He stammered, choked, with arms outstretched toward the empty
places, toward the denuded walls where naught remained but the
useless nails and cords. The Watteau, disappeared! The Rubens,
carried away! The tapestries taken down! The cabinets, despoiled
of their jewels!

"And my Louis XVI candelabra! And the Regent chandelier!...And
my twelfth-century Virgin!"

He ran from one spot to another in wildest despair. He recalled
the purchase price of each article, added up the figures, counted
his losses, pell-mell, in confused words and unfinished phrases.
He stamped with rage; he groaned with grief. He acted like a
ruined man whose only hope is suicide.

If anything could have consoled him, it would have been the
stupefaction displayed by Ganimard. The famous detective did not
move. He appeared to be petrified; he examined the room in a
listless manner. The windows?....closed. The locks on the
doors?....intact. Not a break in the ceiling; not a hole in the
floor. Everything was in perfect order. The theft had been
carried out methodically, according to a logical and inexorable
plan.

"Arsene Lupin....Arsene Lupin," he muttered.

Suddenly, as if moved by anger, he rushed upon his two assistants
and shook them violently. They did not awaken.

"The devil!" he cried. "Can it be possible?"