“He, no more than any other.” 

 “Yet—-” 

 “Well, if he escapes, so much the better. I will catch him again. Meanwhile, you go home and sleep soundly. That will do for the present. You frighten the fish.” 

 The conversation was ended. The baron returned to the castle, reassured to some extent by Ganimard’s indifference. He examined the bolts, watched the servants, and, during the next forty-eight hours, he became almost persuaded that his fears were groundless. Certainly, as Ganimard had said, thieves do not warn people they are about to rob. 

 The fateful day was close at hand. It was now the twenty-sixth of September and nothing had happened. But at three o’clock the bell rang. A boy brought this telegram: 

 “No goods at Batignolles station. Prepare everything for tomorrow night. Arsène.” 

 This telegram threw the baron into such a state of excitement that he even considered the advisability of yielding to Lupin’s demands. 

 However, he hastened to Caudebec. Ganimard was fishing at the same place, seated on a campstool. Without a word, he handed him the telegram. 

 “Well, what of it?” said the detective. 

 “What of it? But it is tomorrow.” 

 “What is tomorrow?” 

 “The robbery! The pillage of my collections!” 

 Ganimard laid down his fishing-rod, turned to the baron, and exclaimed, in a tone of impatience: 

 “Ah! Do you think I am going to bother myself about such a silly story as that!” 

 “How much do you ask to pass tomorrow night in the castle?” 

 “Not a sou. Now, leave me alone.” 

 “Name your own price. I am rich and can pay it.” 

 This offer disconcerted Ganimard, who replied, calmly: 

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