And he signed his name:
"Arsène Lupin."
He sealed the letter and slipped it into a bottle which he flung through the window, on the soft ground of a flower-border.
Next, he made a great pile on the floor with old newspapers, straw and shavings, which he went to fetch in the kitchen. On the top of it he emptied a gallon of petrol. Then he lit a candle and threw it among the shavings.
A flame at once arose and other flames leapt forth, quick, glowing, crackling.
"Let's clear out," said Lupin. "The chalet is built of wood, it will all flare up like a match. And, by the time they come from the village, break down the gates and run to this end of the park, it will be too late. They will find ashes, the remains of two charred corpses and, close at hand, my farewell letter in a bottle. . . . Good-bye, Lupin! Bury me simply, good people, without superfluous state . . . a poor man's funeral . . . No flowers, no wreaths. . . . Just a humble cross and a plain epitaph; 'Here lies Arsène Lupin, adventurer.'"
He made for the park wall, climbed over it, and turning round, saw the flames soaring up to the sky. . . .
He wandered back toward Paris on foot, bowed down by destiny, with despair in his heart. And the peasants were amazed at the sight of this traveller who paid with bank-notes for his fifteen-penny meals.
Three foot-pads attacked him one evening in the forest. He defended himself with his stick and left them lying for dead. . . .