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THE MYSTERY OF THE BOULE CABINET

A Detective Story

BY

BURTON E. STEVENSON

With Illustrations by THOMAS FOGARTY

1911

To

A.B.M.
Fellow-Sherlockian

CONTENTS

I A CONNOISSEUR'S VAGARY II THE FIRST TRAGEDY III THE WOUNDED HAND IV THE THUNDERBOLT V GRADY TAKES A HAND VI THE WOMAN IN THE CASE VII ROGERS GETS A SHOCK VIII PRECAUTIONS IX GUESSES AT THE RIDDLE X PREPARATIONS XI THE BURNING EYES XII GODFREY IS FRIGHTENED XIII A DISTINGUISHED CALLER XIV THE VEILED LADY XV THE SECRET OF THE UNKNOWN FRENCHMAN XVI PHILIP VANTINE'S CALLER XVII ENTER M. ARMAND XVIII I PART WITH THE BOULE CABINET XIX "LA MORT!" XX THE ESCAPE XXI GODFREY WEAVES A ROMANCE XXII "CROCHARD, L'INVINCIBLE!" XXIII WE MEET M. PIGOT XXIV THE SECRET OF THE CABINET XXV THE MICHAELOVITCH DIAMONDS XXVI THE FATE OF M. PIGOT XXVII THE LAST ACT OF THE DRAMA XXVIII CROCHARD WRITES AN EPILOGUE

ILLUSTRATIONS

CLUTCHING AT HIS THROAT, HE HALF-TURNED AND FELL

"I GRABBED HER AGAIN, AND JUST THEN MR. VANTINE OPENED THE DOOR ANDCAME OUT INTO THE HALL."

"A MOMENT LATER M. FÉLIX ARMAND WAS SHOWN IN"

WITH HIS BACK TO THE DOOR, STOOD A MAN RIPPING SAVAGELY AWAY THESTRIPS OF BURLAP

CHAPTER I

A CONNOISSEUR'S VAGARY

"Hello!" I said, as I took down the receiver of my desk 'phone, inanswer to the call.

"Mr. Vantine wishes to speak to you, sir," said the office-boy.

"All right," and I heard the snap of the connection.

"Is that you, Lester?" asked Philip Vantine's voice.

"Yes. So you're back again?"

"Got in yesterday. Can you come up to the house and lunch with meto-day?"

"I'll be glad to," I said, and meant it, for I liked Philip Vantine.

"I'll look for you, then, about one-thirty."

And that is how it happened that, an hour later, I was walking overtoward Washington Square, just above which, on the Avenue, the oldVantine mansion stood. It was almost the last survival of the oldrégime; for the tide of business had long since overflowed from theneighbouring streets into the Avenue and swept its fashionable folkfar uptown. Tall office and loft buildings had replaced thebrownstone houses; only here and there did some old family hold on,like a sullen and desperate rear-guard defying the advancing enemy.

Philip Vantine was one of these. He had been born in the house wherehe still lived, and declared that he would die there. He had no onebut himself to please in the matter, since he was unmarried and livedalone, and he mitigated the increasing roar and dust of theneighbourhood by long absences abroad. It was from one of these thathe had just returned.

I may as well complete this pencil-sketch. Vantine was about fiftyyears of age, the possessor of a comfortable fortune, something of aconnoisseur in art matters, a collector of old furniture, a littleeccentric—though now that

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