CHAPTER
ONE: [Letters of Mark]
TWO: [A Cry for Help]
THREE: [Servants of Chance]
FOUR: [Betty Harlowe]
FIVE: [Betty Harlowe Answers]
SIX: [Jim Changes His Lodging]
SEVEN: [Exit Waberski]
EIGHT: [The Book]
NINE: [The Secret]
TEN: [The Clock upon the Cabinet]
ELEVEN: [A New Suspect]
TWELVE: [The Breaking of the Seals]
THIRTEEN: [Simon Harlowe's Treasure-room]
FOURTEEN: [An Experiment and a Discovery]
FIFTEEN: [The Finding of the Arrow]
SIXTEEN: [Hanaud Laughs]
SEVENTEEN: [At Jean Cladel's]
EIGHTEEN: [The White Tablet]
NINETEEN: [A Plan Frustrated]
TWENTY: [A Map and the Necklace]
TWENTY-ONE: [The Secret House]
TWENTY-TWO: [The Corona Machine]
TWENTY-THREE: [The Truth About the Clock on the Marquetry Cabinet]
TWENTY-FOUR: [Ann Upcott's Story]
TWENTY-FIVE: [What Happened on the Night of the 27th]
TWENTY-SIX: [The Façade of Notre Dame]
THE HOUSE OF THE ARROW
CHAPTER ONE: Letters of Mark
Messrs. Frobisher & Haslitt, the solicitors on the east side of Russell Square, counted amongst their clients a great many who had undertakings established in France; and the firm was very proud of this branch of its business.
"It gives us a place in history," Mr. Jeremy Haslitt used to say. "For it dates from the year 1806, when Mr. James Frobisher, then our very energetic senior partner, organised the escape of hundreds of British subjects who were detained in France by the edict of the first Napoleon. The firm received the thanks of His Majesty's Government and has been fortunate enough to retain the connection thus made. I look after that side of our affairs myself."
Mr. Haslitt's daily batch of letters, therefore, contained as a rule a fair number bearing the dark-blue stamp of France upon their envelopes. On this morning of early April, however, there was only one. It was addressed in a spidery, uncontrolled hand with which Mr. Haslitt was unfamiliar. But it bore the postmark of Dijon, and Mr. Haslitt tore it open rather quickly. He had a client in Dijon, a widow, Mrs. Harlowe, of whose health he had had bad reports. The letter was certainly written from her house, La Maison Crenelle, but not by her. He turned to the signature.
"Waberski?" he said, with a frown. "Boris Waberski?" And then, as he identified his correspondent, "Oh, yes, yes."
He sat down in his chair and read. The first part of the letter was merely flowers and compliments, but half-way down the second page its object was made clear as glass. It was five hundred pounds. Old Mr. Haslitt smiled and read on, keeping up, whilst he read, a one-sided conversation with the writer.