closed. Then everybody filed into the middle gallery, which was reached
through two steel doors, while its windows, with their huge shutters,
were protected by iron bars. This was where the twelve tapestries were
kept.

They were matchless works of art and, taking their inspiration from the
famous Bayeux Tapestry, attributed to Queen Matilda, they represented
the story of the Norman Conquest. They had been ordered in the
fourteenth century by the descendant of a man-at-arms in William the
Conqueror's train; were executed by Jehan Gosset, a famous Arras weaver;
and were discovered, five hundred years later, in an old Breton
manor-house. On hearing of this, the colonel had struck a bargain for
fifty thousand francs. They were worth ten times the money.

But the finest of the twelve hangings composing the set, the most
uncommon because the subject had not been treated by Queen Matilda, was
the one which Arsene Lupin had stolen and which had been so fortunately
recovered. It portrayed Edith Swan-neck on the battlefield of Hastings,
seeking among the dead for the body of her sweetheart Harold, last of
the Saxon kings.

The guests were lost in enthusiasm over this tapestry, over the
unsophisticated beauty of the design, over the faded colours, over the
life-like grouping of the figures and the pitiful sadness of the scene.
Poor Edith Swan-neck stood drooping like an overweighted lily. Her