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I was in Paris. The evening newspapers informed me that Pierre Onfrey had been captured at last.

      Next day,—let us not despise the advantages of judicious advertising,—the `Echo de France' published this sensational item:

      "Yesterday, near Buchy, after numerous exciting incidents, Arsène Lupin effected the arrest of Pierre Onfrey. The assassin of the rue Lafontaine had robbed Madame Renaud, wife of the director in the penitentiary service, in a railway carriage on the Paris-Havre line. Arsène Lupin restored to Madame Renaud the hand-bag that contained her jewels, and gave a generous recompense to the two detectives who had assisted him in making that dramatic arrest."

V. The Queen's Necklace

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      Two or three times each year, on occasions of unusual importance, such as the balls at the Austrian Embassy or the soirées of Lady Billingstone, the Countess de Dreux-Soubise wore upon her white shoulders "The Queen's Necklace."

      It was, indeed, the famous necklace, the legendary necklace that Bohmer and Bassenge, court jewelers, had made for Madame Du Barry; the veritable necklace that the Cardinal de Rohan-Soubise intended to give to Marie-Antoinette, Queen of France; and the same that the adventuress Jeanne de Valois, Countess de la Motte, had pulled to pieces one evening in February, 1785, with the aid of her husband and their accomplice, Rétaux de Villette.

      To tell the truth, the mounting alone was genuine. Rétaux de Villette had kept it, whilst the Count de la Motte and his wife scattered to the four winds of heaven the beautiful stones so carefully chosen by Bohmer. Later, he sold the mounting to Gaston de Dreux-Soubise, nephew and heir of the Cardinal, who re-purchased the few diamonds that remained in the possession of the English jeweler, Jeffreys; supplemented them with other stones of the same size but of much inferior quality, and thus restored the marvelous necklace to the form in which it had come from the hands of Bohmer and Bassenge.

      For nearly a century, the house of Dreux-Soubise had prided itself upon the possession of this historic jewel. Although adverse circumstances had greatly reduced their fortune, they preferred to curtail their household expenses rather than part with this relic of royalty. More particularly, the present count clung to it as a man clings to the home of his ancestors. As a matter of prudence, he had rented a safety-deposit box at the Crédit Lyonnais in which to keep it. He went for it himself on the afternoon of the day on which his wife wished to wear it, and he, himself, carried it back next morning.

      On this particular evening, at the reception given at the Palais de Castille, the Countess achieved a remarkable success; and King Christian, in whose honor the fête was given, commented on her grace and beauty. The thousand facets of the diamond sparkled and shone like flames of fire about her shapely neck and shoulders, and it is safe to say that none but she could have borne the weight of such an ornament with so much ease and grace.

      This was a double triumph, and the Count de Dreux was highly elated when they returned to their chamber in the old house of the faubourg Saint-Germain. He was proud of his wife, and quite as proud, perhaps, of the necklace that had conferred added luster to his noble house for generations. His wife, also, regarded the necklace with an almost childish vanity, and it was not without regret that she removed it from her shoulders and handed it to her husband who admired it as passionately as if he had never seen it before. Then, having placed it in its case of red leather, stamped with the Cardinal's arms, he passed into an adjoining room which was simply an alcove or cabinet that had been cut off from their chamber, and which could be entered only by means of a door at the foot of their bed. As he had done on previous occasions, he hid it on a high shelf amongst hat-boxes and piles of linen. He closed the door, and retired.

      Next morning, he arose about nine o'clock, intending to go to the Crédit Lyonnais before breakfast. He dressed, drank a cup of coffee, and went to the stables to give his orders. The condition of one of the horses worried him. He caused it to be exercised in his presence. Then he returned to his wife, who had not yet left the chamber. Her maid was dressing her hair. When her husband entered, she asked:

      "Are you going out?"

      "Yes, as far as the bank."

      "Of course. That is wise."

      He entered the cabinet; but, after a few seconds, and without any sign of astonishment, he asked:

      "Did you take it, my dear?"

      "What?....No, I have not taken anything."

      "You must have moved it."

      "Not at all. I have not even opened that door."

      He appeared at the door, disconcerted, and stammered, in a scarcely intelligible voice:

      "You haven't....It wasn't you?....Then...."

      She hastened to his assistance, and, together, they made a thorough search, throwing the boxes to the floor and overturning the piles of linen. Then the count said, quite discouraged:

      "It is useless to look any more. I put it here, on this shelf."

      "You must be mistaken."

      "No, no, it was on this shelf—nowhere else."

      They lighted a candle, as the room was quite dark, and then carried out all the linen and other articles that the room contained. And, when the room was emptied, they confessed, in despair, that the famous necklace had disappeared. Without losing time in vain lamentations, the countess notified the commissary of police, Mon. Valorbe, who came at once, and, after hearing their story, inquired of the count:

      "Are you sure that no one passed through your chamber during the night?"

      "Absolutely sure, as I am a very light sleeper. Besides, the chamber door was bolted, and I remember unbolting it this morning when my wife rang for her maid."

      "And there is no other entrance to the cabinet?"

      "None."

      "No windows?"

      "Yes, but it is closed up."

      "I will look at it."

      Candles were lighted, and Mon. Valorbe observed at once that the lower half of the window was covered by a large press which was, however, so narrow that it did not touch the casement on either side.

      "On what does this window open?"

      "A small inner court."

      "And you have a floor above this?"

      "Two; but, on a level with the servant's floor, there is a close grating over the court. That is why this room is so dark."

      When the press was moved, they found that the window was fastened, which would not have been the case if anyone had entered that way.

      "Unless," said the count, "they went out through our chamber."

      "In that case, you would have found the door unbolted."

      The commissary considered the situation for a moment, then asked the countess:

      "Did any of your servants know that you wore the necklace last evening?"

      "Certainly; I didn't conceal the fact. But nobody knew that it was hidden in that cabinet."

      "No one?"

      "No one.... unless...."

      "Be quite sure, madam, as it is a very important point."

      She turned to her husband, and said:

      "I was thinking of Henriette."

      "Henriette? She didn't know where we kept it."

      "Are you sure?"

      "Who is this woman Henriette?" asked Mon. Valorbe.

      "A school-mate, who was disowned by her family for marrying beneath her. After her husband's death, I furnished an apartment in this house for her and her son. She is clever with her needle and has done some work for me."

      "What

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