He went into the sitting-room. Mr. Kesselbach was sitting strapped to the back of the arm-chair, near the table. His head hung on his chest.
"He has fainted," said Gourel, going up to him. "He must have exerted himself beyond his strength."
Swiftly he cut the cords that fastened the shoulders. The body fell forward in an inert mass. Gourel caught it in his arms and started back with a cry of horror:
"Why, he's dead! Feel . . . his hands are ice-cold! And look at his eyes!"
Some one ventured the opinion:
"An apoplectic stroke, no doubt . . . or else heart-failure."
"True, there's no sign of a wound . . . it's a natural death."
They laid the body on the sofa and unfastened the clothes. But red stains at once appeared on the white shirt; and, when they pushed it back, they saw that, near the heart, the chest bore a little scratch through which had trickled a thin stream of blood.
And on the shirt was pinned a card. Gourel bent forward. It was Arsène Lupin's card, bloodstained like the rest.