The Secret Tomb by Maurice Leblanc (i like reading .txt) 📕

She shook hands with all of them, with an air of affection, and since the American and the Italian displayed an equal warmth, of a sudden, with a spontaneous movement, she rose on tiptoe and kissed them on both cheeks.

“Welcome cousin from America⁠ ⁠… welcome cousin from Italy⁠ ⁠… welcome to my country. And to you two also, greetings. It’s settled that we’re comrades⁠—friends⁠—isn’t it?”

The atmosphere was charged with joy and that good humor which comes from being young and full of life. They felt themselves to be really of the same family, scattered members brought together. They no longer felt the constraint of a first meeting. They had known one another for years and years⁠—for ages! cried Dorothy, clapping her hands. So the four men surrounded her, at once attracted by her charm and lightheartedness, and surprised by the light she brought into the obscure story which so suddenly united them to one another. All barriers were swept away. There was none of that slow infiltration of feeling which little by little fills you with trust and sympathy, but the sudden inrush of the most unreserved comradeship. Each wished to please and each felt that he did please.

Dorothy separated them and set them in a row as if about to review them.

“I’ll take you in turn, my friends. Excuse me, Monsieur Delarue, I’ll do the questioning and verify their credentials. Number one, the gentleman from America, who are you? Your name?”

The American answered:

“Archibald Webster, of Philadelphia.”

“Archibald Webster, of Philadelphia. You received from your father a gold medal?”

“From my mother, mademoiselle. My father died many years ago.”

“And from whom did your mother receive it?”

“From her father.”

“And he from his and so on in succession, isn’t that it?”

Archibald Webster confirmed her statement in excellent French, as if it was his duty to answer her questions:

“And so on in succession, as you say, mademoiselle. A family tradition, which goes back to we don’t know when, ascribes a French origin to her family, and directs that a certain medal should be transmitted to the eldest son, without more than two persons ever knowing of its existence.”

“And what do you understand this tradition to mean?”

“I don’t know what it means. My mother told me that it gave us a right to a share of a treasure. But she laughed as she told me and sent me to France rather out of curiosity.”

“Show me your medal, Archibald Webster.”

The American took the gold medal from his waistcoat pocket. It was exactly like the one Dorothy possessed⁠—the inscription, the size, the dull color were the same. Dorothy showed it to Maître Delarue, then gave it back to the American, and went on with her questioning:

“Number two⁠—English, aren’t you?”

“George Errington, of London.”

“Tell us what you know, George Errington, of London.”

The Englishman shook his pipe, emptied it, and answered in equally good French.

“I know no more. An orphan from birth, I received the medal three days ago from the hands of my guardian, my father’s brother. He told me that, according to my father, it was a matter of collecting a bequest, and according to himself, there was nothing in it, but I ought to obey the summons.”

“You were right to obey it, George Errington. Show me your medal. Right: you’re in order.⁠ ⁠… Number three⁠—a Russian, doubtless?”

The man in the soldier’s cap understood; but he did not speak French. He smiled his large smile and gave her a scrap of paper of doubtful cleanliness, on which was written: “Kourobelef, French war, Salonica. War with Wrangel.”

“The medal?” said Dorothy. “Right. You’re one of us. And the medal of number four⁠—the gentleman from Italy?”

“Marco Dario, of Geneva,” answered the Italian, showing his medal. “I found it on my father’s body, in Champagne, one day after we had been fighting side by side. He had never spoken to me about it.”

“Nevertheless you have come here.”

“I did not intend to. And then, in spite of myself, as I had returned to Champagne⁠—to my father’s tomb, I took the train to Vannes.”

“Yes,” she said: “like the others you have obeyed the command of our common ancestor. What ancestor? And why this command? That is what Monsieur Delarue is going to reveal to us. Come Monsieur Delarue: all is in order. All of us have the token. It is now in order for us to call on you for the explanation.”

“What explanation?” asked the lawyer, still dazed by so many surprises. “I don’t quite know.⁠ ⁠…”

“How do you mean you don’t know?⁠ ⁠… Why this leather satchel.⁠ ⁠… And why have you made the journey from Nantes to Roche-Périac? Come, open your satchel and read to us the documents it must contain.”

“You truly believe⁠—”

“Of course I believe! We have, all five of us, these gentlemen and myself, performed our duty in coming here and informing you of our identity. It is your turn to carry out your mission. We are all ears.”

The gayety of the young girl spread around her such an atmosphere of cordiality that even Maître Delarue himself felt its beneficent effects. Besides, the business was already in train; and he entered smoothly on ground over which the young girl had traced, in the midst of apparently impenetrable brushwood, a path which he could follow with perfect ease.

“But certainly,” said he. “But certainly.⁠ ⁠… There is nothing else to do.⁠ ⁠… And I must communicate what I know to you.⁠ ⁠… Excuse me.⁠ ⁠… But this affair is so disconcerting.”

Getting the better of the confusion into which he had been thrown, he recovered all the dignity which befits a lawyer. They set him in the seat of honor on a kind of shelf formed by an inequality of the ground, and formed a circle round him. Following Dorothy’s instructions, he opened his satchel with the air of importance of a man used to having every eye fixed on him and every ear stretched to catch his every word, and without waiting to be again pressed to speak, embarked on a discourse evidently prepared for the