While chattering, Lupin had gone through the same performance as Ganimard and was now near the door. Ganimard saw that his foe was about to escape him. Forgetting all prudence, he tried to block his way and received a tremendous butt in the stomach, which sent him rolling.
Lupin dexterously touched a spring, turned the handle, opened the door and slipped away, roaring with laughter as he went.
Twenty minutes later, when Ganimard at last succeeded in joining his men, one of them said to him:
“A house painter left the house, as his mates were coming back from breakfast, and put a letter in my hand. ‘Give that to your governor,’ he said. ‘Which governor?’ I asked; but he was gone. I suppose it’s meant for you.”
“Let’s have it.”
Ganimard opened the letter. It was hurriedly scribbled in pencil and contained these words:
This is to warn you, friend of my youth, against excessive credulity. When a fellow tells you that the cartridges in your revolver are damp, however great your confidence in that fellow may be, even though his name be Arsène Lupin, never allow yourself to be taken in. Fire first; and, if the fellow hops the twig, you will have acquired the proof (1) that the cartridges are not damp; and (2) that old Catherine is the most honest and respectable of housekeepers.
One of these days, I hope to have the pleasure of making her acquaintance.
Meanwhile, friend of my youth, believe me always affectionately and sincerely yours,
You only live once
by Michael Arlen[6]
How many writers have the extraordinary talent, precocious or otherwise, to have their first book published while they are still in their teens? Not many surely, but Michael Arlen is one. He was only eighteen when his first novel saw the light of print. He was only twenty four when these charming people, that highly sophisticated book of short stories, brought him a modest success. And he was still under thirty when THE GREEN HAT made him an international celebrity. It is said that THE GREEN HAT earned Michael Aden half a million dollars in book royalties alone, and the motion picture [starring Greta Garbo) and the play (starring Katharine Cornell) must have added substantially to the book’s income. Today, the critics speak airily of THE GREEN HAT as “superficial” and “dated” — yes, those harsh words about the most talked-of novel of its lime; but the critics, it is well known, have often borrowed the womanly prerogative of changing their minds, and no matter what harsh words have been flung in Mr. Alien’s direction in the past, no critic ever had the courage to deny that “Mike” has wit and imagination, that. “he knows how to tell a story”...
At ten o’clock one evening not long ago there was not, in the considered opinion of the famous amateur golfer Johnnie (“Jock”) Winterser, a more happily married man, a prouder father, and a more contented husband than Jock Winterset.
By ten fifteen of the same evening it was, in an emphatic and moving statement he made to his wife Stella, established beyond all doubt that there was not in all the United Kingdom a man, husband, and father lower down in the scale of happiness than poor Jock Winterset.
Preparing to leave the house in the grand manner, his parting words to Stella, touched with the dignity of melancholy self-criticism, were also in the grand manner. For Jock Winterset, surprisingly enough in an Englishman with a good eye for a ball, could speak English with reasonable facility, if not perhaps quite fluently.
As a youth he had been a martyr to the grunting habit, a malady which annually claims innumerable victims in England and America, but he had outgrown this. In due course he had mastered all the better-known labials and vowel sounds, and had even won a certain reputation among grunters as an able speechmaker in his triumphant career as Captain of the School, a Blue, a Walker Cup player, and Amateur Champion (twice).
He said to Stella: “You have let me live in a fool’s paradise for the nine years of our married life. I thought you loved me. I thought, like a fathead, that you were even proud of me sometimes.”
He said: “I realize now that you have been acting and pretending all the time — out of pity, not to hurt my feelings. I have never loved anyone but you, Stella — anyway, not since I met you. But you tell me I love only myself.”
He said: “I know I’m not clever. I know I’m no good at anything except games. But I’m not fool enough to think that there can be any happiness in a marriage when — when the teamwork has broken down — that is, when a fellow’s wife tells him in so many words that she has no respect for him at all.”
He said: “I shall have to think this out, Stella. We have to think above all of our boy. I am going now, and—”
“You were going,” Stella pointed out, “anyway.” Then, quite unlike herself, she suddenly giggled. “Just suppose you missed the 11:10 at Euston — then some other big thinker would win the North of England Championship tomorrow.”
“I don’t suppose,” he said bitterly, “that I shall even qualify, with this on my mind.”
“Why not?” said Stella with surprise. “Just think of nothing but the ball. You’ll find it quite easy, since you have thought of nothing else for the nine years we’ve been married.”
Whereupon Jock Winterset, forgetting all about the grand manner, picked up his small suitcase and large bag of clubs, and banged out of the house into the waiting taxi.
“Ever heard,” he said savagely to the taxidriver, “of lightning?”
“Yessir. My missus uses it regular on our Bill. It works wunnerful.”
“Go,” said Jock with restraint, “like lightning in the general-direction of Euston Station.”
He had ample time, in point of fact. But his nerves called for hurry, speed.
His thoughts sped faster than the taxi. The row with Stella had arisen from an argument about their son Gerald, then just on seven years old. Jerry had been laid up the last day or so with a slightly cut finger which had become inflamed.
Jock had suggested — casually, not dreaming of any opposition — that young Jerry should start taking golf lessons from a good professional as soon as his finger was better. “My father,” he said, “had me learn the feel of a club when I was Jerry’s age, and I have never regretted it.”
“Yes, dear,” said Stella. She was knitting.
“In fact,” said Jock, “that’s what made me.”
“Yes, dear,” said Stella.
She was slender and dark-haired, with wide, gray, thoughtful eyes. She was much loved by her friends, and silly people were rather frightened of her.
“There’s nothing,” said Jock, “like learning to swing a club in a natural way when you’re a kid. Like the caddies.”
“Jerry,” said Stella, going on knitting, “isn’t going to be a caddy.”
“You know what I mean, Stella. A really first-class amateur — someone who might win the Open. Golly, I’d be proud if a son of mine—”