It was Rozaine.
He had been assaulted, thrown down and robbed. A card, pinned to
his coat, bore these words: "Arsene Lupin accepts with pleasure
the ten thousand francs offered by Mon. Rozaine." As a matter of
fact, the stolen pocket-book contained twenty thousand francs.
Of course, some accused the unfortunate man of having simulated
this attack on himself. But, apart from the fact that he could
not have bound himself in that manner, it was established that the
writing on the card was entirely different from that of Rozaine,
but, on the contrary, resembled the handwriting of Arsene Lupin as
it was reproduced in an old newspaper found on board.
Thus it appeared that Rozaine was not Arsene Lupin; but was
Rozaine, the son of a Bordeaux merchant. And the presence of
Arsene Lupin was once more affirmed, and that in a most alarming
manner.
Such was the state of terror amongst the passengers that none
would remain alone in a stateroom or wander singly in unfrequented
parts of the vessel. We clung together as a matter of safety.
And yet the most intimate acquaintances were estranged by a mutual
feeling of distrust. Arsene Lupin was, now, anybody and
everybody.
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