"Daspry! Daspry!" I cried, pushing aside the curtain. He ran to
me.
"What? What's the matter?"
"Madame Andermatt is ill."
He hastened to her, caused her to inhale some salts, and, while
caring for her, questioned me:
"Well, what did it?"
"The letters of Louis Lacombe that you gave to her husband."
He struck his forehead and said:
"Did she think that I could do such a thing!...But, of course
she would. Imbecile that I am!"
Madame Andermatt was now revived. Daspry took from his pocket a
small package exactly similar to the one that Mon. Andermatt had
carried away.
"Here are your letters, Madame. These are the genuine letters."
"But....the others?"
"The others are the same, rewritten by me and carefully worded.
Your husband will not find anything objectionable in them, and will
never suspect the substitution since they were taken from the safe
in his presence."
"But the handwriting---"
"There is no handwriting that cannot be imitated."
She thanked him in the same words she might have used to a man in
her own social circle, so I concluded that she had not witnessed
the final scene between Varin and Arsene Lupin.
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