er eyes, red with tears, had
looked upon--And they dared not take it and hunt through it: it was as
though they feared lest they should be guilty of a sacrilege--

"Come, M. Beautrelet, it's your business!"

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:

ARSENE LUPIN.

All, in turns, took the sheet of paper and the same cry escaped from
the lips of all of them:

"Marie Antoinette!--Arsene 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.

"Arsene 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, Arsene 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