40203	----	http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.) The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin ARSÈNE LUPIN VERSUS HERLOCK SHOLMES BY MAURICE LEBLANC Translated from the French By GEORGE MOREHEAD M.A. DONOHUE & CO. CHICAGO 1910 CONTENTS CHAPTER I. Lottery Ticket No. 514 CHAPTER II. The Blue Diamond CHAPTER III. Herlock Sholmes Opens Hostilities CHAPTER IV. Light in the Darkness CHAPTER V. An Abduction CHAPTER VI. Second Arrest of Arsène Lupin CHAPTER VII. The Jewish Lamp CHAPTER VIII. The Shipwreck CHAPTER I. LOTTERY TICKET NO. 514. On the eighth day of last December, Mon. Gerbois, professor of mathematics at the College of Versailles, while rummaging in an old curiosity-shop, unearthed a small mahogany writing-desk which pleased him very much on account of the multiplicity of its drawers. "Just the thing for Suzanne's birthday present," thought he. And as he always tried to furnish some simple pleasures for his daughter, consistent with his modest income, he enquired the price, and, after some keen bargaining, purchased it for sixty-five francs. As he was giving his address to the shopkeeper, a young man, dressed with elegance and taste, who had been exploring the stock of antiques, caught sight of the writing-desk, and immediately enquired its price. "It is sold," replied the shopkeeper. "Ah! to this gentleman, I presume?" Monsieur Gerbois bowed, and left the store, quite proud to be the possessor of an article which had attracted the attention of a gentleman of quality. But he had not taken a dozen steps in the street, when he was overtaken by the young man who, hat in hand and in a tone of perfect courtesy, thus addressed him: "I beg your pardon, monsieur; I am going to ask you a question that you may deem impertinent. It is this: Did you have any special object in view when you bought that writing-desk?" "No, I came across it by chance and it struck my fancy." "But you do not care for it particularly?" "Oh! I shall keep it--that is all." "Because it is an antique, perhaps?" "No; because it is convenient," declared Mon. Gerbois. "In that case, you would consent to exchange it for another desk that would be quite as convenient and in better condition?" "Oh! this one is in good condition, and I see no object in making an exchange." "But----" Mon. Gerbois is a man of irritable disposition and hasty temper. So he replied, testily: "I beg of you, monsieur, do not insist." But the young man firmly held his ground. "I don't know how much you paid for it, monsieur, but I offer you double." "No." "Three times the amount." "Oh! that will do," exclaimed the professor, impatiently; "I don't wish to sell it." The young man stared at him for a moment in a manner that Mon. Gerbois would not readily forget, then turned and walked rapidly away. An hour later, the desk was delivered at the professor's house on the Viroflay road. He called his daughter, and said: "Here is something for you, Suzanne, provided you like it." Suzanne was a pretty girl, with a gay and affectionate nature. She threw her arms around her father's neck and kissed him rapturously. To her, the desk had all the semblance of a royal gift. That evening, assisted by Hortense, the servant, she placed the desk in her room; then she dusted it, cleaned the drawers and pigeon-holes, and carefully arranged within it her papers, writing material, correspondence, a collection of post-cards, and some souvenirs of her cousin Philippe that she kept in secret. Next morning, at half past seven, Mon. Gerbois went to the college. At ten o'clock, in pursuance of her usual custom, Suzanne went to meet him, and it was a great pleasure for him to see her slender figure and childish smile waiting for him at the college gate. They returned home together. "And your writing desk--how is it this morning?" "Marvellous! Hortense and I have polished the brass mountings until they look like gold." "So you are pleased with it?" "Pleased with it! Why, I don't see how I managed to get on without it for such a long time." As they were walking up the pathway to the house, Mon. Gerbois said: "Shall we go and take a look at it before breakfast?" "Oh! yes, that's a splendid idea!" She ascended the stairs ahead of her father, but, on arriving at the door of her room, she uttered a cry of surprise and dismay. "What's the matter?" stammered Mon. Gerbois. "The writing-desk is gone!" * * * * * When the police were called in, they were astonished at the admirable simplicity of the means employed by the thief. During Suzanne's absence, the servant had gone to market, and while the house was thus left unguarded, a drayman, wearing a badge--some of the neighbors saw it--stopped his cart in front of the house and rang twice. Not knowing that Hortense was absent, the neighbors were not suspicious; consequently, the man carried on his work in peace and tranquility. Apart from the desk, not a thing in the house had been disturbed. Even Suzanne's purse, which she had left upon the writing-desk, was found upon an adjacent table with its contents untouched. It was obvious that the thief had come with a set purpose, which rendered the crime even more mysterious; because, why did he assume so great a risk for such a trifling object? The only clue the professor could furnish was the strange incident of the preceding evening. He declared: "The young man was greatly provoked at my refusal, and I had an idea that he threatened me as he went away." But the clue was a vague one. The shopkeeper could not throw any light on the affair. He did not know either of the gentlemen. As to the desk itself, he had purchased it for forty francs at an executor's sale at Chevreuse, and believed he had resold it at its fair value. The police investigation disclosed nothing more. But Mon. Gerbois entertained the idea that he had suffered an enormous loss. There must have been a fortune concealed in a secret drawer, and that was the reason the young man had resorted to crime. "My poor father, what would we have done with that fortune?" asked Suzanne. "My child! with such a fortune, you could make a most advantageous marriage." Suzanne sighed bitterly. Her aspirations soared no higher than her cousin Philippe, who was indeed a most deplorable object. And life, in the little house at Versailles, was not so happy and contented as of yore. Two months passed away. Then came a succession of startling events, a strange blending of good luck and dire misfortune! On the first day of February, at half-past five, Mon. Gerbois entered the house, carrying an evening paper, took a seat, put on his spectacles, and commenced to read. As politics did not interest him, he turned to the inside of the paper. Immediately his attention was attracted by an article entitled: "Third Drawing of the Press Association Lottery. "No. 514, series 23, draws a million." The newspaper slipped from his fingers. The walls swam before his eyes, and his heart ceased to beat. He held No. 514, series 23. He had purchased it from a friend, to oblige him, without any thought of success, and behold, it was the lucky number! Quickly, he took out his memorandum-book. Yes, he was quite right. The No. 514, series 23, was written there, on the inside of the cover. But the ticket? He rushed to his desk to find the envelope-box in which he had placed the precious ticket; but the box was not there, and it suddenly occurred to him that it had not been there for several weeks. He heard footsteps on the gravel walk leading from the street. He called: "Suzanne! Suzanne!" She was returning from a walk. She entered hastily. He stammered, in a choking voice: "Suzanne ... the box ... the box of envelopes?" "What box?" "The one I bought at the Louvre ... one Saturday ... it was at the end of that table." "Don't you remember, father, we put all those things away together." "When?" "The evening ... you know ... the same evening...." "But where?... Tell me, quick!... Where?" "Where? Why, in the writing-desk." "In the writing-desk that was stolen?" "Yes." "Oh, mon Dieu!... In the stolen desk!" He uttered the last sentence in a low voice, in a sort of stupor. Then he seized her hand, and in a still lower voice, he said: "It contained a million, my child." "Ah! father, why didn't you tell me?" she murmured, naively. "A million!" he repeated. "It contained the ticket that drew the grand prize in the Press Lottery." The colossal proportions of the disaster overwhelmed them, and for a long time they maintained a silence that they feared to break. At last, Suzanne said: "But, father, they will pay you just the same." "How? On what proof?" "Must you have proof?" "Of course." "And you haven't any?" "It was in the box." "In the box that has disappeared." "Yes; and now the thief will get the money." "Oh! that would be terrible, father. You must prevent it." For a moment he was silent; then, in an outburst of energy, he leaped up, stamped on the floor, and exclaimed: "No, no, he shall not have that million; he shall not have it! Why should he have it? Ah! clever as he is, he can do nothing. If he goes to claim the money, they will arrest him. Ah! now, we will see, my fine fellow!" "What will you do, father?" "Defend our just rights, whatever happens! And we will succeed. The million francs belong to me, and I intend to have them." A few minutes later, he sent this telegram: "Governor Crédit Foncier "rue Capucines, Paris. "Am holder of No. 514, series 23. Oppose by all legal means any other claimant. "GERBOIS." Almost at the same moment, the Crédit Foncier received the following telegram: "No. 514, series 23, is in my possession. "ARSÈNE LUPIN." * * * * * Every time I undertake to relate one of the many extraordinary adventures that mark the life of Arsène Lupin, I experience a feeling of embarrassment, as it seems to me that the most commonplace of those adventures is already well known to my readers. In fact, there is not a movement of our "national thief," as he has been so aptly described, that has not been given the widest publicity, not an exploit that has not been studied in all its phases, not an action that has not been discussed with that particularity usually reserved for the recital of heroic deeds. For instance, who does not know the strange history of "The Blonde Lady," with those curious episodes which were proclaimed by the newspapers with heavy black headlines, as follows: "Lottery Ticket No. 514!" ... "The Crime on the Avenue Henri-Martin!" ... "The Blue Diamond!" ... The interest created by the intervention of the celebrated English detective, Herlock Sholmes! The excitement aroused by the various vicissitudes which marked the struggle between those famous artists! And what a commotion on the boulevards, the day on which the newsboys announced: "Arrest of Arsène Lupin!" My excuse for repeating these stories at this time is the fact that I produce the key to the enigma. Those adventures have always been enveloped in a certain degree of obscurity, which I now remove. I reproduce old newspaper articles, I relate old-time interviews, I present ancient letters; but I have arranged and classified all that material and reduced it to the exact truth. My collaborators in this work have been Arsène Lupin himself, and also the ineffable Wilson, the friend and confidant of Herlock Sholmes. Every one will recall the tremendous burst of laughter which greeted the publication of those two telegrams. The name "Arsène Lupin" was in itself a stimulus to curiosity, a promise of amusement for the gallery. And, in this case, the gallery means the entire world. An investigation was immediately commenced by the Crédit Foncier, which established these facts: That ticket No. 514, series 23, had been sold by the Versailles branch office of the Lottery to an artillery officer named Bessy, who was afterward killed by a fall from his horse. Some time before his death, he informed some of his comrades that he had transferred his ticket to a friend. "And I am that friend," affirmed Mon. Gerbois. "Prove it," replied the governor of the Crédit Foncier. "Of course I can prove it. Twenty people can tell you that I was an intimate friend of Monsieur Bessy, and that we frequently met at the Café de la Place-d'Armes. It was there, one day, I purchased the ticket from him for twenty francs--simply as an accommodation to him. "Have you any witnesses to that transaction?" "No." "Well, how do you expect to prove it?" "By a letter he wrote to me." "What letter?" "A letter that was pinned to the ticket." "Produce it." "It was stolen at the same time as the ticket." "Well, you must find it." It was soon learned that Arsène Lupin had the letter. A short paragraph appeared in the _Echo de France_--which has the honor to be his official organ, and of which, it is said, he is one of the principal shareholders--the paragraph announced that Arsène Lupin had placed in the hands of Monsieur Detinan, his advocate and legal adviser, the letter that Monsieur Bessy had written to him--to him personally. This announcement provoked an outburst of laughter. Arsène Lupin had engaged a lawyer! Arsène Lupin, conforming to the rules and customs of modern society, had appointed a legal representative in the person of a well-known member of the Parisian bar! Mon. Detinan had never enjoyed the pleasure of meeting Arsène Lupin--a fact he deeply regretted--but he had actually been retained by that mysterious gentleman and felt greatly honored by the choice. He was prepared to defend the interests of his client to the best of his ability. He was pleased, even proud, to exhibit the letter of Mon. Bessy, but, although it proved the transfer of the ticket, it did not mention the name of the purchaser. It was simply addressed to "My Dear Friend." "My Dear Friend! that is I," added Arsène Lupin, in a note attached to Mon. Bessy's letter. "And the best proof of that fact is that I hold the letter." The swarm of reporters immediately rushed to see Mon. Gerbois, who could only repeat: "My Dear Friend! that is I.... Arsène Lupin stole the letter with the lottery ticket." "Let him prove it!" retorted Lupin to the reporters. "He must have done it, because he stole the writing-desk!" exclaimed Mon. Gerbois before the same reporters. "Let him prove it!" replied Lupin. Such was the entertaining comedy enacted by the two claimants of ticket No. 514; and the calm demeanor of Arsène Lupin contrasted strangely with the nervous perturbation of poor Mon. Gerbois. The newspapers were filled with the lamentations of that unhappy man. He announced his misfortune with pathetic candor. "Understand, gentlemen, it was Suzanne's dowry that the rascal stole! Personally, I don't care a straw for it,... but for Suzanne! Just think of it, a whole million! Ten times one hundred thousand francs! Ah! I knew very well that the desk contained a treasure!" It was in vain to tell him that his adversary, when stealing the desk, was unaware that the lottery ticket was in it, and that, in any event, he could not foresee that the ticket would draw the grand prize. He would reply; "Nonsense! of course, he knew it ... else why would he take the trouble to steal a poor, miserable desk?" "For some unknown reason; but certainly not for a small scrap of paper which was then worth only twenty francs." "A million francs! He knew it;... he knows everything! Ah! you do not know him--the scoundrel!... He hasn't robbed you of a million francs!" The controversy would have lasted for a much longer time, but, on the twelfth day, Mon. Gerbois received from Arsène Lupin a letter, marked "confidential," which read as follows: "Monsieur, the gallery is being amused at our expense. Do you not think it is time for us to be serious? The situation is this: I possess a ticket to which I have no legal right, and you have the legal right to a ticket you do not possess. Neither of us can do anything. You will not relinquish your rights to me; I will not deliver the ticket to you. Now, what is to be done? "I see only one way out of the difficulty: Let us divide the spoils. A half-million for you; a half-million for me. Is not that a fair division? In my opinion, it is an equitable solution, and an immediate one. I will give you three days' time to consider the proposition. On Thursday morning I shall expect to read in the personal column of the Echo de France a discreet message addressed to _M. Ars. Lup_, expressing in veiled terms your consent to my offer. By so doing you will recover immediate possession of the ticket; then you can collect the money and send me half a million in a manner that I will describe to you later. "In case of your refusal, I shall resort to other measures to accomplish the same result. But, apart from the very serious annoyances that such obstinacy on your part will cause you, it will cost you twenty-five thousand francs for supplementary expenses. "Believe me, monsieur, I remain your devoted servant, ARSÈNE LUPIN." In a fit of exasperation Mon. Gerbois committed the grave mistake of showing that letter and allowing a copy of it to be taken. His indignation overcame his discretion. "Nothing! He shall have nothing!" he exclaimed, before a crowd of reporters. "To divide my property with him? Never! Let him tear up the ticket if he wishes!" "Yet five hundred thousand francs is better than nothing." "That is not the question. It is a question of my just right, and that right I will establish before the courts." "What! attack Arsène Lupin? That would be amusing." "No; but the Crédit Foncier. They must pay me the million francs." "Without producing the ticket, or, at least, without proving that you bought it?" "That proof exists, since Arsène Lupin admits that he stole the writing-desk." "But would the word of Arsène Lupin carry any weight with the court?" "No matter; I will fight it out." The gallery shouted with glee; and wagers were freely made upon the result with the odds in favor of Lupin. On the following Thursday the personal column in the _Echo de France_ was eagerly perused by the expectant public, but it contained nothing addressed to _M. Ars. Lup_. Mon. Gerbois had not replied to Arsène Lupin's letter. That was the declaration of war. That evening the newspapers announced the abduction of Mlle. Suzanne Gerbois. * * * * * The most entertaining feature in what might be called the Arsène Lupin dramas is the comic attitude displayed by the Parisian police. Arsène Lupin talks, plans, writes, commands, threatens and executes as if the police did not exist. They never figure in his calculations. And yet the police do their utmost. But what can they do against such a foe--a foe that scorns and ignores them? Suzanne had left the house at twenty minutes to ten; such was the testimony of the servant. On leaving the college, at five minutes past ten, her father did not find her at the place she was accustomed to wait for him. Consequently, whatever had happened must have occurred during the course of Suzanne's walk from the house to the college. Two neighbors had met her about three hundred yards from the house. A lady had seen, on the avenue, a young girl corresponding to Suzanne's description. No one else had seen her. Inquiries were made in all directions; the employees of the railways and street-car lines were questioned, but none of them had seen anything of the missing girl. However, at Ville-d'Avray, they found a shopkeeper who had furnished gasoline to an automobile that had come from Paris on the day of the abduction. It was occupied by a blonde woman--extremely blonde, said the witness. An hour later, the automobile again passed through Ville-d'Avray on its way from Versailles to Paris. The shopkeeper declared that the automobile now contained a second woman who was heavily veiled. No doubt, it was Suzanne Gerbois. The abduction must have taken place in broad daylight, on a frequented street, in the very heart of the town. How? And at what spot? Not a cry was heard; not a suspicious action had been seen. The shopkeeper described the automobile as a royal-blue limousine of twenty-four horse-power made by the firm of Peugeon & Co. Inquiries were then made at the Grand-Garage, managed by Madame Bob-Walthour, who made a specialty of abductions by automobile. It was learned that she had rented a Peugeon limousine on that day to a blonde woman whom she had never seen before nor since. "Who was the chauffeur?" "A young man named Ernest, whom I had engaged only the day before. He came well recommended." "Is he here now?" "No. He brought back the machine, but I haven't seen him since," said Madame Bob-Walthour. "Do you know where we can find him?" "You might see the people who recommended him to me. Here are the names." Upon inquiry, it was learned that none of these people knew the man called Ernest. The recommendations were forged. Such was the fate of every clue followed by the police. It ended nowhere. The mystery remained unsolved. Mon. Gerbois had not the strength or courage to wage such an unequal battle. The disappearance of his daughter crushed him; he capitulated to the enemy. A short announcement in the _Echo de France_ proclaimed his unconditional surrender. Two days later, Mon. Gerbois visited the office of the Crédit Foncier and handed lottery ticket number 514, series 23, to the governor, who exclaimed, with surprise: "Ah! you have it! He has returned it to you!" "It was mislaid. That was all," replied Mon. Gerbois. "But you pretended that it had been stolen." "At first, I thought it had ... but here it is." "We will require some evidence to establish your right to the ticket." "Will the letter of the purchaser, Monsieur Bessy, be sufficient!" "Yes, that will do." "Here it is," said Mon. Gerbois, producing the letter. "Very well. Leave these papers with us. The rules of the lottery allow us fifteen days' time to investigate your claim. I will let you know when to call for your money. I presume you desire, as much as I do, that this affair should be closed without further publicity." "Quite so." Mon. Gerbois and the governor henceforth maintained a discreet silence. But the secret was revealed in some way, for it was soon commonly known that Arsène Lupin had returned the lottery ticket to Mon. Gerbois. The public received the news with astonishment and admiration. Certainly, he was a bold gamester who thus threw upon the table a trump card of such importance as the precious ticket. But, it was true, he still retained a trump card of equal importance. However, if the young girl should escape? If the hostage held by Arsène Lupin should be rescued? The police thought they had discovered the weak spot of the enemy, and now redoubled their efforts. Arsène Lupin disarmed by his own act, crushed by the wheels of his own machination, deprived of every sou of the coveted million ... public interest now centered in the camp of his adversary. But it was necessary to find Suzanne. And they did not find her, nor did she escape. Consequently, it must be admitted, Arsène Lupin had won the first hand. But the game was not yet decided. The most difficult point remained. Mlle. Gerbois is in his possession, and he will hold her until he receives five hundred thousand francs. But how and where will such an exchange be made? For that purpose, a meeting must be arranged, and then what will prevent Mon. Gerbois from warning the police and, in that way, effecting the rescue of his daughter and, at the same time, keeping his money? The professor was interviewed, but he was extremely reticent. His answer was: "I have nothing to say." "And Mlle. Gerbois?" "The search is being continued." "But Arsène Lupin has written to you?" "No." "Do you swear to that?" "No." "Then it is true. What are his instructions?" "I have nothing to say." Then the interviewers attacked Mon. Detinan, and found him equally discreet. "Monsieur Lupin is my client, and I cannot discuss his affairs," he replied, with an affected air of gravity. These mysteries served to irritate the gallery. Obviously, some secret negotiations were in progress. Arsène Lupin had arranged and tightened the meshes of his net, while the police maintained a close watch, day and night, over Mon. Gerbois. And the three and only possible dénouements--the arrest, the triumph, or the ridiculous and pitiful abortion--were freely discussed; but the curiosity of the public was only partially satisfied, and it was reserved for these pages to reveal the exact truth of the affair. * * * * * On Monday, March 12th, Mon. Gerbois received a notice from the Crédit Foncier. On Wednesday, he took the one o'clock train for Paris. At two o'clock, a thousand bank-notes of one thousand francs each were delivered to him. Whilst he was counting them, one by one, in a state of nervous agitation--that money, which represented Suzanne's ransom--a carriage containing two men stopped at the curb a short distance from the bank. One of the men had grey hair and an unusually shrewd expression which formed a striking contrast to his shabby make-up. It was Detective Ganimard, the relentless enemy of Arsène Lupin. Ganimard said to his companion, Folenfant: "In five minutes, we will see our clever friend Lupin. Is everything ready?" "Yes." "How many men have we?" "Eight--two of them on bicycles." "Enough, but not too many. On no account, must Gerbois escape us; if he does, it is all up. He will meet Lupin at the appointed place, give half a million in exchange for the girl, and the game will be over." "But why doesn't Gerbois work with us? That would be the better way, and he could keep all the money himself." "Yes, but he is afraid that if he deceives the other, he will not get his daughter." "What other?" "Lupin." Ganimard pronounced the word in a solemn tone, somewhat timidly, as if he were speaking of some supernatural creature whose claws he already felt. "It is very strange," remarked Folenfant, judiciously, "that we are obliged to protect this gentleman contrary to his own wishes." "Yes, but Lupin always turns the world upside down," said Ganimard, mournfully. A moment later, Mon. Gerbois appeared, and started up the street. At the end of the rue des Capucines, he turned into the boulevards, walking slowly, and stopping frequently to gaze at the shop-windows. "Much too calm, too self-possessed," said Ganimard. "A man with a million in his pocket would not have that air of tranquillity." "What is he doing?" "Oh! nothing, evidently.... But I have a suspicion that it is Lupin--yes, Lupin!" At that moment, Mon. Gerbois stopped at a news-stand, purchased a paper, unfolded it and commenced to read it as he walked slowly away. A moment later, he gave a sudden bound into an automobile that was standing at the curb. Apparently, the machine had been waiting for him, as it started away rapidly, turned at the Madeleine and disappeared. "Nom de nom!" cried Ganimard, "that's one of his old tricks!" Ganimard hastened after the automobile around the Madeleine. Then, he burst into laughter. At the entrance to the Boulevard Malesherbes, the automobile had stopped and Mon. Gerbois had alighted. "Quick, Folenfant, the chauffeur! It may be the man Ernest." Folenfant interviewed the chauffeur. His name was Gaston; he was an employee of the automobile cab company; ten minutes ago, a gentleman had engaged him and told him to wait near the news-stand for another gentleman. "And the second man--what address did he give?" asked Folenfant. "No address. 'Boulevard Malesherbes ... avenue de Messine ... double pourboire.' That is all." But, during this time, Mon. Gerbois had leaped into the first passing carriage. "To the Concorde station, Metropolitan," he said to the driver. He left the underground at the Place du Palais-Royal, ran to another carriage and ordered it to go to the Place de la Bourse. Then a second journey by the underground to the Avenue de Villiers, followed by a third carriage drive to number 25 rue Clapeyron. Number 25 rue Clapeyron is separated from the Boulevard des Batignolles by the house which occupies the angle formed by the two streets. He ascended to the first floor and rang. A gentleman opened the door. "Does Monsieur Detinan live here?" "Yes, that is my name. Are you Monsieur Gerbois?" "Yes." "I was expecting you. Step in." As Mon. Gerbois entered the lawyer's office, the clock struck three. He said: "I am prompt to the minute. Is he here?" "Not yet." Mon. Gerbois took a seat, wiped his forehead, looked at his watch as if he did not know the time, and inquired, anxiously: "Will he come?" "Well, monsieur," replied the lawyer, "that I do not know, but I am quite as anxious and impatient as you are to find out. If he comes, he will run a great risk, as this house has been closely watched for the last two weeks. They distrust me." "They suspect me, too. I am not sure whether the detectives lost sight of me or not on my way here." "But you were--" "It wouldn't be my fault," cried the professor, quickly. "You cannot reproach me. I promised to obey his orders, and I followed them to the very letter. I drew the money at the time fixed by him, and I came here in the manner directed by him. I have faithfully performed my part of the agreement--let him do his!" After a short silence, he asked, anxiously: "He will bring my daughter, won't he?" "I expect so." "But ... you have seen him?" "I? No, not yet. He made the appointment by letter, saying both of you would be here, and asking me to dismiss my servants before three o'clock and admit no one while you were here. If I would not consent to that arrangement, I was to notify him by a few words in _the Echo de France_. But I am only too happy to oblige Mon. Lupin, and so I consented." "Ah! how will this end?" moaned Mon. Gerbois. He took the bank-notes from his pocket, placed them on the table and divided them into two equal parts. Then the two men sat there in silence. From time to time, Mon. Gerbois would listen. Did someone ring?... His nervousness increased every minute, and Monsieur Detinan also displayed considerable anxiety. At last, the lawyer lost his patience. He rose abruptly, and said: "He will not come.... We shouldn't expect it. It would be folly on his part. He would run too great a risk." And Mon. Gerbois, despondent, his hands resting on the bank-notes, stammered: "Oh! Mon Dieu! I hope he will come. I would give the whole of that money to see my daughter again." The door opened. "Half of it will be sufficient, Monsieur Gerbois." These words were spoken by a well-dressed young man who now entered the room and was immediately recognized by Mon. Gerbois as the person who had wished to buy the desk from him at Versailles. He rushed toward him. "Where is my daughter--my Suzanne?" Arsène Lupin carefully closed the door, and, while slowly removing his gloves, said to the lawyer: "My dear maître, I am indebted to you very much for your kindness in consenting to defend my interests. I shall not forget it." Mon. Detinan murmured: "But you did not ring. I did not hear the door--" "Doors and bells are things that should work without being heard. I am here, and that is the important point." "My daughter! Suzanne! Where is she!" repeated the professor. "Mon Dieu, monsieur," said Lupin, "what's your hurry? Your daughter will be here in a moment." Lupin walked to and fro for a minute, then, with the pompous air of an orator, he said: "Monsieur Gerbois, I congratulate you on the clever way in which you made the journey to this place." Then, perceiving the two piles of bank-notes, he exclaimed: "Ah! I see! the million is here. We will not lose any time. Permit me." "One moment," said the lawyer, placing himself before the table. "Mlle. Gerbois has not yet arrived." "Well?" "Is not her presence indispensable?" "I understand! I understand! Arsène Lupin inspires only a limited confidence. He might pocket the half-million and not restore the hostage. Ah! monsieur, people do not understand me. Because I have been obliged, by force of circumstances, to commit certain actions a little ... out of the ordinary, my good faith is impugned ... I, who have always observed the utmost scrupulosity and delicacy in business affairs. Besides, my dear monsieur if you have any fear, open the window and call. There are at least a dozen detectives in the street." "Do you think so?" Arsène Lupin raised the curtain. "I think that Monsieur Gerbois could not throw Ganimard off the scent.... What did I tell you? There he is now." "Is it possible!" exclaimed the professor. "But I swear to you--" "That you have not betrayed me?... I do not doubt you, but those fellows are clever--sometimes. Ah! I can see Folenfant, and Greaume, and Dieuzy--all good friends of mine!" Mon. Detinan looked at Lupin in amazement. What assurance! He laughed as merrily as if engaged in some childish sport, as if no danger threatened him. This unconcern reassured the lawyer more than the presence of the detectives. He left the table on which the bank-notes were lying. Arsène Lupin picked up one pile of bills after the other, took from each of them twenty-five bank-notes which he offered to Mon. Detinan, saying: "The reward of your services to Monsieur Gerbois and Arsène Lupin. You well deserve it." "You owe me nothing," replied the lawyer. "What! After all the trouble we have caused you!" "And all the pleasure you have given me!" "That means, my dear monsieur, that you do not wish to accept anything from Arsène Lupin. See what it is to have a bad reputation." He then offered the fifty thousand francs to Mon. Gerbois, saying: "Monsieur, in memory of our pleasant interview, permit me to return you this as a wedding-gift to Mlle. Gerbois." Mon. Gerbois took the money, but said: "My daughter will not marry." "She will not marry if you refuse your consent; but she wishes to marry." "What do you know about it?" "I know that young girls often dream of such things unknown to their parents. Fortunately, there are sometimes good genii like Arsène Lupin who discover their little secrets in the drawers of their writing desks." "Did you find anything else?" asked the lawyer. "I confess I am curious to know why you took so much trouble to get possession of that desk." "On account of its historic interest, my friend. Although despite the opinion of Monsieur Gerbois, the desk contained no treasure except the lottery ticket--and that was unknown to me--I had been seeking it for a long time. That writing-desk of yew and mahogany was discovered in the little house in which Marie Walêwska once lived in Boulogne, and, on one of the drawers there is this inscription: '_Dedicated to Napoleon I, Emperor of the French, by his very faithful servant, Mancion_.' And above it, these words, engraved with the point of a knife: 'To you, Marie.' Afterwards, Napoleon had a similar desk made for the Empress Josephine; so that the secretary that was so much admired at the Malmaison was only an imperfect copy of the one that will henceforth form part of my collection." "Ah! if I had known, when in the shop, I would gladly have given it up to you," said the professor. Arsène Lupin smiled, as he replied: "And you would have had the advantage of keeping for your own use lottery ticket number 514." "And you would not have found it necessary to abduct my daughter." "Abduct your daughter?" "Yes." "My dear monsieur, you are mistaken. Mlle. Gerbois was not abducted." "No?" "Certainly not. Abduction means force or violence. And I assure you that she served as hostage of her own free will." "Of her own free will!" repeated Mon. Gerbois, in amazement. "In fact, she almost asked to be taken. Why, do you suppose that an intelligent young girl like Mlle. Gerbois, and who, moreover, nourishes an unacknowledged passion, would hesitate to do what was necessary to secure her dowry. Ah! I swear to you it was not difficult to make her understand that it was the only way to overcome your obstinacy." Mon. Detinan was greatly amused. He replied to Lupin: "But I should think it was more difficult to get her to listen to you. How did you approach her?" "Oh! I didn't approach her myself. I have not the honor of her acquaintance. A friend of mine, a lady, carried on the negotiations." "The blonde woman in the automobile, no doubt." "Precisely. All arrangements were made at the first interview near the college. Since then, Mlle. Gerbois and her new friend have been travelling in Belgium and Holland in a manner that should prove most pleasing and instructive to a young girl. She will tell you all about it herself--" The bell of the vestibule door rang, three rings in quick succession, followed by two isolated rings. "It is she," said Lupin. "Monsieur Detinan, if you will be so kind--" The lawyer hastened to the door. Two young women entered. One of them threw herself into the arms of Mon. Gerbois. The other approached Lupin. The latter was a tall woman of a good figure, very pale complexion, and with blond hair, parted over her forehead in undulating waves, that glistened and shone like the setting sun. She was dressed in black, with no display of jewelled ornaments; but, on the contrary, her appearance indicated good taste and refined elegance. Arsène Lupin spoke a few words to her; then, bowing to Mlle. Gerbois, he said: "I owe you an apology, mademoiselle, for all your troubles, but I hope you have not been too unhappy--" "Unhappy! Why, I should have been very happy, indeed, if it hadn't been for leaving my poor father." "Then all is for the best. Kiss him again, and take advantage of the opportunity--it is an excellent one--to speak to him about your cousin." "My cousin! What do you mean? I don't understand." "Of course, you understand. Your cousin Philippe. The young man whose letters you kept so carefully." Suzanne blushed; but, following Lupin's advice, she again threw herself into her father's arms. Lupin gazed upon them with a tender look. "Ah! Such is my reward for a virtuous act! What a touching picture! A happy father and a happy daughter! And to know that their joy is your work, Lupin! Hereafter these people will bless you, and reverently transmit your name unto their descendants, even unto the fourth generation. What a glorious reward, Lupin, for one act of kindness!" He walked to the window. "Is dear old Ganimard still waiting?... He would like very much to be present at this charming domestic scene!... Ah! he is not there.... Nor any of the others.... I don't see anyone. The deuce! The situation is becoming serious. I dare say they are already under the porte-cochere ... talking to the concierge, perhaps ... or, even, ascending the stairs!" Mon. Gerbois made a sudden movement. Now, that his daughter had been restored to him, he saw the situation in a different light. To him, the arrest of his adversary meant half-a-million francs. Instinctively, he made a step forward. As if by chance, Lupin stood in his way. "Where are you going, Monsieur Gerbois? To defend me against them! That is very kind of you, but I assure you it is not necessary. They are more worried than I." Then he continued to speak, with calm deliberation: "But, really, what do they know? That you are here, and, perhaps, that Mlle. Gerbois is here, for they may have seen her arrive with an unknown lady. But they do not imagine that I am here. How is it possible that I could be in a house that they ran-sacked from cellar to garret this morning? They suppose that the unknown lady was sent by me to make the exchange, and they will be ready to arrest her when she goes out--" At that moment, the bell rang. With a brusque movement, Lupin seized Mon. Gerbois, and said to him, in an imperious tone: "Do not move! Remember your daughter, and be prudent--otherwise--As to you, Monsieur Detinan, I have your promise." Mon. Gerbois was rooted to the spot. The lawyer did not stir. Without the least sign of haste, Lupin picked up his hat and brushed the dust from off it with his sleeve. "My dear Monsieur Detinan, if I can ever be of service to you.... My best wishes, Mademoiselle Suzanne, and my kind regards to Monsieur Philippe." He drew a heavy gold watch from his pocket. "Monsieur Gerbois, it is now forty-two minutes past three. At forty-six minutes past three, I give you permission to leave this room. Not one minute sooner than forty-six minutes past three." "But they will force an entrance," suggested Mon. Detinan. "You forget the law, my dear monsieur! Ganimard would never venture to violate the privacy of a French citizen. But, pardon me, time flies, and you are all slightly nervous." He placed his watch on the table, opened the door of the room and addressing the blonde lady he said: "Are you ready my dear?" He drew back to let her pass, bowed respectfully to Mlle. Gerbois, and went out, closing the door behind him. Then they heard him in the vestibule, speaking, in a loud voice: "Good-day, Ganimard, how goes it? Remember me to Madame Ganimard. One of these days, I shall invite her to breakfast. Au revoir, Ganimard." The bell rang violently, followed by repeated rings, and voices on the landing. "Forty-five minutes," muttered Mon. Gerbois. After a few seconds, he left the room and stepped into the vestibule. Arsène Lupin and the blonde lady had gone. "Papa!... you mustn't! Wait!" cried Suzanne. "Wait! you are foolish!... No quarter for that rascal!... And the half-million?" He opened the outer door. Ganimard rushed in. "That woman--where is she? And Lupin?" "He was here ... he is here." Ganimard uttered a cry of triumph. "We have him. The house is surrounded." "But the servant's stairway?" suggested Mon. Detinan. "It leads to the court," said Ganimard. "There is only one exit--the street-door. Ten men are guarding it." "But he didn't come in by the street-door, and he will not go out that way." "What way, then?" asked Ganimard. "Through the air?" He drew aside a curtain and exposed a long corridor leading to the kitchen. Ganimard ran along it and tried the door of the servants' stairway. It was locked. From the window he called to one of his assistants: "Seen anyone?" "No." "Then they are still in the house!" he exclaimed. "They are hiding in one of the rooms! They cannot have escaped. Ah! Lupin, you fooled me before, but, this time, I get my revenge." * * * * * At seven o'clock in the evening, Mon. Dudonis, chief of the detective service, astonished at not receiving any news, visited the rue Clapeyron. He questioned the detectives who were guarding the house, then ascended to Mon. Detinan's apartment. The lawyer led him into his room. There, Mon. Dudonis beheld a man, or rather two legs kicking in the air, while the body to which they belonged was hidden in the depths of the chimney. "Ohé!... Ohé!" gasped a stifled voice. And a more distant voice, from on high, replied: "Ohé!... Ohé!" Mon. Dudonis laughed, and exclaimed: "Here! Ganimard, have you turned chimney-sweep?" The detective crawled out of the chimney. With his blackened face, his sooty clothes, and his feverish eyes, he was quite unrecognizable. "I am looking for _him_," he growled. "Who?" "Arsène Lupin ... and his friend." "Well, do you suppose they are hiding in the chimney?" Ganimard arose, laid his sooty hand on the sleeve of his superior officer's coat, and exclaimed, angrily: "Where do you think they are, chief? They must be somewhere! They are flesh and blood like you and me, and can't fade away like smoke." "No, but they have faded away just the same." "But how? How? The house is surrounded by our men--even on the roof." "What about the adjoining house?" "There's no communication with it." "And the apartments on the other floors?" "I know all the tenants. They have not seen anyone." "Are you sure you know all of them?" "Yes. The concierge answers for them. Besides, as an extra precaution, I have placed a man in each apartment. They can't escape. If I don't get them to-night, I will get them to-morrow. I shall sleep here." He slept there that night and the two following nights. Three days and nights passed away without the discovery of the irrepressible Lupin or his female companion; more than that, Ganimard did not unearth the slightest clue on which to base a theory to explain their escape. For that reason, he adhered to his first opinion. "There is no trace of their escape; therefore, they are here." It may be that, at the bottom of his heart, his conviction was less firmly established, but he would not confess it. No, a thousand times, no! A man and a woman could not vanish like the evil spirits in a fairy tale. And, without losing his courage, he continued his searches, as if he expected to find the fugitives concealed in some impenetrable retreat, or embodied in the stone walls of the house. CHAPTER II. THE BLUE DIAMOND. On the evening of March 27, at number 134 avenue Henri-Martin, in the house that he had inherited from his brother six months before, the old general Baron d'Hautrec, ambassador at Berlin under the second Empire, was asleep in a comfortable armchair, while his secretary was reading to him, and the Sister Auguste was warming his bed and preparing the night-lamp. At eleven o'clock, the Sister, who was obliged to return to the convent of her order at that hour, said to the secretary: "Mademoiselle Antoinette, my work is finished; I am going." "Very well, Sister." "Do not forget that the cook is away, and that you are alone in the house with the servant." "Have no fear for the Baron. I sleep in the adjoining room and always leave the door open." The Sister left the house. A few moments later, Charles, the servant, came to receive his orders. The Baron was now awake, and spoke for himself. "The usual orders, Charles: see that the electric bell rings in your room, and, at the first alarm, run for the doctor. Now, Mademoiselle Antoinette, how far did we get in our reading?" "Is Monsieur not going to bed now?" "No, no, I will go later. Besides, I don't need anyone." Twenty minutes later, he was sleeping again, and Antoinette crept away on tiptoe. At that moment, Charles was closing the shutters on the lower floor. In the kitchen, he bolted the door leading to the garden, and, in the vestibule, he not only locked the door but hooked the chain as well. Then he ascended to his room on the third floor, went to bed, and was soon asleep. Probably an hour had passed, when he leaped from his bed in alarm. The bell was ringing. It rang for some time, seven or eight seconds perhaps, without intermission. "Well?" muttered Charles, recovering his wits, "another of the Baron's whims." He dressed himself quickly, descended the stairs, stopped in front of the door, and rapped, according to his custom. He received no reply. He opened the door and entered. "Ah! no light," he murmured. "What is that for?" Then, in a low voice, he called: "Mademoiselle?" No reply. "Are you there, mademoiselle? What's the matter? Is Monsieur le Baron ill?" No reply. Nothing but a profound silence that soon became depressing. He took two steps forward; his foot struck a chair, and, having touched it, he noticed that it was overturned. Then, with his hand, he discovered other objects on the floor--a small table and a screen. Anxiously, he approached the wall, felt for the electric button, and turned on the light. In the centre of the room, between the table and dressing-case, lay the body of his master, the Baron d'Hautrec. "What!... It can't be possible!" he stammered. He could not move. He stood there, with bulging eyes, gazing stupidly at the terrible disorder, the overturned chairs, a large crystal candelabra shattered in a thousand pieces, the clock lying on the marble hearthstone, all evidence of a fearful and desperate struggle. The handle of a stiletto glittered, not far from the corpse; the blade was stained with blood. A handkerchief, marked with red spots, was lying on the edge of the bed. Charles recoiled with horror: the body lying at his feet extended itself for a moment, then shrunk up again; two or three tremors, and that was the end. He stooped over the body. There was a clean-cut wound on the neck from which the blood was flowing and then congealing in a black pool on the carpet. The face retained an expression of extreme terror. "Some one has killed him!" he muttered, "some one has killed him!" Then he shuddered at the thought that there might be another dreadful crime. Did not the baron's secretary sleep in the adjoining room! Had not the assassin killed her also! He opened the door; the room was empty. He concluded that Antoinette had been abducted, or else she had gone away before the crime. He returned to the baron's chamber, his glance falling on the secretary, he noticed that that article of furniture remained intact. Then, he saw upon a table, beside a bunch of keys and a pocketbook that the baron placed there every night, a handful of golden louis. Charles seized the pocketbook, opened it, and found some bank-notes. He counted them; there were thirteen notes of one hundred francs each. Instinctively, mechanically, he put the bank-notes in his pocket, rushed down the stairs, drew the bolt, unhooked the chain, closed the door behind him, and fled to the street. * * * * * Charles was an honest man. He had scarcely left the gate, when, cooled by the night air and the rain, he came to a sudden halt. Now, he saw his action in its true light, and it filled him with horror. He hailed a passing cab, and said to the driver: "Go to the police-office, and bring the commissary. Hurry! There has been a murder in that house." The cab-driver whipped his horse. Charles wished to return to the house, but found the gate locked. He had closed it himself when he came out, and it could not be opened from the outside. On the other hand, it was useless to ring, as there was no one in the house. It was almost an hour before the arrival of the police. When they came, Charles told his story and handed the bank-notes to the commissary. A locksmith was summoned, and, after considerable difficulty, he succeeded in forcing open the garden gate and the vestibule door. The commissary of police entered the room first, but, immediately, turned to Charles and said: "You told me that the room was in the greatest disorder." Charles stood at the door, amazed, bewildered; all the furniture had been restored to its accustomed place. The small table was standing between the two windows, the chairs were upright, and the clock was on the centre of the mantel. The debris of the candelabra had been removed. "Where is.... Monsieur le Baron?" stammered Charles. "That's so!" exclaimed the officer, "where is the victim?" He approached the bed, and drew aside a large sheet, under which reposed the Baron d'Hautrec, formerly French Ambassador at Berlin. Over him, lay his military coat, adorned with the Cross of Honor. His features were calm. His eyes were closed. "Some one has been here," said Charles. "How did they get in?" "I don't know, but some one has been here during my absence. There was a stiletto on the floor--there! And a handkerchief, stained with blood, on the bed. They are not here now. They have been carried away. And some one has put the room in order." "Who would do that?" "The assassin." "But we found all the doors locked." "He must have remained in the house." "Then he must be here yet, as you were in front of the house all the time." Charles reflected a moment, then said, slowly: "Yes ... of course.... I didn't go away from the gate." "Who was the last person you saw with the baron?" "Mademoiselle Antoinette, his secretary." "What has become of her?" "I don't know. Her bed wasn't occupied, so she must have gone out. I am not surprised at that, as she is young and pretty." "But how could she leave the house?" "By the door," said Charles. "But you had bolted and chained it." "Yes, but she must have left before that." "And the crime was committed after her departure?" "Of course," said the servant. The house was searched from cellar to garret, but the assassin had fled. How? And when? Was it he or an accomplice who had returned to the scene of the crime and removed everything that might furnish a clue to his identity? Such were the questions the police were called upon to solve. The coroner came at seven o'clock; and, at eight o'clock, Mon. Dudouis, the head of the detective service, arrived on the scene. They were followed by the Procureur of the Republic and the investigating magistrate. In addition to these officials, the house was overrun with policemen, detectives, newspaper reporters, photographers, and relatives and acquaintances of the murdered man. A thorough search was made; they studied out the position of the corpse according to the information furnished by Charles; they questioned Sister Auguste when she arrived; but they discovered nothing new. Sister Auguste was astonished to learn of the disappearance of Antoinette Bréhat. She had engaged the young girl twelve days before, on excellent recommendations, and refused to believe that she would neglect her duty by leaving the house during the night. "But, you see, she hasn't returned yet," said the magistrate, "and we are still confronted with the question: What has become of her?" "I think she was abducted by the assassin," said Charles. The theory was plausible, and was borne out by certain facts. Mon. Dudouis agreed with it. He said: "Abducted? ma foi! that is not improbable." "Not only improbable," said a voice, "but absolutely opposed to the facts. There is not a particle of evidence to support such a theory." The voice was harsh, the accent sharp, and no one was surprised to learn that the speaker was Ganimard. In no one else, would they tolerate such a domineering tone. "Ah! it is you, Ganimard!" exclaimed Mon. Dudouis. "I had not seen you before." "I have been here since two o'clock." "So you are interested in some things outside of lottery ticket number 514, the affair of the rue Clapeyron, the blonde lady and Arsène Lupin?" "Ha-ha!" laughed the veteran detective. "I would not say that Lupin is a stranger to the present case. But let us forget the affair of the lottery ticket for a few moments, and try to unravel this new mystery." * * * * * Ganimard is not one of those celebrated detectives whose methods will create a school, or whose name will be immortalized in the criminal annals of his country. He is devoid of those flashes of genius which characterize the work of Dupin, Lecoq and Sherlock Holmes. Yet, it must be admitted, he possesses superior qualities of observation, sagacity, perseverance and even intuition. His merit lies in his absolute independence. Nothing troubles or influences him, except, perhaps, a sort of fascination that Arsène Lupin holds over him. However that may be, there is no doubt that his position on that morning, in the house of the late Baron d'Hautrec, was one of undoubted superiority, and his collaboration in the case was appreciated and desired by the investigating magistrate. "In the first place," said Ganimard, "I will ask Monsieur Charles to be very particular on one point: He says that, on the occasion of his first visit to the room, various articles of furniture were overturned and strewn about the place; now, I ask him whether, on his second visit to the room, he found all those articles restored to their accustomed places--I mean, of course, correctly placed." "Yes, all in their proper places," replied Charles. "It is obvious, then, that the person who replaced them must have been familiar with the location of those articles." The logic of this remark was apparent to his hearers. Ganimard continued: "One more question, Monsieur Charles. You were awakened by the ringing of your bell. Now, who, do you think, rang it?" "Monsieur le baron, of course." "When could he ring it?" "After the struggle ... when he was dying." "Impossible; because you found him lying, unconscious, at a point more than four metres from the bell-button." "Then he must have rung during the struggle." "Impossible," declared Ganimard, "since the ringing, as you have said, was continuous and uninterrupted, and lasted seven or eight seconds. Do you think his antagonist would have permitted him to ring the bell in that leisurely manner?" "Well, then, it was before the attack." "Also, quite impossible, since you have told us that the lapse of time between the ringing of the bell and your entrance to the room was not more than three minutes. Therefore, if the baron rang before the attack, we are forced to the conclusion that the struggle, the murder and the flight of the assassin, all occurred within the short space of three minutes. I repeat: that is impossible." "And yet," said the magistrate, "some one rang. If it were not the baron, who was it?" "The murderer." "For what purpose?" "I do not know. But the fact that he did ring proves that he knew that the bell communicated with the servant's room. Now, who would know that, except an inmate of the house?" Ganimard was drawing the meshes of his net closer and tighter. In a few clear and logical sentences, he had unfolded and defined his theory of the crime, so that it seemed quite natural when the magistrate said: "As I understand it, Ganimard, you suspect the girl Antoinette Bréhat?" "I do not suspect her; I accuse her." "You accuse her of being an accomplice?" "I accuse her of having killed Baron d'Hautrec." "Nonsense! What proof have you?" "The handful of hair I found in the right hand of the victim." He produced the hair; it was of a beautiful blond color, and glittered like threads of gold. Charles looked at it, and said: "That is Mademoiselle Antoinette's hair. There can be no doubt of it. And, then, there is another thing. I believe that the knife, which I saw on my first visit to the room, belonged to her. She used it to cut the leaves of books." A long, dreadful silence followed, as if the crime had acquired an additional horror by reason of having been committed by a woman. At last, the magistrate said: "Let us assume, until we are better informed, that the baron was killed by Antoinette Bréhat. We have yet to learn where she concealed herself after the crime, how she managed to return after Charles left the house, and how she made her escape after the arrival of the police. Have you formed any opinion on those points Ganimard?" "None." "Well, then, where do we stand?" Ganimard was embarrassed. Finally, with a visible effort, he said: "All I can say is that I find in this case the same method of procedure as we found in the affair of the lottery ticket number 514; the same phenomena, which might be termed the faculty of disappearing. Antoinette Bréhat has appeared and disappeared in this house as mysteriously as Arsène Lupin entered the house of Monsieur Detinan and escaped therefrom in the company of the blonde lady. "Does that signify anything?" "It does to me. I can see a probable connection between those two strange incidents. Antoinette Bréhat was hired by Sister Auguste twelve days ago, that is to say, on the day after the blonde Lady so cleverly slipped through my fingers. In the second place, the hair of the blonde Lady was exactly of the same brilliant golden hue as the hair found in this case." "So that, in your opinion, Antoinette Bréhat--" "Is the blonde Lady--precisely." "And that Lupin had a hand in both cases?" "Yes, that is my opinion." This statement was greeted with an outburst of laughter. It came from Mon. Dudouis. "Lupin! always Lupin! Lupin is into everything; Lupin is everywhere!" "Yes, Lupin is into everything of any consequence," replied Ganimard, vexed at the ridicule of his superior. "Well, so far as I see," observed Mon. Dudouis, "you have not discovered any motive for this crime. The secretary was not broken into, nor the pocketbook carried away. Even, a pile of gold was left upon the table." "Yes, that is so," exclaimed Ganimard, "but the famous diamond?" "What diamond?" "The blue diamond! The celebrated diamond which formed part of the royal crown of France, and which was given by the Duke d'Aumale to Leonide Lebrun, and, at the death of Leonide Lebrun, was purchased by the Baron d'Hautrec as a souvenir of the charming comedienne that he had loved so well. That is one of those things that an old Parisian, like I, does not forget." "It is obvious that if the blue diamond is not found, the motive for the crime is disclosed," said the magistrate. "But where should we search for it?" "On the baron's finger," replied Charles. "He always wore the blue diamond on his left hand." "I saw that hand, and there was only a plain gold ring on it," said Ganimard, as he approached the corpse. "Look in the palm of the hand," replied the servant. Ganimard opened the stiffened hand. The bezel was turned inward, and, in the centre of that bezel, the blue diamond shone with all its glorious splendor. "The deuce!" muttered Ganimard, absolutely amazed, "I don't understand it." "You will now apologize to Lupin for having suspected him, eh?" said Mon. Dudouis, laughing. Ganimard paused for a moment's reflection, and then replied, sententiously: "It is only when I do not understand things that I suspect Arsène Lupin." Such were the facts established by the police on the day after the commission of that mysterious crime. Facts that were vague and incoherent in themselves, and which were not explained by any subsequent discoveries. The movements of Antoinette Bréhat remained as inexplicable as those of the blonde Lady, and the police discovered no trace of that mysterious creature with the golden hair who had killed Baron d'Hautrec and had failed to take from his finger the famous diamond that had once shone in the royal crown of France. * * * * * The heirs of the Baron d'Hautrec could not fail to benefit by such notoriety. They established in the house an exhibition of the furniture and other objects which were to be sold at the auction rooms of Drouot & Co. Modern furniture of indifferent taste, various objects of no artistic value ... but, in the centre of the room, in a case of purple velvet, protected by a glass globe, and guarded by two officers, was the famous blue diamond ring. A large magnificent diamond of incomparable purity, and of that indefinite blue which the clear water receives from an unclouded sky, of that blue which can be detected in the whiteness of linen. Some admired, some enthused ... and some looked with horror on the chamber of the victim, on the spot where the corpse had lain, on the floor divested of its blood-stained carpet, and especially the walls, the unsurmountable walls over which the criminal must have passed. Some assured themselves that the marble mantel did not move, others imagined gaping holes, mouths of tunnels, secret connections with the sewers, and the catacombs-- The sale of the blue diamond took place at the salesroom of Drouot & Co. The place was crowded to suffocation, and the bidding was carried to the verge of folly. The sale was attended by all those who usually appear at similar events in Paris; those who buy, and those who make a pretense of being able to buy; bankers, brokers, artists, women of all classes, two cabinet ministers, an Italian tenor, an exiled king who, in order to maintain his credit, bid, with much ostentation, and in a loud voice, as high as one hundred thousand francs. One hundred thousand francs! He could offer that sum without any danger of his bid being accepted. The Italian tenor risked one hundred and fifty thousand, and a member of the Comédie-Française bid one hundred and seventy-five thousand francs. When the bidding reached two hundred thousand francs, the smaller competitors fell out of the race. At two hundred and fifty thousand, only two bidders remained in the field: Herschmann, the well-known capitalist, the king of gold mines; and the Countess de Crozon, the wealthy American, whose collection of diamonds and precious stones is famed throughout the world. "Two hundred and sixty thousand ... two hundred and seventy thousand ... seventy-five ... eighty...." exclaimed the auctioneer, as he glanced at the two competitors in succession. "Two hundred and eighty thousand for madame.... Do I hear any more?" "Three hundred thousand," said Herschmann. There was a short silence. The countess was standing, smiling, but pale from excitement. She was leaning against the back of the chair in front of her. She knew, and so did everyone present, that the issue of the duel was certain; logically, inevitably, it must terminate to the advantage of the capitalist, who had untold millions with which to indulge his caprices. However, the countess made another bid: "Three hundred and five thousand." Another silence. All eyes were now directed to the capitalist in the expectation that he would raise the bidding. But Herschmann was not paying any attention to the sale; his eyes were fixed on a sheet of paper which he held in his right hand, while the other hand held a torn envelope. "Three hundred and five thousand," repeated the auctioneer. "Once!... Twice!... For the last time.... Do I hear any more?... Once!... Twice!... Am I offered any more? Last chance!..." Herschmann did not move. "Third and last time!... Sold!" exclaimed the auctioneer, as his hammer fell. "Four hundred thousand," cried Herschman, starting up, as if the sound of the hammer had roused him from his stupor. Too late; the auctioneer's decision was irrevocable. Some of Herschmann's acquaintances pressed around him. What was the matter? Why did he not speak sooner? He laughed, and said: "Ma foi! I simply forgot--in a moment of abstraction." "That is strange." "You see, I just received a letter." "And that letter was sufficient--" "To distract my attention? Yes, for a moment." Ganimard was there. He had come to witness the sale of the ring. He stopped one of the attendants of the auction room, and said: "Was it you who carried the letter to Monsieur Herschmann?" "Yes." "Who gave it to you?" "A lady." "Where is she?" "Where is she?... She was sitting down there ... the lady who wore a thick veil." "She has gone?" "Yes, just this moment." Ganimard hastened to the door, and saw the lady descending the stairs. He ran after her. A crush of people delayed him at the entrance. When he reached the sidewalk, she had disappeared. He returned to the auction room, accosted Herschmann, introduced himself, and enquired about the letter. Herschmann handed it to him. It was carelessly scribbled in pencil, in a handwriting unknown to the capitalist, and contained these few words: _"The blue diamond brings misfortune. Remember the Baron d'Hautrec."_ * * * * * The vicissitudes of the blue diamond were not yet at an end. Although it had become well-known through the murder of the Baron d'Hautrec and the incidents at the auction-rooms, it was six months later that it attained even greater celebrity. During the following summer, the Countess de Crozon was robbed of the famous jewel she had taken so much trouble to acquire. Let me recall that strange affair, of which the exciting and dramatic incidents sent a thrill through all of us, and over which I am now permitted to throw some light. On the evening of August 10, the guests of the Count and Countess de Crozon were assembled in the drawing-room of the magnificent château which overlooks the Bay de Somme. To entertain her friends, the countess seated herself at the piano to play for them, after first placing her jewels on a small table near the piano, and, amongst them, was the ring of the Baron d'Hautrec. An hour later, the count and the majority of the guests retired, including his two cousins and Madame de Réal, an intimate friend of the countess. The latter remained in the drawing-room with Herr Bleichen, the Austrian consul, and his wife. They conversed for a time, and then the countess extinguished the large lamp that stood on a table in the centre of the room. At the same moment, Herr Bleichen extinguished the two piano lamps. There was a momentary darkness; then the consul lighted a candle, and the three of them retired to their rooms. But, as soon as she reached her apartment, the countess remembered her jewels and sent her maid to get them. When the maid returned with the jewels, she placed them on the mantel without the countess looking at them. Next day, Madame de Crozon found that one of her rings was missing; it was the blue diamond ring. She informed her husband, and, after talking it over, they reached the conclusion that the maid was above suspicion, and that the guilty party must be Herr Bleichen. The count notified the commissary of police at Amiens, who commenced an investigation and, discreetly, exercised a strict surveillance over the Austrian consul to prevent his disposing of the ring. The château was surrounded by detectives day and night. Two weeks passed without incident. Then Herr Bleichen announced his intended departure. That day, a formal complaint was entered against him. The police made an official examination of his luggage. In a small satchel, the key to which was always carried by the consul himself, they found a bottle of dentifrice, and in that bottle they found the ring. Madame Bleichen fainted. Her husband was placed under arrest. Everyone will remember the line of defense adopted by the accused man. He declared that the ring must have been placed there by the Count de Crozen as an act of revenge. He said: "The count is brutal and makes his wife very unhappy. She consulted me, and I advised her to get a divorce. The count heard of it in some way, and, to be revenged on me, he took the ring and placed it in my satchel." The count and countess persisted in pressing the charge. Between the explanation which they gave and that of the consul, both equally possible and equally probable, the public had to choose. No new fact was discovered to turn the scale in either direction. A month of gossip, conjectures and investigations failed to produce a single ray of light. Wearied of the excitement and notoriety, and incapable of securing the evidence necessary to sustain their charge against the consul, the count and countess at last sent to Paris for a detective competent to unravel the tangled threads of this mysterious skein. This brought Ganimard into the case. For four days, the veteran detective searched the house from top to bottom, examined every foot of the ground, had long conferences with the maid, the chauffeur, the gardeners, the employees in the neighboring post-offices, visited the rooms that had been occupied by the various guests. Then, one morning, he disappeared without taking leave of his host or hostess. But a week later, they received this telegram: "Please come to the Japanese Tea-room, rue Boissy d'Anglas, to-morrow, Friday, evening at five o'clock. Ganimard." * * * * * At five o'clock, Friday evening, their automobile stopped in front of number nine rue Boissy-d'Anglas. The old detective was standing on the sidewalk, waiting for them. Without a word, he conducted them to the first floor of the Japanese Tea-room. In one of the rooms, they met two men, whom Ganimard introduced in these words: "Monsieur Gerbois, professor in the College of Versailles, from whom, you will remember, Arsène Lupin stole half a million; Monsieur Léonce d'Hautrec, nephew and sole legatee of the Baron d'Hautrec." A few minutes later, another man arrived. It was Mon. Dudouis, head of the detective service, and he appeared to be in a particularly bad temper. He bowed, and then said: "What's the trouble now, Ganimard? I received your telephone message asking me to come here. Is it anything of consequence?" "Yes, chief, it is a very important matter. Within an hour, the last two cases to which I was assigned will have their dénouement here. It seemed to me that your presence was indispensable." "And also the presence of Dieuzy and Folenfant, whom I noticed standing near the door as I came in?" "Yes, chief." "For what? Are you going to make an arrest, and you wish to do it with a flourish? Come, Ganimard, I am anxious to hear about it." Ganimard hesitated a moment, then spoke with the obvious intention of making an impression on his hearers: "In the first place, I wish to state that Herr Bleichen had nothing to do with the theft of the ring." "Oh! oh!" exclaimed Mon. Dudouis, "that is a bold statement and a very serious one." "And is that all you have discovered?" asked the Count de Crozon. "Not at all. On the second day after the theft, three of your guests went on an automobile trip as far as Crécy. Two of them visited the famous battlefield; and, while they were there, the third party paid a hasty visit to the post-office, and mailed a small box, tied and sealed according to the regulations, and declared its value to be one hundred francs." "I see nothing strange in that," said the count. "Perhaps you will see something strange in it when I tell you that this person, in place of giving her true name, sent the box under the name of Rousseau, and the person to whom it was addressed, a certain Monsieur Beloux of Paris, moved his place of residence immediately after receiving the box, in other words, the ring." "I presume you refer to one of my cousins d'Andelle?" "No," replied Ganimard. "Madame de Réal, then?" "Yes." "You accuse my friend, Madam de Réal?" cried the countess, shocked and amazed. "I wish to ask you one question, madame," said Ganimard. "Was Madam de Réal present when you purchased the ring?" "Yes, but we did not go there together." "Did she advise you to buy the ring?" The countess considered for a moment, then said: "Yes, I think she mentioned it first--" "Thank you, madame. Your answer establishes the fact that it was Madame de Réal who was the first to mention the ring, and it was she who advised you to buy it." "But, I consider my friend is quite incapable--" "Pardon me, countess, when I remind you that Madame de Réal is only a casual acquaintance and not your intimate friend, as the newspapers have announced. It was only last winter that you met her for the first time. Now, I can prove that everything she has told you about herself, her past life, and her relatives, is absolutely false; that Madame Blanche de Réal had no actual existence before she met you, and she has now ceased to exist." "Well?" "Well?" replied Ganimard. "Your story is a very strange one," said the countess, "but it has no application to our case. If Madame de Réal had taken the ring, how do you explain the fact that it was found in Herr Bleichen's tooth-powder? Anyone who would take the risk and trouble of stealing the blue diamond would certainly keep it. What do you say to that?" "I--nothing--but Madame de Réal will answer it." "Oh! she does exist, then?" "She does--and does not. I will explain in a few words. Three days ago, while reading a newspaper, I glanced over the list of hotel arrivals at Trouville, and there I read: 'Hôtel Beaurivage--Madame de Réal, etc.' "I went to Trouville immediately, and interviewed the proprietor of the hotel. From the description and other information I received from him, I concluded that she was the very Madame de Réal that I was seeking; but she had left the hotel, giving her address in Paris as number three rue de Colisée. The day before yesterday I went to that address, and learned that there was no person there called Madame de Réal, but there was a Madame Réal, living on the second floor, who acted as a diamond broker and was frequently away from home. She had returned from a journey on the preceding evening. Yesterday, I called on her and, under an assumed name, I offered to act as an intermedium in the sale of some diamonds to certain wealthy friends of mine. She is to meet me here to-day to carry out that arrangement." "What! You expect her to come here?" "Yes, at half-past five." "Are you sure it is she?" "Madame de Réal of the Château de Crozon? Certainly. I have convincing evidence of that fact. But ... listen!... I hear Folenfant's signal." It was a whistle. Ganimard arose quickly. "There is no time to lose. Monsieur and Madame de Crozon, will you be kind enough to go into the next room. You also, Monsieur d'Hautrec, and you, Monsieur Gerbois. The door will remain open, and when I give the signal, you will come out. Of course, Chief, you will remain here." "We may be disturbed by other people," said Mon. Dudouis. "No. This is a new establishment, and the proprietor is one of my friends. He will not let anyone disturb us--except the blonde Lady." "The blonde Lady! What do you mean?" "Yes, the blonde Lady herself, chief; the friend and accomplice of Arsène Lupin, the mysterious blonde Lady against whom I hold convincing evidence; but, in addition to that, I wish to confront her with all the people she has robbed." He looked through the window. "I see her. She is coming in the door now. She can't escape: Folenfant and Dieuzy are guarding the door.... The blonde Lady is captured at last, Chief!" A moment later a woman appeared at the door; she was tall and slender, with a very pale complexion and bright golden hair. Ganimard trembled with excitement; he could not move, nor utter a word. She was there, in front of him, at his mercy! What a victory over Arsène Lupin! And what a revenge! And, at the same time, the victory was such an easy one that he asked himself if the blonde Lady would not yet slip through his fingers by one of those miracles that usually terminated the exploits of Arsène Lupin. She remained standing near the door, surprised at the silence, and looked about her without any display of suspicion or fear. "She will get away! She will disappear!" thought Ganimard. Then he managed to get between her and the door. She turned to go out. "No, no!" he said. "Why are you going away?" "Really, monsieur, I do not understand what this means. Allow me--" "There is no reason why you should go, madame, and very good reasons why you should remain." "But--" "It is useless, madame. You cannot go." Trembling, she sat on a chair, and stammered: "What is it you want?" Ganimard had won the battle and captured the blonde Lady. He said to her: "Allow me to present the friend I mentioned, who desires to purchase some diamonds. Have you procured the stones you promised to bring?" "No--no--I don't know. I don't remember." "Come! Jog your memory! A person of your acquaintance intended to send you a tinted stone.... 'Something like the blue diamond,' I said, laughing; and you replied: 'Exactly, I expect to have just what you want.' Do you remember?" She made no reply. A small satchel fell from her hand. She picked it up quickly, and held it securely. Her hands trembled slightly. "Come!" said Ganimard, "I see you have no confidence in us, Madame de Réal. I shall set you a good example by showing you what I have." He took from his pocketbook a paper which he unfolded, and disclosed a lock of hair. "These are a few hairs torn from the head of Antoinette Bréhat by the Baron d'Hautrec, which I found clasped in his dead hand. I have shown them to Mlle. Gerbois, who declares they are of the exact color of the hair of the blonde Lady. Besides, they are exactly the color of your hair--the identical color." Madame Réal looked at him in bewilderment, as if she did not understand his meaning. He continued: "And here are two perfume bottles, without labels, it is true, and empty, but still sufficiently impregnated with their odor to enable Mlle. Gerbois to recognize in them the perfume used by that blonde Lady who was her traveling companion for two weeks. Now, one of these bottles was found in the room that Madame de Réal occupied at the Château de Crozon, and the other in the room that you occupied at the Hôtel Beaurivage." "What do you say?... The blonde Lady ... the Château de Crozon...." The detective did not reply. He took from his pocket and placed on the table, side by side, four small sheets of paper. Then he said: "I have, on these four pieces of paper, various specimens of handwriting; the first is the writing of Antoinette Bréhat; the second was written by the woman who sent the note to Baron Herschmann at the auction sale of the blue diamond; the third is that of Madame de Réal, written while she was stopping at the Château de Crozon; and the fourth is your handwriting, madame ... it is your name and address, which you gave to the porter of the Hôtel Beaurivage at Trouville. Now, compare the four handwritings. They are identical." "What absurdity is this? really, monsieur, I do not understand. What does it mean?" "It means, madame," exclaimed Ganimard, "that the blonde Lady, the friend and accomplice of Arsène Lupin, is none other than you, Madame Réal." Ganimard went to the adjoining room and returned with Mon. Gerbois, whom he placed in front of Madame Réal, as he said: "Monsieur Gerbois, is this the person who abducted your daughter, the woman you saw at the house of Monsieur Detinan?" "No." Ganimard was so surprised that he could not speak for a moment; finally, he said: "No?... You must be mistaken...." "I am not mistaken. Madame is blonde, it is true, and in that respect resembles the blonde Lady; but, in all other respects, she is totally different." "I can't believe it. You must be mistaken." Ganimard called in his other witnesses. "Monsieur d'Hautrec," he said, "do you recognize Antoinette Bréhat?" "No, this is not the person I saw at my uncle's house." "This woman is not Madame de Réal," declared the Count de Crozon. That was the finishing touch. Ganimard was crushed. He was buried beneath the ruins of the structure he had erected with so much care and assurance. His pride was humbled, his spirit was broken, by the force of this unexpected blow. Mon. Dudouis arose, and said: "We owe you an apology, madame, for this unfortunate mistake. But, since your arrival here, I have noticed your nervous agitation. Something troubles you; may I ask what it is?" "Mon Dieu, monsieur, I was afraid. My satchel contains diamonds to the value of a hundred thousand francs, and the conduct of your friend was rather suspicious." "But you were frequently absent from Paris. How do you explain that?" "I make frequent journeys to other cities in the course of my business. That is all." Mon. Dudouis had nothing more to ask. He turned to his subordinate, and said: "Your investigation has been very superficial, Ganimard, and your conduct toward this lady is really deplorable. You will come to my office to-morrow and explain it." The interview was at an end, and Mon. Dudouis was about to leave the room when a most annoying incident occurred. Madame Réal turned to Ganimard, and said: "I understand that you are Monsieur Ganimard. Am I right?" "Yes." "Then, this letter must be for you. I received it this morning. It was addressed to 'Mon. Justin Ganimard, care of Madame Réal.' I thought it was a joke, because I did not know you under that name, but it appears that your unknown correspondent knew of our rendezvous." Ganimard was inclined to put the letter in his pocket unread, but he dared not do so in the presence of his superior, so he opened the envelope and read the letter aloud, in an almost inaudible tone: "Once upon a time, there were a blonde Lady, a Lupin, and a Ganimard. Now, the wicked Ganimard had evil designs on the pretty blonde Lady, and the good Lupin was her friend and protector. When the good Lupin wished the blonde Lady to become the friend of the Countess de Crozon, he caused her to assume the name of Madame de Réal, which is a close resemblance to the name of a certain diamond broker, a woman with a pale complexion and golden hair. And the good Lupin said to himself: If ever the wicked Ganimard gets upon the track of the blonde Lady, how useful it will be to me if he should be diverted to the track of the honest diamond broker. A wise precaution that has borne good fruit. A little note sent to the newspaper read by the wicked Ganimard, a perfume bottle intentionally forgotten by the genuine blonde Lady at the Hôtel Beaurivage, the name and address of Madame Réal written on the hotel register by the genuine blonde Lady, and the trick is played. What do you think of it, Ganimard! I wished to tell you the true story of this affair, knowing that you would be the first to laugh over it. Really, it is quite amusing, and I have enjoyed it very much. "Accept my best wishes, dear friend, and give my kind regards to the worthy Mon. Dudouis. "ARSÈNE LUPIN." "He knows everything," muttered Ganimard, but he did not see the humor of the situation as Lupin had predicted. "He knows some things I have never mentioned to any one. How could he find out that I was going to invite you here, chief? How could he know that I had found the first perfume bottle? How could he find out those things?" He stamped his feet and tore his hair--a prey to the most tragic despair. Mon. Dudouis felt sorry for him, and said: "Come, Ganimard, never mind; try to do better next time." And Mon. Dudouis left the room, accompanied by Madame Réal. * * * * * During the next ten minutes, Ganimard read and re-read the letter of Arsène Lupin. Monsieur and Madame de Crozon, Monsieur d'Hautrec and Monsieur Gerbois were holding an animated discussion in a corner of the room. At last, the count approached the detective, and said: "My dear monsieur, after your investigation, we are no nearer the truth than we were before." "Pardon me, but my investigation has established these facts: that the blonde Lady is the mysterious heroine of these exploits, and that Arsène Lupin directed them." "Those facts do not solve the mystery; in fact, they render it more obscure. The blonde Lady commits a murder in order to steal the blue diamond, and yet she does not steal it. Afterward she steals it and gets rid of it by secretly giving it to another person. How do you explain her strange conduct?" "I cannot explain it." "Of course; but, perhaps, someone else can." "Who?" The Count hesitated, so the Countess replied, frankly: "There is only one man besides yourself who is competent to enter the arena with Arsène Lupin and overcome him. Have you any objection to our engaging the services of Herlock Sholmes in this case?" Ganimard was vexed at the question, but stammered a reply: "No ... but ... I do not understand what----" "Let me explain. All this mystery annoys me. I wish to have it cleared up. Monsieur Gerbois and Monsieur d'Hautrec have the same desire, and we have agreed to send for the celebrated English detective." "You are right, madame," replied the detective, with a loyalty that did him credit, "you are right. Old Ganimard is not able to overcome Arsène Lupin. But will Herlock Sholmes succeed? I hope so, as I have the greatest admiration for him. But ... it is improbable." "Do you mean to say that he will not succeed?" "That is my opinion. I can foresee the result of a duel between Herlock Sholmes and Arsène Lupin. The Englishman will be defeated." "But, in any event, can we count on your assistance?" "Quite so, madame. I shall be pleased to render Monsieur Sholmes all possible assistance." "Do you know his address?" "Yes; 219 Parker street." That evening Monsieur and Madame de Crozon withdrew the charge they had made against Herr Bleichen, and a joint letter was addressed to Herlock Sholmes. CHAPTER III. HERLOCK SHOLMES OPENS HOSTILITIES. "What does monsieur wish?" "Anything," replied Arsène Lupin, like a man who never worries over the details of a meal; "anything you like, but no meat or alcohol." The waiter walked away, disdainfully. "What! still a vegetarian?" I exclaimed. "More so than ever," replied Lupin. "Through taste, faith, or habit?" "Hygiene." "And do you never fall from grace?" "Oh! yes ... when I am dining out ... and wish to avoid being considered eccentric." We were dining near the Northern Railway station, in a little restaurant to which Arsène Lupin had invited me. Frequently he would send me a telegram asking me to meet him in some obscure restaurant, where we could enjoy a quiet dinner, well served, and which was always made interesting to me by his recital of some startling adventure theretofore unknown to me. On that particular evening he appeared to be in a more lively mood than usual. He laughed and joked with careless animation, and with that delicate sarcasm that was habitual with him--a light and spontaneous sarcasm that was quite free from any tinge of malice. It was a pleasure to find him in that jovial mood, and I could not resist the desire to tell him so. "Ah! yes," he exclaimed, "there are days in which I find life as bright and gay as a spring morning; then life seems to be an infinite treasure which I can never exhaust. And yet God knows I lead a careless existence!" "Too much so, perhaps." "Ah! but I tell you, the treasure is infinite. I can spend it with a lavish hand. I can cast my youth and strength to the four winds of Heaven, and it is replaced by a still younger and greater force. Besides, my life is so pleasant!... If I wished to do so, I might become--what shall I say?... An orator, a manufacturer, a politician.... But, I assure you, I shall never have such a desire. Arsène Lupin, I am; Arsène Lupin, I shall remain. I have made a vain search in history to find a career comparable to mine; a life better filled or more intense.... Napoleon? Yes, perhaps.... But Napoleon, toward the close of his career, when all Europe was trying to crush him, asked himself on the eve of each battle if it would not be his last." Was he serious? Or was he joking? He became more animated as he proceeded: "That is everything, do you understand, the danger! The continuous feeling of danger! To breathe it as you breathe the air, to scent it in every breath of wind, to detect it in every unusual sound.... And, in the midst of the tempest, to remain calm ... and not to stumble! Otherwise, you are lost. There is only one sensation equal to it: that of the chauffeur in an automobile race. But that race lasts only a few hours; my race continues until death!" "What fantasy!" I exclaimed. "And you wish me to believe that you have no particular motive for your adoption of that exciting life?" "Come," he said, with a smile, "you are a clever psychologist. Work it out for yourself." He poured himself a glass of water, drank it, and said: "Did you read _'Le Temps'_ to-day?" "No." "Herlock Sholmes crossed the Channel this afternoon, and arrived in Paris about six o'clock." "The deuce! What is he coming for?" "A little journey he has undertaken at the request of the Count and Countess of Crozon, Monsieur Gerbois, and the nephew of Baron d'Hautrec. They met him at the Northern Railway station, took him to meet Ganimard, and, at this moment, the six of them are holding a consultation." Despite a strong temptation to do so, I had never ventured to question Arsène Lupin concerning any action of his private life, unless he had first mentioned the subject to me. Up to that moment his name had not been mentioned, at least officially, in connection with the blue diamond. Consequently, I consumed my curiosity in patience. He continued: "There is also in _'Le Temps'_ an interview with my old friend Ganimard, according to whom a certain blonde lady, who should be my friend, must have murdered the Baron d'Hautrec and tried to rob Madame de Crozon of her famous ring. And--what do you think?--he accuses me of being the instigator of those crimes." I could not suppress a slight shudder. Was this true? Must I believe that his career of theft, his mode of existence, the logical result of such a life, had drawn that man into more serious crimes, including murder? I looked at him. He was so calm, and his eyes had such a frank expression! I observed his hands: they had been formed from a model of exceeding delicacy, long and slender; inoffensive, truly; and the hands of an artist.... "Ganimard has pipe-dreams," I said. "No, no!" protested Lupin. "Ganimard has some cleverness; and, at times, almost inspiration." "Inspiration!" "Yes. For instance, that interview is a master-stroke. In the first place, he announces the coming of his English rival in order to put me on my guard, and make his task more difficult. In the second place, he indicates the exact point to which he has conducted the affair in order that Sholmes will not get credit for the work already done by Ganimard. That is good warfare." "Whatever it may be, you have two adversaries to deal with, and such adversaries!" "Oh! one of them doesn't count." "And the other?" "Sholmes? Oh! I confess he is a worthy foe; and that explains my present good humor. In the first place, it is a question of self-esteem; I am pleased to know that they consider me a subject worthy the attention of the celebrated English detective. In the next place, just imagine the pleasure a man, such as I, must experience in the thought of a duel with Herlock Sholmes. But I shall be obliged to strain every muscle; he is a clever fellow, and will contest every inch of the ground." "Then you consider him a strong opponent?" "I do. As a detective, I believe, he has never had an equal. But I have one advantage over him; he is making the attack and I am simply defending myself. My rôle is the easier one. Besides, I am familiar with his method of warfare, and he does not know mine. I am prepared to show him a few new tricks that will give him something to think about." He tapped the table with his fingers as he uttered the following sentences, with an air of keen delight: "Arsène Lupin against Herlock Sholmes.... France against England.... Trafalgar will be revenged at last.... Ah! the rascal ... he doesn't suspect that I am prepared ... and a Lupin warned--" He stopped suddenly, seized with a fit of coughing, and hid his face in his napkin, as if something had stuck in his throat. "A bit of bread?" I inquired. "Drink some water." "No, it isn't that," he replied, in a stifled voice. "Then, what is it?" "The want of air." "Do you wish a window opened?" "No, I shall go out. Give me my hat and overcoat, quick! I must go." "What's the matter?" "The two gentlemen who came in just now.... Look at the taller one ... now, when we go out, keep to my left, so he will not see me." "The one who is sitting behind you?" "Yes. I will explain it to you, outside." "Who is it?" "Herlock Sholmes." He made a desperate effort to control himself, as if he were ashamed of his emotion, replaced his napkin, drank a glass of water, and, quite recovered, said to me, smiling: "It is strange, hein, that I should be affected so easily, but that unexpected sight--" "What have you to fear, since no one can recognize you, on account of your many transformations? Every time I see you it seems to me your face is changed; it's not at all familiar. I don't know why." "But _he_ would recognize me," said Lupin. "He has seen me only once; but, at that time, he made a mental photograph of me--not of my external appearance but of my very soul--not what I appear to be but just what I am. Do you understand? And then ... and then.... I did not expect to meet him here.... Such a strange encounter!... in this little restaurant...." "Well, shall we go out?" "No, not now," said Lupin. "What are you going to do?" "The better way is to act frankly ... to have confidence in him--trust him...." "You will not speak to him?" "Why not! It will be to my advantage to do so, and find out what he knows, and, perhaps, what he thinks. At present I have the feeling that his gaze is on my neck and shoulders, and that he is trying to remember where he has seen them before." He reflected a moment. I observed a malicious smile at the corner of his mouth; then, obedient, I think, to a whim of his impulsive nature, and not to the necessities of the situation, he arose, turned around, and, with a bow and a joyous air, he said: "By what lucky chance? Ah! I am delighted to see you. Permit me to introduce a friend of mine." For a moment the Englishman was disconcerted; then he made a movement as if he would seize Arsène Lupin. The latter shook his head, and said: "That would not be fair; besides, the movement would be an awkward one and ... quite useless." The Englishman looked about him, as if in search of assistance. "No use," said Lupin. "Besides, are you quite sure you can place your hand on me? Come, now, show me that you are a real Englishman and, therefore, a good sport." This advice seemed to commend itself to the detective, for he partially rose and said, very formally: "Monsieur Wilson, my friend and assistant--Monsieur Arsène Lupin." Wilson's amazement evoked a laugh. With bulging eyes and gaping mouth, he looked from one to the other, as if unable to comprehend the situation. Herlock Sholmes laughed and said: "Wilson, you should conceal your astonishment at an incident which is one of the most natural in the world." "Why do you not arrest him?" stammered Wilson. "Have you not observed, Wilson, that the gentleman is between me and the door, and only a few steps from the door. By the time I could move my little finger he would be outside." "Don't let that make any difference," said Lupin, who now walked around the table and seated himself so that the Englishman was between him and the door--thus placing himself at the mercy of the foreigner. Wilson looked at Sholmes to find out if he had the right to admire this act of wanton courage. The Englishman's face was impenetrable; but, a moment later, he called: "Waiter!" When the waiter came he ordered soda, beer and whisky. The treaty of peace was signed--until further orders. In a few moments the four men were conversing in an apparently friendly manner. * * * * * Herlock Sholmes is a man such as you might meet every day in the business world. He is about fifty years of age, and looks as if he might have passed his life in an office, adding up columns of dull figures or writing out formal statements of business accounts. There was nothing to distinguish him from the average citizen of London, except the appearance of his eyes, his terribly keen and penetrating eyes. But then he is Herlock Sholmes--which means that he is a wonderful combination of intuition, observation, clairvoyance and ingenuity. One could readily believe that nature had been pleased to take the two most extraordinary detectives that the imagination of man has hitherto conceived, the Dupin of Edgar Allen Poe and the Lecoq of Emile Gaboriau, and, out of that material, constructed a new detective, more extraordinary and supernatural than either of them. And when a person reads the history of his exploits, which have made him famous throughout the entire world, he asks himself whether Herlock Sholmes is not a mythical personage, a fictitious hero born in the brain of a great novelist--Conan Doyle, for instance. When Arsène Lupin questioned him in regard to the length of his sojourn in France he turned the conversation into its proper channel by saying: "That depends on you, monsieur." "Oh!" exclaimed Lupin, laughing, "if it depends on me you can return to England to-night." "That is a little too soon, but I expect to return in the course of eight or nine days--ten at the outside." "Are you in such a hurry?" "I have many cases to attend to; such as the robbery of the Anglo-Chinese Bank, the abduction of Lady Eccleston.... But, don't you think, Monsieur Lupin, that I can finish my business in Paris within a week?" "Certainly, if you confine your efforts to the case of the blue diamond. It is, moreover, the length of time that I require to make preparations for my safety in case the solution of that affair should give you certain dangerous advantages over me." "And yet," said the Englishman, "I expect to close the business in eight or ten days." "And arrest me on the eleventh, perhaps?" "No, the tenth is my limit." Lupin shook his head thoughtfully, as he said: "That will be difficult--very difficult." "Difficult, perhaps, but possible, therefore certain--" "Absolutely certain," said Wilson, as if he had clearly worked out the long series of operations which would conduct his collaborator to the desired result. "Of course," said Herlock Sholmes, "I do not hold all the trump cards, as these cases are already several months old, and I lack certain information and clues upon which I am accustomed to base my investigations." "Such as spots of mud and cigarette ashes," said Wilson, with an air of importance. "In addition to the remarkable conclusions formed by Monsieur Ganimard, I have obtained all the articles written on the subject, and have formed a few deductions of my own." "Some ideas which were suggested to us by analysis or hypothesis," added Wilson, sententiously. "I wish to enquire," said Arsène Lupin, in that deferential tone which he employed in speaking to Sholmes, "would I be indiscreet if I were to ask you what opinion you have formed about the case?" Really, it was a most exciting situation to see those two men facing each other across the table, engaged in an earnest discussion as if they were obliged to solve some abstruse problem or come to an agreement upon some controverted fact. Wilson was in the seventh heaven of delight. Herlock Sholmes filled his pipe slowly, lighted it, and said: "This affair is much simpler than it appeared to be at first sight." "Much simpler," said Wilson, as a faithful echo. "I say 'this affair,' for, in my opinion, there is only one," said Sholmes. "The death of the Baron d'Hautrec, the story of the ring, and, let us not forget, the mystery of lottery ticket number 514, are only different phases of what one might call the mystery of the blonde Lady. Now, according to my view, it is simply a question of discovering the bond that unites those three episodes in the same story--the fact which proves the unity of the three events. Ganimard, whose judgment is rather superficial, finds that unity in the faculty of disappearance; that is, in the power of coming and going unseen and unheard. That theory does not satisfy me." "Well, what is your idea?" asked Lupin. "In my opinion," said Sholmes, "the characteristic feature of the three episodes is your design and purpose of leading the affair into a certain channel previously chosen by you. It is, on your part, more than a plan; it is a necessity, an indispensable condition of success." "Can you furnish any details of your theory?" "Certainly. For example, from the beginning of your conflict with Monsieur Gerbois, is it not evident that the apartment of Monsieur Detinan is the place selected by you, the inevitable spot where all the parties must meet? In your opinion, it was the only safe place, and you arranged a rendezvous there, publicly, one might say, for the blonde Lady and Mademoiselle Gerbois." "The professor's daughter," added Wilson. "Now, let us consider the case of the blue diamond. Did you try to appropriate it while the Baron d'Hautrec possessed it! No. But the baron takes his brother's house. Six months later we have the intervention of Antoinette Bréhat and the first attempt. The diamond escapes you, and the sale is widely advertised to take place at the Drouot auction-rooms. Will it be a free and open sale? Is the richest amateur sure to carry off the jewel! No. Just as the banker Herschmann is on the point of buying the ring, a lady sends him a letter of warning, and it is the Countess de Crozon, prepared and influenced by the same lady, who becomes the purchaser of the diamond. Will the ring disappear at once? No; you lack the opportunity. Therefore, you must wait. At last the Countess goes to her château. That is what you were waiting for. The ring disappears." "To reappear again in the tooth-powder of Herr Bleichen," remarked Lupin. "Oh! such nonsense!" exclaimed Sholmes, striking the table with his fist, "don't tell me such a fairy tale. I am too old a fox to be led away by a false scent." "What do you mean?" "What do I mean?" said Sholmes, then paused a moment as if he wished to arrange his effect. At last he said: "The blue diamond that was found in the tooth-powder was false. You kept the genuine stone." Arsène Lupin remained silent for a moment; then, with his eyes fixed on the Englishman, he replied, calmly: "You are impertinent, monsieur." "Impertinent, indeed!" repeated Wilson, beaming with admiration. "Yes," said Lupin, "and, yet, to do you credit, you have thrown a strong light on a very mysterious subject. Not a magistrate, not a special reporter, who has been engaged on this case, has come so near the truth. It is a marvellous display of intuition and logic." "Oh! a person has simply to use his brains," said Herlock Sholmes, nattered at the homage of the expert criminal. "And so few have any brains to use," replied Lupin. "And, now, that the field of conjectures has been narrowed down, and the rubbish cleared away----" "Well, now, I have simply to discover why the three episodes were enacted at 25 rue Clapeyron, 134 avenue Henri-Martin, and within the walls of the Château de Crozon and my work will be finished. What remains will be child's play. Don't you think so?" "Yes, I think you are right." "In that case, Monsieur Lupin, am I wrong in saying that my business will be finished in ten days?" "In ten days you will know the whole truth," said Lupin. "And you will be arrested." "No." "No?" "In order that I may be arrested there must occur such a series of improbable and unexpected misfortunes that I cannot admit the possibility of such an event." "We have a saying in England that 'the unexpected always happens.'" They looked at each other for a moment calmly and fearlessly, without any display of bravado or malice. They met as equals in a contest of wit and skill. And this meeting was the formal crossing of swords, preliminary to the duel. "Ah!" exclaimed Lupin, "at last I shall have an adversary worthy of the name--one whose defeat will be the proudest achievement in my career." "Are you not afraid!" asked Wilson. "Almost, Monsieur Wilson," replied Lupin, rising from his chair, "and the proof is that I am about to make a hasty retreat. Then, we will say ten days, Monsieur Sholmes?" "Yes, ten days. This is Sunday. A week from next Wednesday, at eight o'clock in the evening, it will be all over." "And I shall be in prison?" "No doubt of it." "Ha! not a pleasant outlook for a man who gets so much enjoyment out of life as I do. No cares, a lively interest in the affairs of the world, a justifiable contempt for the police, and the consoling sympathy of numerous friends and admirers. And now, behold, all that is about to be changed! It is the reverse side of the medal. After sunshine comes the rain. It is no longer a laughing matter. Adieu!" "Hurry up!" said Wilson, full of solicitude for a person in whom Herlock Sholmes had inspired so much respect, "do not lose a minute." "Not a minute, Monsieur Wilson; but I wish to express my pleasure at having met you, and to tell you how much I envy the master in having such a valuable assistant as you seem to be." Then, after they had courteously saluted each other, like adversaries in a duel who entertain no feeling of malice but are obliged to fight by force of circumstances, Lupin seized me by the arm and drew me outside. "What do you think of it, dear boy? The strange events of this evening will form an interesting chapter in the memoirs you are now preparing for me." He closed the door of the restaurant behind us, and, after taking a few steps, he stopped and said: "Do you smoke?" "No. Nor do you, it seems to me." "You are right, I don't." He lighted a cigarette with a wax-match, which he shook several times in an effort to extinguish it. But he threw away the cigarette immediately, ran across the street, and joined two men who emerged from the shadows as if called by a signal. He conversed with them for a few minutes on the opposite sidewalk, and then returned to me. "I beg your pardon, but I fear that cursed Sholmes is going to give me trouble. But, I assure you, he is not yet through with Arsène Lupin. He will find out what kind of fuel I use to warm my blood. And now--au revoir! The genial Wilson is right; there is not a moment to lose." He walked away rapidly. Thus ended the events of that exciting evening, or, at least, that part of them in which I was a participant. Subsequently, during the course of the evening, other stirring incidents occurred which have come to my knowledge through the courtesy of other members of that unique dinner-party. * * * * * At the very moment in which Lupin left me, Herlock Sholmes rose from the table, and looked at his watch. "Twenty minutes to nine. At nine o'clock I am to meet the Count and Countess at the railway station." "Then, we must be off!" exclaimed Wilson, between two drinks of whisky. They left the restaurant. "Wilson, don't look behind. We may be followed, and, in that case, let us act as if we did not care. Wilson, I want your opinion: why was Lupin in that restaurant?" "To get something to eat," replied Wilson, quickly. "Wilson, I must congratulate you on the accuracy of your deduction. I couldn't have done better myself." Wilson blushed with pleasure, and Sholmes continued: "To get something to eat. Very well, and, after that, probably, to assure himself whether I am going to the Château de Crozon, as announced by Ganimard in his interview. I must go in order not to disappoint him. But, in order to gain time on him, I shall not go." "Ah!" said Wilson, nonplused. "You, my friend, will walk down this street, take a carriage, two, three carriages. Return later and get the valises that we left at the station, and make for the Elysée-Palace at a galop." "And when I reach the Elysée-Palace?" "Engage a room, go to sleep, and await my orders." Quite proud of the important rôle assigned to him, Wilson set out to perform his task. Herlock Sholmes proceeded to the railway station, bought a ticket, and repaired to the Amiens' express in which the Count and Countess de Crozon were already installed. He bowed to them, lighted his pipe, and had a quiet smoke in the corridor. The train started. Ten minutes later he took a seat beside the Countess, and said to her: "Have you the ring here, madame?" "Yes." "Will you kindly let me see it?" He took it, and examined it closely. "Just as I suspected: it is a manufactured diamond." "A manufactured diamond?" "Yes; a new process which consists in submitting diamond dust to a tremendous heat until it melts and is then molded into a single stone." "But my diamond is genuine." "Yes, _your_ diamond is; but this is not yours." "Where is mine?" "It is held by Arsène Lupin." "And this stone?" "Was substituted for yours, and slipped into Herr Bleichen's tooth-powder, where it was afterwards found." "Then you think this is false?" "Absolutely false." The Countess was overwhelmed with surprise and grief, while her husband scrutinized the diamond with an incredulous air. Finally she stammered: "Is it possible? And why did they not merely steal it and be done with it? And how did they steal it?" "That is exactly what I am going to find out." "At the Château de Crozon?" "No. I shall leave the train at Creil and return to Paris. It is there the game between me and Arsène Lupin must be played. In fact, the game has commenced already, and Lupin thinks I am on my way to the château." "But--" "What does it matter to you, madame? The essential thing is your diamond, is it not?" "Yes." "Well, don't worry. I have just undertaken a much more difficult task than that. You have my promise that I will restore the true diamond to you within ten days." The train slackened its speed. He put the false diamond in his pocket and opened the door. The Count cried out: "That is the wrong side of the train. You are getting out on the tracks." "That is my intention. If Lupin has anyone on my track, he will lose sight of me now. Adieu." An employee protested in vain. After the departure of the train, the Englishman sought the station-master's office. Forty minutes later he leaped into a train that landed him in Paris shortly before midnight. He ran across the platform, entered the lunch-room, made his exit at another door, and jumped into a cab. "Driver--rue Clapeyron." Having reached the conclusion that he was not followed, he stopped the carriage at the end of the street, and proceeded to make a careful examination of Monsieur Detinan's house and the two adjoining houses. He made measurements of certain distances and entered the figures in his notebook. "Driver--avenue Henri-Martin." At the corner of the avenue and the rue de la Pompe, he dismissed the carriage, walked down the street to number 134, and performed the same operations in front of the house of the late Baron d'Hautrec and the two adjoining houses, measuring the width of the respective façades and calculating the depth of the little gardens that stood in front of them. The avenue was deserted, and was very dark under its four rows of trees, between which, at considerable intervals, a few gas-lamps struggled in vain to light the deep shadows. One of them threw a dim light over a portion of the house, and Sholmes perceived the "To-let" sign posted on the gate, the neglected walks which encircled the small lawn, and the large bare windows of the vacant house. "I suppose," he said to himself, "the house has been unoccupied since the death of the baron.... Ah! if I could only get in and view the scene of the murder!" No sooner did the idea occur to him than he sought to put it in execution. But how could he manage it? He could not climb over the gate; it was too high. So he took from his pocket an electric lantern and a skeleton key which he always carried. Then, to his great surprise, he discovered that the gate was not locked; in fact, it was open about three or four inches. He entered the garden, and was careful to leave the gate as he had found it--partly open. But he had not taken many steps from the gate when he stopped. He had seen a light pass one of the windows on the second floor. He saw the light pass a second window and a third, but he saw nothing else, except a silhouette outlined on the walls of the rooms. The light descended to the first floor, and, for a long time, wandered from room to room. "Who the deuce is walking, at one o'clock in the morning, through the house in which the Baron d'Hautrec was killed?" Herlock Sholmes asked himself, deeply interested. There was only one way to find out, and that was to enter the house himself. He did not hesitate, but started for the door of the house. However, at the moment when he crossed the streak of gaslight that came from the street-lamp, the man must have seen him, for the light in the house was suddenly extinguished and Herlock Sholmes did not see it again. Softly, he tried the door. It was open, also. Hearing no sound, he advanced through the hallway, encountered the foot of the stairs, and ascended to the first floor. Here there was the same silence, the same darkness. He entered, one of the rooms and approached a window through which came a feeble light from the outside. On looking through the window he saw the man, who had no doubt descended by another stairway and escaped by another door. The man was threading his way through the shrubbery which bordered the wall that separated the two gardens. "The deuce!" exclaimed Sholmes, "he is going to escape." He hastened down the stairs and leaped over the steps in his eagerness to cut off the man's retreat. But he did not see anyone, and, owing to the darkness, it was several seconds before he was able to distinguish a bulky form moving through the shrubbery. This gave the Englishman food for reflection. Why had the man not made his escape, which he could have done so easily? Had he remained in order to watch the movements of the intruder who had disturbed him in his mysterious work? "At all events," concluded Sholmes, "it is not Lupin; he would be more adroit. It may be one of his men." For several minutes Herlock Sholmes remained motionless, with his gaze fixed on the adversary who, in his turn was watching the detective. But as that adversary had become passive, and as the Englishman was not one to consume his time in idle waiting, he examined his revolver to see if it was in good working order, remove his knife from its sheath, and walked toward the enemy with that cool effrontery and scorn of danger for which he had become famous. He heard a clicking sound; it was his adversary preparing his revolver. Herlock Sholmes dashed boldly into the thicket, and grappled with his foe. There was a sharp, desperate struggle, in the course of which Sholmes suspected that the man was trying to draw a knife. But the Englishman, believing his antagonist to be an accomplice of Arsène Lupin and anxious to win the first trick in the game with that redoubtable foe, fought with unusual strength and determination. He hurled his adversary to the ground, held him there with the weight of his body, and, gripping him by the throat with one hand, he used his free hand to take out his electric lantern, press the button, and throw the light over the face of his prisoner. "Wilson!" he exclaimed, in amazement. "Herlock Sholmes!" stammered a weak, stifled voice. * * * * * For a long time they remained silent, astounded, foolish. The shriek of an automobile rent the air. A slight breeze stirred the leaves. Suddenly, Herlock Sholmes seized his friend by the shoulders and shook him violently, as he cried: "What are you doing here? Tell me.... What?... Did I tell you to hide in the bushes and spy on me!" "Spy on you!" muttered Wilson, "why, I didn't know it was you." "But what are you doing here? You ought to be in bed." "I was in bed." "You ought to be asleep." "I was asleep." "Well, what brought you here?" asked Sholmes. "Your letter." "My letter? I don't understand." "Yes, a messenger brought it to me at the hotel." "From me? Are you crazy?" "It is true--I swear it." "Where is the letter?" Wilson handed him a sheet of paper, which he read by the light of his lantern. It was as follows: "Wilson, come at once to avenue Henri-Martin. The house is empty. Inspect the whole place and make an exact plan. Then return to hotel.--Herlock Sholmes." "I was measuring the rooms," said Wilson, "when I saw a shadow in the garden. I had only one idea----" "That was to seize the shadow.... The idea was excellent.... But remember this, Wilson, whenever you receive a letter from me, be sure it is my handwriting and not a forgery." "Ah!" exclaimed Wilson, as the truth dawned on him, "then the letter wasn't from you?" "No." "Who sent it, then?" "Arsène Lupin." "Why? For what purpose?" asked Wilson. "I don't know, and that's what worries me. I don't understand why he took the trouble to disturb you. Of course, if he had sent me on such a foolish errand I wouldn't be surprised; but what was his object in disturbing you?" "I must hurry back to the hotel." "So must I, Wilson." They arrived at the gate. Wilson, who was ahead, took hold of it and pulled. "Ah! you closed it?" he said. "No, I left it partly open." Sholmes tried the gate; then, alarmed, he examined the lock. An oath escaped him: "Good God! it is locked! locked with a key!" He shook the gate with all his strength; then, realizing the futility of his efforts, he dropped his arms, discouraged, and muttered, in a jerky manner: "I can see it all now--it is Lupin. He fore-saw that I would leave the train at Creil, and he prepared this neat little trap for me in case I should commence my investigation this evening. Moreover, he was kind enough to send me a companion to share my captivity. All done to make me lose a day, and, perhaps, also, to teach me to mind my own business." "Do you mean to say we are prisoners?" "Exactly. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson are the prisoners of Arsène Lupin. It's a bad beginning; but he laughs best who laughs last." Wilson seized Sholmes' arm, and exclaimed: "Look!... Look up there!... A light...." A light shone through one of the windows of the first floor. Both of them ran to the house, and each ascended by the stairs he had used on coming out a short time before, and they met again at the entrance to the lighted chamber. A small piece of a candle was burning in the center of the room. Beside it there was a basket containing a bottle, a roasted chicken, and a loaf of bread. Sholmes was greatly amused, and laughed heartily. "Wonderful! we are invited to supper. It is really an enchanted place, a genuine fairy-land. Come, Wilson, cheer up! this is not a funeral. It's all very funny." "Are you quite sure it is so very funny?" asked Wilson, in a lugubrious tone. "Am I sure?" exclaimed Sholmes, with a gaiety that was too boisterous to be natural, "why, to tell the truth, it's the funniest thing I ever saw. It's a jolly good comedy! What a master of sarcasm this Arsène Lupin is! He makes a fool of you with the utmost grace and delicacy. I wouldn't miss this feast for all the money in the Bank of England. Come, Wilson, you grieve me. You should display that nobility of character which rises superior to misfortune. I don't see that you have any cause for complaint, really, I don't." After a time, by dint of good humor and sarcasm, he managed to restore Wilson to his normal mood, and make him swallow a morsel of chicken and a glass of wine. But when the candle went out and they prepared to spend the night there, with the bare floor for a mattress and the hard wall for a pillow, the harsh and ridiculous side of the situation was impressed upon them. That particular incident will not form a pleasant page in the memoirs of the famous detective. Next morning Wilson awoke, stiff and cold. A slight noise attracted his attention: Herlock Sholmes was kneeling on the floor, critically examining some grains of sand and studying some chalk-marks, now almost effaced, which formed certain figures and numbers, which figures he entered in his notebook. Accompanied by Wilson, who was deeply interested in the work, he examined each room, and found similar chalk-marks in two other apartments. He noticed, also, two circles on the oaken panels, an arrow on a wainscot, and four figures on four steps of the stairs. At the end of an hour Wilson said: "The figures are correct, aren't they?" "I don't know; but, at all events, they mean something," replied Sholmes, who had forgotten the discomforts of the night in the joy created by his new discoveries. "It is quite obvious," said Wilson, "they represent the number of pieces in the floor." "Ah!" "Yes. And the two circles indicate that the panels are false, as you can readily ascertain, and the arrow points in the direction in which the panels move." Herlock Sholmes looked at Wilson, in astonishment. "Ah! my dear friend, how do you know all that? Your clairvoyance makes my poor ability in that direction look quite insignificant." "Oh! it is very simple," said Wilson, inflated with pride; "I examined those marks last night, according to your instructions, or, rather, according to the instructions of Arsène Lupin, since he wrote the letter you sent to me." At that moment Wilson faced a greater danger than he had during his struggle in the garden with Herlock Sholmes. The latter now felt a furious desire to strangle him. But, dominating his feelings, Sholmes made a grimace which was intended for a smile, and said: "Quite so, Wilson, you have done well, and your work shows commendable progress. But, tell me, have you exercised your powers of observation and analysis on any other points? I might profit by your deductions." "Oh! no, I went no farther." "That's a pity. Your début was such a promising one. But, since that is all, we may as well go." "Go! but how can we get out?" "The way all honest people go out: through the gate." "But it is locked." "It will be opened." "By whom?" "Please call the two policemen who are strolling down the avenue." "But----" "But what?" "It is very humiliating. What will be said when it becomes known that Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were the prisoners of Arsène Lupin?" "Of course, I understand they will roar with laughter," replied Herlock Sholmes, in a dry voice and with frowning features, "but we can't set up housekeeping in this place." "And you will not try to find another way out?" "No." "But the man who brought us the basket of provisions did not cross the garden, coming or going. There is some other way out. Let us look for it, and not bother with the police." "Your argument is sound, but you forget that all the detectives in Paris have been trying to find it for the last six months, and that I searched the house from top to bottom while you were asleep. Ah! my dear Wilson, we have not been accustomed to pursue such game as Arsène Lupin. He leaves no trail behind him." * * * * * At eleven o'clock, Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were liberated, and conducted to the nearest police station, where the commissary, after subjecting them to a severe examination, released them with an affectation of good-will that was quite exasperating. "I am very sorry, messieurs, that this unfortunate incident has occurred. You will have a very poor opinion of French hospitality. Mon Dieu! what a night you must have passed! Ah! that rascally Lupin is no respecter of persons." They took a carriage to their hotel. At the office Wilson asked for the key of his room. After some search the clerk replied, much astonished: "But, monsieur, you have given up the room." "I gave it up? When?" "This morning, by the letter your friend brought here." "What friend?" "The gentleman who brought your letter.... Ah! your card is still attached to the letter. Here they are." Wilson looked at them. Certainly, it was one of his cards, and the letter was in his handwriting. "Good Lord!" he muttered, "this is another of his tricks," and he added, aloud: "Where is my luggage?" "Your friend took it." "Ah!... and you gave it to him?" "Certainly; on the strength of your letter and card." "Of course ... of course." They left the hotel and walked, slowly and thoughtfully, through the Champs-Elysées. The avenue was bright and cheerful beneath a clear autumn sun; the air was mild and pleasant. At Rond-Point, Herlock Sholmes lighted his pipe. Then Wilson spoke: "I can't understand you, Sholmes. You are so calm and unruffled. They play with you as a cat plays with a mouse, and yet you do not say a word." Sholmes stopped, as he replied: "Wilson, I was thinking of your card." "Well?" "The point is this: here is a man who, in view of a possible struggle with us, procures specimens of our handwriting, and who holds, in his possession, one or more of your cards. Now, have you considered how much precaution and skill those facts represent?" "Well?" "Well, Wilson, to overcome an enemy so well prepared and so thoroughly equipped requires the infinite shrewdness of ... of a Herlock Sholmes. And yet, as you have seen, Wilson, I have lost the first round." * * * * * At six o'clock the _Echo de France_ published the following article in its evening edition: "This morning Mon. Thenard, commissary of police in the sixteenth district, released Herlock Sholmes and his friend Wilson, both of whom had been locked in the house of the late Baron d'Hautrec, where they spent a very pleasant night--thanks to the thoughtful care and attention of Arsène Lupin." "In addition to their other troubles, these gentlemen have been robbed of their valises, and, in consequence thereof, they have entered a formal complaint against Arsène Lupin." "Arsène Lupin, satisfied that he has given them a mild reproof, hopes these gentlemen will not force him to resort to more stringent measures." "Bah!" exclaimed Herlock Sholmes, crushing the paper in his hands, "that is only child's play! And that is the only criticism I have to make of Arsène Lupin: he plays to the gallery. There is that much of the fakir in him." "Ah! Sholmes, you are a wonderful man! You have such a command over your temper. Nothing ever disturbs you." "No, nothing disturbs me," replied Sholmes, in a voice that trembled from rage; "besides, what's the use of losing my temper?... I am quite confident of the final result; I shall have the last word." CHAPTER IV. LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS. However well-tempered a man's character may be--and Herlock Sholmes is one of those men over whom ill-fortune has little or no hold--there are circumstances wherein the most courageous combatant feels the necessity of marshaling his forces before risking the chances of a battle. "I shall take a vacation to-day," said Sholmes. "And what shall I do?" asked Wilson. "You, Wilson--let me see! You can buy some underwear and linen to replenish our wardrobe, while I take a rest." "Very well, Sholmes, I will watch while you sleep." Wilson uttered these words with all the importance of a sentinel on guard at the outpost, and therefore exposed to the greatest danger. His chest was expanded; his muscles were tense. Assuming a shrewd look, he scrutinized, officially, the little room in which they had fixed their abode. "Very well, Wilson, you can watch. I shall occupy myself in the preparation of a line of attack more appropriate to the methods of the enemy we are called upon to meet. Do you see, Wilson, we have been deceived in this fellow Lupin. My opinion is that we must commence at the very beginning of this affair." "And even before that, if possible. But have we sufficient time?" "Nine days, dear boy. That is five too many." The Englishman spent the entire afternoon in smoking and sleeping. He did not enter upon his new plan of attack until the following day. Then he said: "Wilson, I am ready. Let us attack the enemy." "Lead on, Macduff!" exclaimed Wilson, full of martial ardor. "I wish to fight in the front rank. Oh! have no fear. I shall do credit to my King and country, for I am an Englishman." In the first place, Sholmes had three long and important interviews: With Monsieur Detinan, whose rooms he examined with the greatest care and precision; with Suzanne Gerbois, whom he questioned in regard to the blonde Lady; and with Sister Auguste, who had retired to the convent of the Visitandines since the murder of Baron d'Hautrec. At each of these interviews Wilson had remained outside; and each time he asked: "Satisfactory?" "Quite so." "I was sure we were on the right track." They paid a visit to the two houses adjoining that of the late Baron d'Hautrec in the avenue Henri-Martin; then they visited the rue Clapeyron, and, while he was examining the front of number 25, Sholmes said: "All these houses must be connected by secret passages, but I can't find them." For the first time in his life, Wilson doubted the omnipotence of his famous associate. Why did he now talk so much and accomplish so little? "Why?" exclaimed Sholmes, in answer to Wilson's secret thought, "because, with this fellow Lupin, a person has to work in the dark, and, instead of deducting the truth from established facts, a man must extract it from his own brain, and afterward learn if it is supported by the facts in the case." "But what about the secret passages?" "They must exist. But even though I should discover them, and thus learn how Arsène Lupin made his entrance to the lawyer's house and how the blonde Lady escaped from the house of Baron d'Hautrec after the murder, what good would it do? How would it help me? Would it furnish me with a weapon of attack?" "Let us attack him just the same," exclaimed Wilson, who had scarcely uttered these words when he jumped back with a cry of alarm. Something had fallen at their feet; it was a bag filled with sand which might have caused them serious injury if it had struck them. Sholmes looked up. Some men were working on a scaffolding attached to the balcony at the fifth floor of the house. He said: "We were lucky; one step more, and that heavy bag would have fallen on our heads. I wonder if--" Moved by a sudden impulse, he rushed into the house, up the five flights of stairs, rang the bell, pushed his way into the apartment to the great surprise and alarm of the servant who came to the door, and made his way to the balcony in front of the house. But there was no one there. "Where are the workmen who were here a moment ago?" he asked the servant. "They have just gone." "Which way did they go?" "By the servants' stairs." Sholmes leaned out of the window. He saw two men leaving the house, carrying bicycles. They mounted them and quickly disappeared around the corner. "How long have they been working on this scaffolding?" "Those men?... only since this morning. It's their first day." Sholmes returned to the street, and joined Wilson. Together they returned to the hotel, and thus the second day ended in a mournful silence. On the following day their programme was almost similar. They sat together on a bench in the avenue Henri-Martin, much to Wilson's disgust, who did not find it amusing to spend long hours watching the house in which the tragedy had occurred. "What do you expect, Sholmes? That Arsène Lupin will walk out of the house?" "No." "That the blonde Lady will make her appearance?" "No." "What then/" "I am looking for something to occur; some slight incident that will furnish me with a clue to work on." "And if it does not occur!" "Then I must, myself, create the spark that will set fire to the powder." A solitary incident--and that of a disagreeable nature--broke the monotony of the forenoon. A gentleman was riding along the avenue when his horse suddenly turned aside in such a manner that it ran against the bench on which they were sitting, and struck Sholmes a slight blow on the shoulder. "Ha!" exclaimed Sholmes, "a little more and I would have had a broken shoulder." The gentleman struggled with his horse. The Englishman drew his revolver and pointed it; but Wilson seized his arm, and said: "Don't be foolish! What are you going to do! Kill the man!" "Leave me alone, Wilson! Let go!" During the brief struggle between Sholmes and Wilson the stranger rode away. "Now, you can shoot," said Wilson, triumphantly, when the horseman was at some distance. "Wilson, you're an idiot! Don't you understand that the man is an accomplice of Arsène Lupin?" Sholmes was trembling from rage. Wilson stammered pitifully: "What!... that man ... an accomplice?" "Yes, the same as the workmen who tried to drop the bag of sand on us yesterday." "It can't be possible!" "Possible or not, there was only one way to prove it." "By killing the man?" "No--by killing the horse. If you hadn't grabbed my arm, I should have captured one of Lupin's accomplices. Now, do you understand the folly of your act?" Throughout the afternoon both men were morose. They did not speak a word to each other. At five o'clock they visited the rue Clapeyron, but were careful to keep at a safe distance from the houses. However, three young men who were passing through the street, arm in arm, singing, ran against Sholmes and Wilson and refused to let them pass. Sholmes, who was in an ill humor, contested the right of way with them. After a brief struggle, Sholmes resorted to his fists. He struck one of the men a hard blow on the chest, another a blow in the face, and thus subdued two of his adversaries. Thereupon the three of them took to their heels and disappeared. "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that does me good. I needed a little exercise." But Wilson was leaning against the wall. Sholmes said: "What's the matter, old chap? You're quite pale." Wilson pointed to his left arm, which hung inert, and stammered: "I don't know what it is. My arm pains me." "Very much?... Is it serious?" "Yes, I am afraid so." He tried to raise his arm, but it was helpless. Sholmes felt it, gently at first, then in a rougher way, "to see how badly it was hurt," he said. He concluded that Wilson was really hurt, so he led him to a neighboring pharmacy, where a closer examination revealed the fact that the arm was broken and that Wilson was a candidate for the hospital. In the meantime they bared his arm and applied some remedies to ease his suffering. "Come, come, old chap, cheer up!" said Sholmes, who was holding Wilson's arm, "in five or six weeks you will be all right again. But I will pay them back ... the rascals! Especially Lupin, for this is his work ... no doubt of that. I swear to you if ever----" He stopped suddenly, dropped the arm--which caused Wilson such an access of pain that he almost fainted--and, striking his forehead, Sholmes said: "Wilson, I have an idea. You know, I have one occasionally." He stood for a moment, silent, with staring eyes, and then muttered, in short, sharp phrases: "Yes, that's it ... that will explain all ... right at my feet ... and I didn't see it ... ah, parbleu! I should have thought of it before.... Wilson, I shall have good news for you." Abruptly leaving his old friend, Sholmes ran into the street and went directly to the house known as number 25. On one of the stones, to the right of the door, he read this inscription: "Destange, architect, 1875." There was a similar inscription on the house numbered 23. Of course, there was nothing unusual in that. But what might be read on the houses in the avenue Henri-Martin? A carriage was passing. He engaged it and directed the driver to take him to No. 134 avenue Henri-Martin. He was roused to a high pitch of excitement. He stood up in the carriage and urged the horse to greater speed. He offered extra pourboires to the driver. Quicker! Quicker! How great was his anxiety as they turned from the rue de la Pompe! Had he caught a glimpse of the truth at last? On one of the stones of the late Baron's house he read the words: "Destange, architect, 1874." And a similar inscription appeared on the two adjoining houses. * * * * * The reaction was such that he settled down in the seat of the carriage, trembling from joy. At last, a tiny ray of light had penetrated the dark shadows which encompassed these mysterious crimes! In the vast sombre forest wherein a thousand pathways crossed and re-crossed, he had discovered the first clue to the track followed by the enemy! He entered a branch postoffice and obtained telephonic connection with the château de Crozon. The Countess answered the telephone call. "Hello!... Is that you, madame?" "Monsieur Sholmes, isn't it? Everything going all right?" "Quite well, but I wish to ask you one question.... Hello!" "Yes, I hear you." "Tell me, when was the château de Crozon built?" "It was destroyed by fire and rebuilt about thirty years ago." "Who built it, and in what year?" "There is an inscription on the front of the house which reads: 'Lucien Destange, architect, 1877.'" "Thank you, madame, that is all. Good-bye." He went away, murmuring: "Destange ... Lucien Destange ... that name has a familiar sound." He noticed a public reading-room, entered, consulted a dictionary of modern biography, and copied the following information: "Lucien Destange, born 1840, Grand-Prix de Rome, officer of the Legion of Honor, author of several valuable books on architecture, etc...." Then he returned to the pharmacy and found that Wilson had been taken to the hospital. There Sholmes found him with his arm in splints, and shivering with fever. "Victory! Victory!" cried Sholmes. "I hold one end of the thread." "Of what thread?" "The one that leads to victory. I shall now be walking on solid ground, where there will be footprints, clues...." "Cigarette ashes?" asked Wilson, whose curiosity had overcome his pain. "And many other things! Just think, Wilson, I have found the mysterious link which unites the different adventures in which the blonde Lady played a part. Why did Lupin select those three houses for the scenes of his exploits?" "Yes, why?" "Because those three houses were built by the same architect. That was an easy problem, eh? Of course ... but who would have thought of it?" "No one but you." "And who, except I, knows that the same architect, by the use of analogous plans, has rendered it possible for a person to execute three distinct acts which, though miraculous in appearance, are, in reality, quite simple and easy?" "That was a stroke of good luck." "And it was time, dear boy, as I was becoming very impatient. You know, this is our fourth day." "Out of ten." "Oh! after this----" Sholmes was excited, delighted, and gayer than usual. "And when I think that these rascals might have attacked me in the street and broken my arm just as they did yours! Isn't that so, Wilson?" Wilson simply shivered at the horrible thought. Sholmes continued: "We must profit by the lesson. I can see, Wilson, that we were wrong to try and fight Lupin in the open, and leave ourselves exposed to his attacks." "I can see it, and feel it, too, in my broken arm," said Wilson. "You have one consolation, Wilson; that is, that I escaped. Now, I must be doubly cautious. In an open fight he will defeat me; but if I can work in the dark, unseen by him, I have the advantage, no matter how strong his forces may be." "Ganimard might be of some assistance." "Never! On the day that I can truly say: Arsène Lupin is there; I show you the quarry, and how to catch it; I shall go and see Ganimard at one of the two addresses that he gave me--his residence in the rue Pergolese, or at the Suisse tavern in the Place du Châtelet. But, until that time, I shall work alone." He approached the bed, placed his hand on Wilson's shoulder--on the sore one, of course--and said to him: "Take care of yourself, old fellow. Henceforth your rôle will be to keep two or three of Arsène Lupin's men busy watching here in vain for my return to enquire about your health. It is a secret mission for you, eh?" "Yes, and I shall do my best to fulfil it conscientiously. Then you do not expect to come here any more?" "What for?" asked Sholmes. "I don't know ... of course.... I am getting on as well as possible. But, Herlock, do me a last service: give me a drink." "A drink?" "Yes, I am dying of thirst; and with my fever----" "To be sure--directly----" He made a pretense of getting some water, perceived a package of tobacco, lighted his pipe, and then, as if he had not heard his friend's request, he went away, whilst Wilson uttered a mute prayer for the inaccessible water. * * * * * "Monsieur Destange!" The servant eyed from head to foot the person to whom he had opened the door of the house--the magnificent house that stood at the corner of the Place Malesherbes and the rue Montchanin--and at the sight of the man with gray hairs, badly shaved, dressed in a shabby black coat, with a body as ill-formed and ungracious as his face, he replied with the disdain which he thought the occasion warranted: "Monsieur Destange may or may not be at home. That depends. Has monsieur a card?" Monsieur did not have a card, but he had a letter of introduction and, after the servant had taken the letter to Mon. Destange, he was conducted into the presence of that gentleman who was sitting in a large circular room or rotunda which occupied one of the wings of the house. It was a library, and contained a profusion of books and architectural drawings. When the stranger entered, the architect said to him: "You are Monsieur Stickmann?" "Yes, monsieur." "My secretary tells me that he is ill, and has sent you to continue the general catalogue of the books which he commenced under my direction, and, more particularly, the catalogue of German books. Are you familiar with that kind of work?" "Yes, monsieur, quite so," he replied, with a strong German accent. Under those circumstances the bargain was soon concluded, and Mon. Destange commenced work with his new secretary. Herlock Sholmes had gained access to the house. In order to escape the vigilance of Arsène Lupin and gain admittance to the house occupied by Lucien Destange and his daughter Clotilde, the famous detective had been compelled to resort to a number of stratagems, and, under a variety of names, to ingratiate himself into the good graces and confidence of a number of persons--in short, to live, during forty-eight hours, a most complicated life. During that time he had acquired the following information: Mon. Destange, having retired from active business on account of his failing health, now lived amongst the many books he had accumulated on the subject of architecture. He derived infinite pleasure in viewing and handling those dusty old volumes. His daughter Clotilde was considered eccentric. She passed her time in another part of the house, and never went out. "Of course," Sholmes said to himself, as he wrote in a register the titles of the books which Mon. Destange dictated to him, "all that is vague and incomplete, but it is quite a long step in advance. I shall surely solve one of these absorbing problems: Is Mon. Destange associated with Arsène Lupin? Does he continue to see him? Are the papers relating to the construction of the three houses still in existence? Will those papers not furnish me with the location of other houses of similar construction which Arsène Lupin and his associates will plunder in the future? "Monsieur Destange, an accomplice of Arsène Lupin! That venerable man, an officer of the Legion of Honor, working in league with a burglar--such an idea was absurd! Besides, if we concede that such a complicity exists, how could Mon. Destange, thirty years ago, have possibly foreseen the thefts of Arsène Lupin, who was then an infant?" No matter! The Englishman was implacable. With his marvellous scent, and that instinct which never fails him, he felt that he was in the heart of some strange mystery. Ever since he first entered the house, he had been under the influence of that impression, and yet he could not define the grounds on which he based his suspicions. Up to the morning of the second day he had not made any significant discovery. At two o'clock of that day he saw Clotilde Destange for the first time; she came to the library in search of a book. She was about thirty years of age, a brunette, slow and silent in her movements, with features imbued with that expression of indifference which is characteristic of people who live a secluded life. She exchanged a few words with her father, and then retired, without even looking at Sholmes. The afternoon dragged along monotonously. At five o'clock Mon. Destange announced his intention to go out. Sholmes was alone on the circular gallery that was constructed about ten feet above the floor of the rotunda. It was almost dark. He was on the point of going out, when he heard a slight sound and, at the same time, experienced the feeling that there was someone in the room. Several minutes passed before he saw or heard anything more. Then he shuddered; a shadowy form emerged from the gloom, quite close to him, upon the balcony. It seemed incredible. How long had this mysterious visitor been there? Whence did he come? The strange man descended the steps and went directly to a large oaken cupboard. Sholmes was a keen observer of the man's movements. He watched him searching amongst the papers with which the cupboard was filled. What was he looking for? Then the door opened and Mlle. Destange entered, speaking to someone who was following her: "So you have decided not to go out, father?... Then I will make a light ... one second ... do not move...." The strange man closed the cupboard and hid in the embrasure of a large window, drawing the curtains together. Did Mlle. Destange not see him? Did she not hear him? Calmly she turned on the electric lights; she and her father sat down close to each other. She opened a book she had brought with her, and commenced to read. After the lapse of a few minutes she said: "Your secretary has gone." "Yes, I don't see him." "Do you like him as well as you did at first?" she asked, as if she were not aware of the illness of the real secretary and his replacement by Stickmann. "Oh! yes." Monsieur Destange's head bobbed from one side to the other. He was asleep. The girl resumed her reading. A moment later one of the window curtains was pushed back, and the strange man emerged and glided along the wall toward the door, which obliged him to pass behind Mon. Destange but in front of Clotilde, and brought him into the light so that Herlock Sholmes obtained a good view of the man's face. It was Arsène Lupin. The Englishman was delighted. His forecast was verified; he had penetrated to the very heart of the mystery, and found Arsène Lupin to be the moving spirit in it. Clotilde had not yet displayed any knowledge of his presence, although it was quite improbable that any movement of the intruder had escaped her notice. Lupin had almost reached the door and, in fact, his hand was already seeking the door-knob, when his coat brushed against a small table and knocked something to the floor. Monsieur Destange awoke with a start. Arsène Lupin was already standing in front of him, hat in hand, smiling. "Maxime Bermond," exclaimed Mon. Destange, joyfully. "My dear Maxime, what lucky chance brings you here?" "The wish to see you and Mademoiselle Destange." "When did you return from your journey?" "Yesterday." "You must stay to dinner." "No, thank you, I am sorry, but I have an appointment to dine with some friends at a restaurant." "Come, to-morrow, then, Clotilde, you must urge him to come to-morrow. Ah! my dear Maxime.... I thought of you many times during your absence." "Really?" "Yes, I went through all my old papers in that cupboard, and found our last statement of account." "What account?" "Relating to the avenue Henri-Martin." "Ah! do you keep such papers? What for?" Then the three of them left the room, and continued their conversation in a small parlor which adjoined the library. "Is it Lupin?" Sholmes asked himself, in a sudden access of doubt. Certainly, from all appearances, it was he; and yet it was also someone else who resembled Arsène Lupin in certain respects, and who still maintained his own individuality, features, and color of hair. Sholmes could hear Lupin's voice in the adjoining room. He was relating some stories at which Mon. Destange laughed heartily, and which even brought a smile to the lips of the melancholy Clotilde. And each of those smiles appeared to be the reward which Arsène Lupin was seeking, and which he was delighted to have secured. His success caused him to redouble his efforts and, insensibly, at the sound of that clear and happy voice, Clotilde's face brightened and lost that cold and listless expression which usually pervaded it. "They love each other," thought Sholmes, "but what the deuce can there be in common between Clotilde Destange and Maxime Bermond? Does she know that Maxime is none other than Arsène Lupin?" Until seven o'clock Sholmes was an anxious listener, seeking to profit by the conversation. Then, with infinite precaution, he descended from the gallery, crept along the side of the room to the door in such a manner that the people in the adjoining room did not see him. When he reached the street Sholmes satisfied himself that there was neither an automobile nor a cab waiting there; then he slowly limped along the boulevard Malesherbes. He turned into an adjacent street, donned the overcoat which he had carried on his arm, altered the shape of his hat, assumed an upright carriage, and, thus transformed, returned to a place whence he could watch the door of Mon. Destange's house. In a few minutes Arsène Lupin came out, and proceeded to walk toward the center of Paris by way of the rues de Constantinople and London. Herlock Sholmes followed at a distance of a hundred paces. Exciting moments for the Englishman! He sniffed the air, eagerly, like a hound following a fresh scent. It seemed to him a delightful thing thus to follow his adversary. It was no longer Herlock Sholmes who was being watched, but Arsène Lupin, the invisible Arsène Lupin. He held him, so to speak, within the grasp of his eye, by an imperceptible bond that nothing could break. And he was pleased to think that the quarry belonged to him. But he soon observed a suspicious circumstance. In the intervening space between him and Arsène Lupin he noticed several people traveling in the same direction, particularly two husky fellows in slouch hats on the left side of the street, and two others on the right wearing caps and smoking cigarettes. Of course, their presence in that vicinity may have been the result of chance, but Sholmes was more astonished when he observed that the four men stopped when Lupin entered a tobacco shop; and still more surprised when the four men started again after Lupin emerged from the shop, each keeping to his own side of the street. "Curse it!" muttered Sholmes; "he is being followed." He was annoyed at the idea that others were on the trail of Arsène Lupin; that someone might deprive him, not of the glory--he cared little for that--but of the immense pleasure of capturing, single-handed, the most formidable enemy he had ever met. And he felt that he was not mistaken; the men presented to Sholmes' experienced eye the appearance and manner of those who, while regulating their gait to that of another, wish to present a careless and natural air. "Is this some of Ganimard's work?" muttered Sholmes. "Is he playing me false?" He felt inclined to speak to one of the men with a view of acting in concert with him; but as they were now approaching the boulevard the crowd was becoming denser, and he was afraid he might lose sight of Lupin. So he quickened his pace and turned into the boulevard just in time to see Lupin ascending the steps of the Hungarian restaurant at the corner of the rue du Helder. The door of the restaurant was open, so that Sholmes, while sitting on a bench on the other side of the boulevard, could see Lupin take a seat at a table, luxuriously appointed and decorated with flowers, at which three gentlemen and two ladies of elegant appearance were already seated and who extended to Lupin a hearty greeting. Sholmes now looked about for the four men and perceived them amongst a crowd of people who were listening to a gipsy orchestra that was playing in a neighboring café. It was a curious thing that they were paying no attention to Arsène Lupin, but seemed to be friendly with the people around them. One of them took a cigarette from his pocket and approached a gentleman who wore a frock coat and silk hat. The gentleman offered the other his cigar for a light, and Sholmes had the impression that they talked to each other much longer than the occasion demanded. Finally the gentleman approached the Hungarian restaurant, entered and looked around. When he caught sight of Lupin he advanced and spoke to him for a moment, then took a seat at an adjoining table. Sholmes now recognized this gentleman as the horseman who had tried to run him down in the avenue Henri-Martin. Then Sholmes understood that these men were not tracking Arsène Lupin; they were a part of his band. They were watching over his safety. They were his bodyguard, his satellites, his vigilant escort. Wherever danger threatened Lupin, these confederates were at hand to avert it, ready to defend him. The four men were accomplices. The gentleman in the frock coat was an accomplice. These facts furnished the Englishman with food for reflection. Would he ever succeed in capturing that inaccessible individual? What unlimited power was possessed by such an organization, directed by such a chief! He tore a leaf from his notebook, wrote a few lines in pencil, which he placed in an envelope, and said to a boy about fifteen years of age who was sitting on the bench beside him: "Here, my boy; take a carriage and deliver this letter to the cashier of the Suisse tavern, Place du Châtelet. Be quick!" He gave him a five-franc piece. The boy disappeared. A half hour passed away. The crowd had grown larger, and Sholmes perceived only at intervals the accomplices of Arsène Lupin. Then someone brushed against him and whispered in his ear: "Well? what is it, Monsieur Sholmes?" "Ah! it is you, Ganimard?" "Yes; I received your note at the tavern. What's the matter?" "He is there." "What do you mean?" "There ... in the restaurant. Lean to the right.... Do you see him now?" "No." "He is pouring a glass of champagne for the lady." "That is not Lupin." "Yes, it is." "But I tell you.... Ah! yet, it may be. It looks a great deal like him," said Ganimard, naively. "And the others--accomplices?" "No; the lady sitting beside him is Lady Cliveden; the other is the Duchess de Cleath. The gentleman sitting opposite Lupin is the Spanish Ambassador to London." Ganimard took a step forward. Sholmes retained him. "Be prudent. You are alone." "So is he." "No, he has a number of men on the boulevard mounting guard. And inside the restaurant that gentleman----" "And I, when I take Arsène Lupin by the collar and announce his name, I shall have the entire room on my side and all the waiters." "I should prefer to have a few policemen." "But, Monsieur Sholmes, we have no choice. We must catch him when we can." He was right; Sholmes knew it. It was better to take advantage of the opportunity and make the attempt. Sholmes simply gave this advice to Ganimard: "Conceal your identity as long as possible." Sholmes glided behind a newspaper kiosk, whence he could still watch Lupin, who was leaning toward Lady Cliveden, talking and smiling. Ganimard crossed the street, hands in his pockets, as if he were going down the boulevard, but when he reached the opposite sidewalk he turned quickly and bounded up the steps of the restaurant. There was a shrill whistle. Ganimard ran against the head waiter, who had suddenly planted himself in the doorway and now pushed Ganimard back with a show of indignation, as if he were an intruder whose presence would bring disgrace upon the restaurant. Ganimard was surprised. At the same moment the gentleman in the frock coat came out. He took the part of the detective and entered into an exciting argument with the waiter; both of them hung on to Ganimard, one pushing him in, the other pushing him out in such a manner that, despite all his efforts and despite his furious protestations, the unfortunate detective soon found himself on the sidewalk. The struggling men were surrounded by a crowd. Two policemen, attracted by the noise, tried to force their way through the crowd, but encountered a mysterious resistance and could make no headway through the opposing backs and pressing shoulders of the mob. But suddenly, as if by magic, the crowd parted and the passage to the restaurant was clear. The head waiter, recognizing his mistake, was profuse in his apologies; the gentleman in the frock coat ceased his efforts on behalf of the detective, the crowd dispersed, the policemen passed on, and Ganimard hastened to the table at which the six guests were sitting. But now there were only five! He looked around.... The only exit was the door. "The person who was sitting here!" he cried to the five astonished guests. "Where is he?" "Monsieur Destro?" "No; Arsène Lupin!" A waiter approached and said: "The gentleman went upstairs." Ganimard rushed up in the hope of finding him. The upper floor of the restaurant contained private dining-rooms and had a private stairway leading to the boulevard. "No use looking for him now," muttered Ganimard. "He is far away by this time." * * * * * He was not far away--two hundred yards at most--in the Madeleine-Bastille omnibus, which was rolling along very peacefully with its three horses across the Place de l'Opéra toward the Boulevard des Capucines. Two sturdy fellows were talking together on the platform. On the roof of the omnibus near the stairs an old fellow was sleeping; it was Herlock Sholmes. With bobbing head, rocked by the movement of the vehicle, the Englishman said to himself: "If Wilson could see me now, how proud he would be of his collaborator!... Bah! It was easy to foresee that the game was lost, as soon as the man whistled; nothing could be done but watch the exits and see that our man did not escape. Really, Lupin makes life exciting and interesting." At the terminal point Herlock Sholmes, by leaning over, saw Arsène Lupin leaving the omnibus, and as he passed in front of the men who formed his bodyguard Sholmes heard him say: "A l'Etoile." "A l'Etoile, exactly, a rendezvous. I shall be there," thought Sholmes. "I will follow the two men." Lupin took an automobile; but the men walked the entire distance, followed by Sholmes. They stopped at a narrow house, No. 40 rue Chalgrin, and rang the bell. Sholmes took his position in the shadow of a doorway, whence he could watch the house in question. A man opened one of the windows of the ground floor and closed the shutters. But the shutters did not reach to the top of the window. The impost was clear. At the end of ten minutes a gentleman rang at the same door and a few minutes later another man came. A short time afterward an automobile stopped in front of the house, bringing two passengers: Arsène Lupin and a lady concealed beneath a large cloak and a thick veil. "The blonde Lady, no doubt," said Sholmes to himself, as the automobile drove away. Herlock Sholmes now approached the house, climbed to the window-ledge and, by standing on tiptoe, he was able to see through the window above the shutters. What did he see? Arsène Lupin, leaning against the mantel, was speaking with considerable animation. The others were grouped around him, listening to him attentively. Amongst them Sholmes easily recognized the gentleman in the frock coat and he thought one of the other men resembled the head-waiter of the restaurant. As to the blonde Lady, she was seated in an armchair with her back to the window. "They are holding a consultation," thought Sholmes. "They are worried over the incident at the restaurant and are holding a council of war. Ah! what a master stroke it would be to capture all of them at one fell stroke!" One of them, having moved toward the door, Sholmes leaped to the ground and concealed himself in the shadow. The gentleman in the frock coat and the head-waiter left the house. A moment later a light appeared at the windows of the first floor, but the shutters were closed immediately and the upper part of the house was dark as well as the lower. "Lupin and the woman are on the ground floor; the two confederates live on the upper floor," said Sholmes. Sholmes remained there the greater part of the night, fearing that if he went away Arsène Lupin might leave during his absence. At four o'clock, seeing two policemen at the end of the street, he approached them, explained the situation and left them to watch the house. He went to Ganimard's residence in the rue Pergolese and wakened him. "I have him yet," said Sholmes. "Arsène Lupin?" "Yes." "If you haven't got any better hold on him than you had a while ago, I might as well go back to bed. But we may as well go to the station-house." They went to the police station in the rue Mesnil and from there to the residence of the commissary, Mon. Decointre. Then, accompanied by half a dozen policemen, they went to the rue Chalgrin. "Anything new?" asked Sholmes, addressing the two policemen. "Nothing." It was just breaking day when, after taking necessary measures to prevent escape, the commissary rang the bell and commenced to question the concierge. The woman was greatly frightened at this early morning invasion, and she trembled as she replied that there were no tenants on the ground floor. "What! not a tenant?" exclaimed Ganimard. "No; but on the first floor there are two men named Leroux. They have furnished the apartment on the ground floor for some country relations." "A gentleman and lady." "Yes." "Who came here last night." "Perhaps ... but I don't know ... I was asleep. But I don't think so, for the key is here. They did not ask for it." With that key the commissary opened the door of the ground-floor apartment. It comprised only two rooms and they were empty. "Impossible!" exclaimed Sholmes. "I saw both of them in this room." "I don't doubt your word," said the commissary; "but they are not here now." "Let us go to the first floor. They must be there." "The first floor is occupied by two men named Leroux." "We will examine the Messieurs Leroux." They all ascended the stairs and the commissary rang. At the second ring a man opened the door; he was in his shirt-sleeves. Sholmes recognized him as one of Lupin's bodyguard. The man assumed a furious air: "What do you mean by making such a row at this hour of the morning ... waking people up...." But he stopped suddenly, astounded. "God forgive me!... really, gentlemen, I didn't notice who it was. Why, it is Monsieur Decointre!... and you, Monsieur Ganimard. What can I do for you!" Ganimard burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, which caused him to bend double and turn black in the face. "Ah! it is you, Leroux," he stammered. "Oh! this is too funny! Leroux, an accomplice of Arsène Lupin! Oh, I shall die! and your brother, Leroux, where is he?" "Edmond!" called the man. "It is Ganimard, who has come to visit us." Another man appeared and at sight of him Ganimard's mirth redoubled. "Oh! oh! we had no idea of this! Ah! my friends, you are in a bad fix now. Who would have ever suspected it?" Turning to Sholmes, Ganimard introduced the man: "Victor Leroux, a detective from our office, one of the best men in the iron brigade ... Edmond Leroux, chief clerk in the anthropometric service." CHAPTER V. AN ABDUCTION. Herlock Sholmes said nothing. To protest? To accuse the two men? That would be useless. In the absence of evidence which he did not possess and had no time to seek, no one would believe him. Moreover, he was stifled with rage, but would not display his feelings before the triumphant Ganimard. So he bowed respectfully to the brothers Leroux, guardians of society, and retired. In the vestibule he turned toward a low door which looked like the entrance to a cellar, and picked up a small red stone; it was a garnet. When he reached the street he turned and read on the front of the house this inscription: "Lucien Destange, architect, 1877." The adjoining house, No. 42, bore the same inscription. "Always the double passage--numbers 40 and 42 have a secret means of communication. Why didn't I think of that? I should have remained with the two policemen." He met the policemen near the corner and said to them: "Two people came out of house No. 42 during my absence, didn't they?" "Yes; a gentleman and lady." Ganimard approached. Sholmes took his arm, and as they walked down the street he said: "Monsieur Ganimard, you have had a good laugh and will no doubt forgive me for the trouble I have caused you." "Oh! there's no harm done; but it was a good joke." "I admit that; but the best jokes have only a short life, and this one can't last much longer." "I hope not." "This is now the seventh day, and I can remain only three days more. Then I must return to London." "Oh!" "I wish to ask you to be in readiness, as I may call on you at any hour on Tuesday or Wednesday night." "For an expedition of the same kind as we had to-night?" "Yes, monsieur, the very same." "With what result?" "The capture of Arsène Lupin," replied Sholmes. "Do you think so?" "I swear it, on my honor, monsieur." Sholmes bade Ganimard good-bye and went to the nearest hotel for a few hours' sleep; after which, refreshed and with renewed confidence in himself, he returned to the rue Chalgrin, slipped two louis into the hand of the concierge, assured himself that the brothers Leroux had gone out, learned that the house belonged to a Monsieur Harmingeat, and, provided with a candle, descended to the cellar through the low door near which he had found the garnet. At the bottom of the stairs he found another exactly like it. "I am not mistaken," he thought; "this is the means of communication. Let me see if my skeleton-key will open the cellar reserved for the tenant of the ground floor. Yes; it will. Now, I will examine those cases of wine... oh! oh! here are some places where the dust has been cleared away ... and some footprints on the ground...." A slight noise caused him to listen attentively. Quickly he pushed the door shut, blew out his candle and hid behind a pile of empty wine cases. After a few seconds he noticed that a portion of the wall swung on a pivot, the light of a lantern was thrown into the cellar, an arm appeared, then a man entered. He was bent over, as if he were searching for something. He felt in the dust with his fingers and several times he threw something into a cardboard box that he carried in his left hand. Afterward he obliterated the traces of his footsteps, as well as the footprints left by Lupin and the blonde lady, and he was about to leave the cellar by the same way as he had entered, when he uttered a harsh cry and fell to the ground. Sholmes had leaped upon him. It was the work of a moment, and in the simplest manner in the world the man found himself stretched on the ground, bound and handcuffed. The Englishman leaned over him and said: "Have you anything to say?... To tell what you know?" The man replied by such an ironical smile that Sholmes realized the futility of questioning him. So he contented himself by exploring the pockets of his captive, but he found only a bunch of keys, a handkerchief and the small cardboard box which contained a dozen garnets similar to those which Sholmes had found. Then what was he to do with the man? Wait until his friends came to his help and deliver all of them to the police? What good would that do? What advantage would that give him over Lupin? He hesitated; but an examination of the box decided the question. The box bore this name and address: "Leonard, jeweler, rue de la Paix." He resolved to abandon the man to his fate. He locked the cellar and left the house. At a branch postoffice he sent a telegram to Monsieur Destange, saying that he could not come that day. Then he went to see the jeweler and, handing him the garnets, said: "Madame sent me with these stones. She wishes to have them reset." Sholmes had struck the right key. The jeweler replied: "Certainly; the lady telephoned to me. She said she would be here to-day." Sholmes established himself on the sidewalk to wait for the lady, but it was five o'clock when he saw a heavily-veiled lady approach and enter the store. Through the window he saw her place on the counter a piece of antique jewelry set with garnets. She went away almost immediately, walking quickly and passed through streets that were unknown to the Englishman. As it was now almost dark, he walked close behind her and followed her into a five-story house of double flats and, therefore, occupied by numerous tenants. At the second floor she stopped and entered. Two minutes later the Englishman commenced to try the keys on the bunch he had taken from the man in the rue Chalgrin. The fourth key fitted the lock. Notwithstanding the darkness of the rooms, he perceived that they were absolutely empty, as if unoccupied, and the various doors were standing open so that he could see all the apartments. At the end of a corridor he perceived a ray of light and, by approaching on tiptoe and looking through the glass door, he saw the veiled lady who had removed her hat and dress and was now wearing a velvet dressing-gown. The discarded garments were lying on the only chair in the room and a lighted lamp stood on the mantel. Then he saw her approach the fireplace and press what appeared to be the button of an electric bell. Immediately the panel to the right of the fireplace moved and slowly glided behind the adjoining panel, thus disclosing an opening large enough for a person to pass through. The lady disappeared through this opening, taking the lamp with her. The operation was a very simple one. Sholmes adopted it and followed the lady. He found himself in total darkness and immediately he felt his face brushed by some soft articles. He lighted a match and found that he was in a very small room completely filled with cloaks and dresses suspended on hangers. He picked his way through until he reached a door that was draped with a portiere. He peeped through and, behold, the blonde lady was there, under his eyes, and almost within reach of his hand. She extinguished the lamp and turned on the electric lights. Then for the first time Herlock Sholmes obtained a good look at her face. He was amazed. The woman, whom he had overtaken after so much trouble and after so many tricks and manoeuvres, was none other than Clotilde Destange. * * * * * Clotilde Destange, the assassin of the Baron d'Hautrec and the thief who stole the blue diamond! Clotilde Destange, the mysterious friend of Arsène Lupin! And the blonde lady! "Yes, I am only a stupid ass," thought Herlock Sholmes at that moment. "Because Lupin's friend was a blonde and Clotilde is a brunette, I never dreamed that they were the same person. But how could the blonde lady remain a blonde after the murder of the baron and the theft of the diamond?" Sholmes could see a portion of the room; it was a boudoir, furnished with the most delightful luxury and exquisite taste, and adorned with beautiful tapestries and costly ornaments. A mahogany couch, upholstered in silk, was located on the side of the room opposite the door at which Sholmes was standing. Clotilde was sitting on this couch, motionless, her face covered by her hands. Then he perceived that she was weeping. Great tears rolled down her pale cheeks and fell, drop by drop, on the velvet corsage. The tears came thick and fast, as if their source were inexhaustible. A door silently opened behind her and Arsène Lupin entered. He looked at her for a long time without making his presence known; then he approached her, knelt at her feet, pressed her head to his breast, folded her in his arms, and his actions indicated an infinite measure of love and sympathy. For a time not a word was uttered, but her tears became less abundant. "I was so anxious to make you happy," he murmured. "I am happy." "No; you are crying.... Your tears break my heart, Clotilde." The caressing and sympathetic tone of his voice soothed her, and she listened to him with an eager desire for hope and happiness. Her features were softened by a smile, and yet how sad a smile! He continued to speak in a tone of tender entreaty: "You should not be unhappy, Clotilde; you have no cause to be." She displayed her delicate white hands and said, solemnly: "Yes, Maxime; so long as I see those hands I shall be sad." "Why?" "They are stained with blood." "Hush! Do not think of that!" exclaimed Lupin. "The dead is past and gone. Do not resurrect it." And he kissed the long, delicate hand, while she regarded him with a brighter smile as if each kiss effaced a portion of that dreadful memory. "You must love me, Maxime; you must--because no woman will ever love you as I do. For your sake, I have done many things, not at your order or request, but in obedience to your secret desires. I have done things at which my will and conscience revolted, but there was some unknown power that I could not resist. What I did I did involuntarily, mechanically, because it helped you, because you wished it ... and I am ready to do it again to-morrow ... and always." "Ah, Clotilde," he said, bitterly, "why did I draw you into my adventurous life? I should have remained the Maxime Bermond that you loved five years ago, and not have let you know the ... other man that I am." She replied in a low voice: "I love the other man, also, and I have nothing to regret." "Yes, you regret your past life--the free and happy life you once enjoyed." "I have no regrets when you are here," she said, passionately. "All faults and crimes disappear when I see you. When you are away I may suffer, and weep, and be horrified at what I have done; but when you come it is all forgotten. Your love wipes it all away. And I am happy again.... But you must love me!" "I do not love you on compulsion, Clotilde. I love you simply because ... I love you." "Are you sure of it?" "I am just as sure of my own love as I am of yours. Only my life is a very active and exciting one, and I cannot spend as much time with you as I would like--just now." "What is it? Some new danger? Tell me!" "Oh! nothing serious. Only...." "Only what?" she asked. "Well, he is on our track." "Who? Herlock Sholmes?" "Yes; it was he who dragged Ganimard into that affair at the Hungarian restaurant. It was he who instructed the two policemen to watch the house in the rue Chalgrin. I have proof of it. Ganimard searched the house this morning and Sholmes was with him. Besides----" "Besides? What?" "Well, there is another thing. One of our men is missing." "Who?" "Jeanniot." "The concierge?" "Yes." "Why, I sent him to the rue Chalgrin this morning to pick up the garnets that fell out of my brooch." "There is no doubt, then, that Sholmes caught him." "No; the garnets were delivered to the jeweler in the rue de la Paix." "Then, what has become of him!" "Oh! Maxime, I am afraid." "There is nothing to be afraid of, but I confess the situation is very serious. What does he know? Where does he hide himself? His isolation is his strong card. I cannot reach him." "What are you going to do?" "Act with extreme prudence, Clotilde. Some time ago I decided to change my residence to a safer place, and Sholmes' appearance on the scene has prompted me to do so at once. When a man like that is on your track, you must be prepared for the worst. Well, I am making my preparations. Day after to-morrow, Wednesday, I shall move. At noon it will be finished. At two o'clock I shall leave the place, after removing the last trace of our residence there, which will be no small matter. Until then----" "Well?" "Until then we must not see each other and no one must see you, Clotilde. Do not go out. I have no fear for myself, but I have for you." "That Englishman cannot possibly reach me." "I am not so sure of that. He is a dangerous man. Yesterday I came here to search the cupboard that contains all of Monsieur Destange's old papers and records. There is danger there. There is danger everywhere. I feel that he is watching us--that he is drawing his net around us closer and closer. It is one of those intuitions which never deceive me." "In that case, Maxime, go, and think no more of my tears. I shall be brave, and wait patiently until the danger is past. Adieu, Maxime." They held one another for some time in a last fond embrace. And it was she that gently pushed him outside. Sholmes could hear the sound of their voices in the distance. Emboldened by the necessities of the situation and the urgent need of bringing his investigation to a speedy termination, Sholmes proceeded to make an examination of the house in which he now found himself. He passed through Clotilde's boudoir into a corridor, at the end of which there was a stairway leading to the lower floor; he was about to descend this stairway when he heard voices below, which caused him to change his route. He followed the corridor, which was a circular one, and discovered another stairway, which he descended and found himself amidst surroundings that bore a familiar appearance. He passed through a door that stood partly open and entered a large circular room. It was Monsieur Destange's library. "Ah! splendid!" he exclaimed. "Now I understand everything. The boudoir of Mademoiselle Clotilde--the blonde Lady--communicates with a room in the adjoining house, and that house does not front on the Place Malesherbes, but upon an adjacent street, the rue Montchanin, if I remember the name correctly.... And I now understand how Clotilde Destange can meet her lover and at the same time create the impression that she never leaves the house; and I understand also how Arsène Lupin was enabled to make his mysterious entrance to the gallery last night. Ah! there must be another connection between the library and the adjoining room. One more house full of ways that are dark! And no doubt Lucien Destange was the architect, as usual!... I should take advantage of this opportunity to examine the contents of the cupboard and perhaps learn the location of other houses with secret passages constructed by Monsieur Destange." Sholmes ascended to the gallery and concealed himself behind some draperies, where he remained until late in the evening. At last a servant came and turned off the electric lights. An hour later the Englishman, by the light of his lantern, made his way to the cupboard. As he had surmised, it contained the architect's old papers, plans, specifications and books of account. It also contained a series of registers, arranged according to date, and Sholmes, having selected those of the most recent dates, searched in the indexes for the name "Harmingeat." He found it in one of the registers with a reference to page 63. Turning to that page, he read: "Harmingeat, 40 rue Chalgrin." This was followed by a detailed account of the work done in and about the installation of a furnace in the house. And in the margin of the book someone had written these words: "See account M.B." "Ah! I thought so!" said Sholmes; "the account M.B. is the one I want. I shall learn from it the actual residence of Monsieur Lupin." It was morning before he found that important account. It comprised sixteen pages, one of which was a copy of the page on which was described the work done for Mon. Harmingeat of the rue Chalgrin. Another page described the work performed for Mon. Vatinel as owner of the house at No. 25 rue Clapeyron. Another page was reserved for the Baron d'Hautrec, 134 avenue Henri-Martin; another was devoted to the Château de Crozon, and the eleven other pages to various owners of houses in Paris. Sholmes made a list of those eleven names and addresses; after which he returned the books to their proper places, opened a window, jumped out onto the deserted street and closed the shutters behind him. When he reached his room at the hotel he lighted his pipe with all the solemnity with which he was wont to characterize that act, and amidst clouds of smoke he studied the deductions that might be drawn from the account of M.B., or rather, from the account of Maxime Bermond alias Arsène Lupin. At eight o'clock he sent the following message to Ganimard: "I expect to pass through the rue Pergolese this forenoon and will inform you of a person whose arrest is of the highest importance. In any event, be at home to-night and to-morrow until noon and have at least thirty men at your service." Then he engaged an automobile at the stand on the boulevard, choosing one whose chauffeur looked good-natured but dull-witted, and instructed him to drive to the Place Malesherbes, where he stopped him about one hundred feet from Monsieur Destange's house. "My boy, close your carriage," he said to the chauffeur; "turn up the collar of your coat, for the wind is cold, and wait patiently. At the end of an hour and a half, crank up your machine. When I return we will go to the rue Pergolese." As he was ascending the steps leading to the door a doubt entered his mind. Was it not a mistake on his part to be spending his time on the affairs of the blonde Lady, while Arsène Lupin was preparing to move? Would he not be better engaged in trying to find the abode of his adversary amongst the eleven houses on his list? "Ah!" he exclaimed, "when the blonde Lady becomes my prisoner, I shall be master of the situation." And he rang the bell. * * * * * Monsieur Destange was already in the library. They had been working only a few minutes, when Clotilde entered, bade her father good morning, entered the adjoining parlor and sat down to write. From his place Sholmes could see her leaning over the table and from time to time absorbed in deep meditation. After a short time he picked up a book and said to Monsieur Destange: "Here is a book that Mademoiselle Destange asked me to bring to her when I found it." He went into the little parlor, stood before Clotilde in such a manner that her father could not see her, and said: "I am Monsieur Stickmann, your father's new secretary." "Ah!" said Clotilde, without moving, "my father has changed his secretary? I didn't know it." "Yes, mademoiselle, and I desire to speak with you." "Kindly take a seat, monsieur; I have finished." She added a few words to her letter, signed it, enclosed it in the envelope, sealed it, pushed her writing material away, rang the telephone, got in communication with her dressmaker, asked the latter to hasten the completion of a traveling dress, as she required it at once, and then, turning to Sholmes, she said: "I am at your service, monsieur. But do you wish to speak before my father? Would not that be better?" "No, mademoiselle; and I beg of you, do not raise your voice. It is better that Monsieur Destange should not hear us." "For whose sake is it better?" "Yours, mademoiselle." "I cannot agree to hold any conversation with you that my father may not hear." "But you must agree to this. It is imperative." Both of them arose, eye to eye. She said: "Speak, monsieur." Still standing, he commenced: "You will be so good as to pardon me if I am mistaken on certain points of secondary importance. I will guarantee, however, the general accuracy of my statements." "Can we not dispense with these preliminaries, monsieur? Or are they necessary?" Sholmes felt the young woman was on her guard, so he replied: "Very well; I will come to the point. Five years ago your father made the acquaintance of a certain young man called Maxime Bermond, who was introduced as a contractor or an architect, I am not sure which it was; but it was one or the other. Monsieur Destange took a liking to the young man, and as the state of his health compelled him to retire from active business, he entrusted to Monsieur Bermond the execution of certain orders he had received from some of his old customers and which seemed to come within the scope of Monsieur Bermond's ability." Herlock Sholmes stopped. It seemed to him that the girl's pallor had increased. Yet there was not the slightest tremor in her voice when she said: "I know nothing about the circumstances to which you refer, monsieur, and I do not see in what way they can interest me." "In this way, mademoiselle: You know, as well as I, that Maxime Bermond is also known by the name of Arsène Lupin." She laughed, and said: "Nonsense! Arsène Lupin? Maxime Bermond is Arsène Lupin? Oh! no! It isn't possible!" "I have the honor to inform you of that fact, and since you refuse to understand my meaning, I will add that Arsène Lupin has found in this house a friend--more than a friend--and accomplice, blindly and passionately devoted to him." Without emotion, or at least with so little emotion that Sholmes was astonished at her self-control, she declared: "I do not understand your object, monsieur, and I do not care to; but I command you to say no more and leave this house." "I have no intention of forcing my presence on you," replied Sholmes, with equal sang-froid, "but I shall not leave this house alone." "And who will accompany you, monsieur?" "You will." "I?" "Yes, mademoiselle, we will leave this house together, and you will follow me without one word of protest." The strange feature of the foregoing interview was the absolute coolness of the two adversaries. It bore no resemblance to an implacable duel between two powerful wills; but, judging solely from their attitude and the tone of their voices, an onlooker would have supposed their conversation to be nothing more serious than a courteous argument over some impersonal subject. Clotilde resumed her seat without deigning to reply to the last remark of Herlock Sholmes, except by a shrug of her shoulders. Sholmes looked at his watch and said: "It is half-past ten. We will leave here in five minutes." "Perhaps." "If not, I shall go to Monsieur Destange, and tell him----" "What?" "The truth. I will tell him of the vicious life of Maxime Bermond, and I will tell him of the double life of his accomplice." "Of his accomplice?" "Yes, of the woman known as the blonde Lady, of the woman who was blonde." "What proofs will you give him?" "I will take him to the rue Chalgrin, and show him the secret passage made by Arsène Lupin's workmen,--while doing the work of which he had the control--between the houses numbered 40 and 42; the passage which you and he used two nights ago." "Well?" "I will then take Monsieur Destange to the house of Monsieur Detinan; we will descend the servant's stairway which was used by you and Arsène Lupin when you escaped from Ganimard, and we will search together the means of communication with the adjoining house, which fronts on the Boulevard des Batignolles, and not upon the rue Clapeyron." "Well?" "I will take Monsieur Destange to the château de Crozon, and it will be easy for him, who knows the nature of the work performed by Arsène Lupin in the restoration of the Château, to discover the secret passages constructed there by his workmen. It will thus be established that those passages allowed the blonde Lady to make a nocturnal visit to the Countess' room and take the blue diamond from the mantel; and, two weeks later, by similar means, to enter the room of Herr Bleichen and conceal the blue diamond in his tooth-powder--a strange action, I confess; a woman's revenge, perhaps; but I don't know, and I don't care." "Well?" "After that," said Herlock Sholmes, in a more serious tone, "I will take Monsieur Destange to 134 avenue Henri-Martin, and we will learn how the Baron d'Hautrec----" "No, no, keep quiet," stammered the girl, struck with a sudden terror, "I forbid you!... you dare to say that it was I ... you accuse me?..." "I accuse you of having killed the Baron d'Hautrec." "No, no, it is a lie." "You killed the Baron d'Hautrec, mademoiselle. You entered his service under the name of Antoinette Bréhat, for the purpose of stealing the blue diamond and you killed him." "Keep quiet, monsieur," she implored him. "Since you know so much, you must know that I did not murder the baron." "I did not say that you murdered him, mademoiselle. Baron d'Hautrec was subject to fits of insanity that only Sister Auguste could control. She told me so herself. In her absence, he must have attacked you, and in the course of the struggle you struck him in order to save your own life. Frightened at your awful situation, you rang the bell, and fled without even taking the blue diamond from the finger of your victim. A few minutes later you returned with one of Arsène Lupin's accomplices, who was a servant in the adjoining house, you placed the baron on the bed, you put the room in order, but you were afraid to take the blue diamond. Now, I have told you what happened on that night. I repeat, you did not murder the baron, and yet it was your hand that struck the blow." She had crossed them over her forehead--those long delicate white hands--and kept them thus for a long time. At last, loosening her fingers, she said, in a voice rent by anguish: "And do you intend to tell all that to my father?" "Yes; and I will tell him that I have secured as witnesses: Mademoiselle Gerbois, who will recognize the blonde Lady; Sister Auguste, who will recognize Antoinette Bréhat; and the Countess de Crozon, who will recognize Madame de Réal. That is what I shall tell him." "You will not dare," she said, recovering her self-possession in the face of an immediate peril. He arose, and made a step toward the library. Clotilde stopped him: "One moment, monsieur." She paused, reflected a moment, and then, perfect mistress of herself, said: "You are Herlock Sholmes?" "Yes." "What do you want of me?" "What do I want? I am fighting a duel with Arsène Lupin, and I must win. The contest is now drawing to a climax, and I have an idea that a hostage as precious as you will give me an important advantage over my adversary. Therefore, you will follow me, mademoiselle; I will entrust you to one of my friends. As soon as the duel is ended, you will be set at liberty." "Is that all?" "That is all. I do not belong to the police service of this country, and, consequently, I do not consider that I am under any obligation ... to cause your arrest." She appeared to have come to a decision ... yet she required a momentary respite. She closed her eyes, the better to concentrate her thoughts. Sholmes looked at her in surprise; she was now so tranquil and, apparently, indifferent to the dangers which threatened her. Sholmes thought: Does she believe that she is in danger? Probably not--since Lupin protects her. She has confidence in him. She believes that Lupin is omnipotent, and infallible. "Mademoiselle," he said, "I told you that we would leave here in five minutes. That time has almost expired." "Will you permit me to go to my room, monsieur, to get some necessary articles?" "Certainly, mademoiselle; and I will wait for you in the rue Montchanin. Jeanniot, the concierge, is a friend of mine." "Ah! you know...." she said, visibly alarmed. "I know many things." "Very well. I will ring for the maid." The maid brought her hat and jacket. Then Sholmes said: "You must give Monsieur Destange some reason for our departure, and, if possible, let your excuse serve for an absence of several days." "That shall not be necessary. I shall be back very soon." "They exchanged defiant glances and an ironic smile. "What faith you have in him!" said Sholmes. "Absolute." "He does everything well, doesn't he? He succeeds in everything he undertakes. And whatever he does receives your approval and cooperation." "I love him," she said, with a touch of passion in her voice. "And you think that he will save you?" She shrugged her shoulders, and, approaching her father, she said: "I am going to deprive you of Monsieur Stickmann. We are going to the National Library." "You will return for luncheon?" "Perhaps ... no, I think not ... but don't be uneasy." Then she said to Sholmes, in a firm voice: "I am at your service, monsieur." "Absolutely?" "Quite so." "I warn you that if you attempt to escape, I shall call the police and have you arrested. Do not forget that the blonde Lady is on parole." "I give you my word of honor that I shall not attempt to escape." "I believe you. Now, let us go." They left the house together, as he had predicted. The automobile was standing where Sholmes had left it. As they approached it, Sholmes could hear the rumbling of the motor. He opened the door, asked Clotilde to enter, and took a seat beside her. The machine started at once, gained the exterior boulevards, the avenue Hoche and the avenue de la Grande-Armée. Sholmes was considering his plans. He thought: "Ganimard is at home. I will leave the girl in his care. Shall I tell him who she is? No, he would take her to prison at once, and that would spoil everything. When I am alone, I can consult my list of addresses taken from the 'account M.B.,' and run them down. To-night, or to-morrow morning at the latest, I shall go to Ganimard, as I agreed, and deliver into his hands Arsène Lupin and all his band." He rubbed his hand, gleefully, at the thought that his duel with Lupin was drawing to a close, and he could not see any serious obstacle in the way of his success. And, yielding to an irrepressible desire to give vent to his feelings--an unusual desire on his part--he exclaimed: "Excuse me, mademoiselle, if I am unable to conceal my satisfaction and delight. The battle has been a difficult one, and my success is, therefore, more enjoyable." "A legitimate success, monsieur, of which you have a just right to be proud." "Thank you. But where are we going? The chauffeur must have misunderstood my directions." At that moment they were leaving Paris by the gate de Neuilly. That was strange, as the rue Pergolese is not outside the fortifications. Sholmes lowered the glass, and said: "Chauffeur, you have made a mistake.... Rue Pergolese!" The man made no reply. Sholmes repeated, in a louder voice: "I told you to go to the rue Pergolese." Still the man did not reply. "Ah! but you are deaf, my friend. Or is he doing it on purpose? We are very much out of our way.... Rue Pergolese!... Turn back at once!... Rue Pergolese!" The chauffeur made no sign of having heard the order. The Englishman fretted with impatience. He looked at Clotilde; a mysterious smile played upon her lips. "Why do you laugh?" he said. "It is an awkward mistake, but it won't help you." "Of course not," she replied. Then an idea occurred to him. He rose and made a careful scrutiny of the chauffeur. His shoulders were not so broad; his bearing was not so stiff and mechanical. A cold perspiration covered his forehead and his hands clenched with sudden fear, as his mind was seized with the conviction that the chauffeur was Arsène Lupin. "Well, Monsieur Sholmes, what do you think of our little ride?" "Delightful, monsieur, really delightful," replied Sholmes. Never in his life had he experienced so much difficulty in uttering a few simple words without a tremor, or without betraying his feelings in his voice. But quickly, by a sort of reaction, a flood of hatred and rage burst its bounds, overcame his self-control, and, brusquely drawing his revolver, he pointed it at Mademoiselle Destange. "Lupin, stop, this minute, this second, or I fire at mademoiselle." "I advise you to aim at the cheek if you wish to hit the temple," replied Lupin, without turning his head. "Maxime, don't go so fast," said Clotilde, "the pavement is slippery and I am very timid." She was smiling; her eyes were fixed on the pavement, over which the carriage was traveling at enormous speed. "Let him stop! Let him stop!" said Sholmes to her, wild with rage, "I warn you that I am desperate." The barrel of the revolver brushed the waving locks of her hair. She replied, calmly: "Maxime is so imprudent. He is going so fast, I am really afraid of some accident." Sholmes returned the weapon to his pocket and seized the handle of the door, as if to alight, despite the absurdity of such an act. Clotilde said to him: "Be careful, monsieur, there is an automobile behind us." He leaned over. There was an automobile close behind; a large machine of formidable aspect with its sharp prow and blood-red body, and holding four men clad in fur coats. "Ah! I am well guarded," thought Sholmes. "I may as well be patient." He folded his arms across his chest with that proud air of submission so frequently assumed by heroes when fate has turned against them. And while they crossed the river Seine and rushed through Suresnes, Rueil and Chatou, motionless and resigned, controlling his actions and his passions, he tried to explain to his own satisfaction by what miracle Arsène Lupin had substituted himself for the chauffeur. It was quite improbable that the honest-looking fellow he had selected on the boulevard that morning was an accomplice placed there in advance. And yet Arsène Lupin had received a warning in some way, and it must have been after he, Sholmes, had approached Clotilde in the house, because no one could have suspected his project prior to that time. Since then, Sholmes had not allowed Clotilde out of his sight. Then an idea struck him: the telephone communication desired by Clotilde and her conversation with the dressmaker. Now, it was all quite clear to him. Even before he had spoken to her, simply upon his request to speak to her as the new secretary of Monsieur Destange, she had scented the danger, surmised the name and purpose of the visitor, and, calmly, naturally, as if she were performing a commonplace action of her every-day life, she had called Arsène Lupin to her assistance by some preconcerted signal. How Arsène Lupin had come and caused himself to be substituted for the chauffeur were matters of trifling importance. That which affected Sholmes, even to the point of appeasing his fury, was the recollection of that incident whereby an ordinary woman, a sweetheart it is true, mastering her nerves, controlling her features, and subjugating the expression of her eyes, had completely deceived the astute detective Herlock Sholmes. How difficult to overcome an adversary who is aided by such confederates, and who, by the mere force of his authority, inspires in a woman so much courage and strength! They crossed the Seine and climbed the hill at Saint-Germain; but, some five hundred metres beyond that town, the automobile slackened its speed. The other automobile advanced, and the two stopped, side by side. There was no one else in the neighborhood. "Monsieur Sholmes," said Lupin, "kindly exchange to the other machine. Ours is really a very slow one." "Indeed!" said Sholmes, calmly, convinced that he had no choice. "Also, permit me to loan you a fur coat, as we will travel quite fast and the air is cool. And accept a couple of sandwiches, as we cannot tell when we will dine." The four men alighted from the other automobile. One of them approached, and, as he raised his goggles, Sholmes recognized in him the gentleman in the frock coat that he had seen at the Hungarian restaurant. Lupin said to him: "You will return this machine to the chauffeur from whom I hired it. He is waiting in the first wine-shop to the right as you go up the rue Legendre. You will give him the balance of the thousand francs I promised him.... Ah! yes, kindly give your goggles to Monsieur Sholmes." He talked to Mlle. Destange for a moment, then took his place at the wheel and started, with Sholmes at his side and one of his men behind him. Lupin had not exaggerated when he said "we will travel quite fast." From the beginning he set a breakneck pace. The horizon rushed to meet them, as if attracted by some mysterious force, and disappeared instantly as though swallowed up in an abyss, into which many other things, such as trees, houses, fields and forests, were hurled with the tumultuous fury and haste of a torrent as it approached the cataract. Sholmes and Lupin did not exchange a word. Above their heads the leaves of the poplars made a great noise like the waves of the sea, rhythmically arranged by the regular spacing of the trees. And the towns swept by like spectres: Manteo, Vernon, Gaillon. From one hill to the other, from Bon-Secours to Canteleu, Rouen, its suburbs, its harbor, its miles of wharves, Rouen seemed like the straggling street of a country village. And this was Duclair, Caudebec, the country of Caux which they skimmed over in their terrific flight, and Lillebonne, and Quillebeuf. Then, suddenly, they found themselves on the banks of the Seine, at the extremity of a little wharf, beside which lay a staunch sea-going yacht that emitted great volumes of black smoke from its funnel. The automobile stopped. In two hours they had traveled over forty leagues. A man, wearing a blue uniform and a goldlaced cap, came forward and saluted. Lupin said to him: "All ready, captain? Did you receive my telegram?" "Yes, I got it." "Is _The Swallow_ ready?" "Yes, monsieur." "Come, Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman looked around, saw a group of people on the terrace in front of a café, hesitated a moment, then, realizing that before he could secure any assistance he would be seized, carried aboard and placed in the bottom of the hold, he crossed the gang-plank and followed Lupin into the captain's cabin. It was quite a large room, scrupulously clean, and presented a cheerful appearance with its varnished woodwork and polished brass. Lupin closed the door and addressed Sholmes abruptly, and almost rudely, as he said: "Well, what do you know?" "Everything." "Everything? Come, be precise." His voice contained no longer that polite, if ironical, tone, which he had affected when speaking to the Englishman. Now, his voice had the imperious tone of a master accustomed to command and accustomed to be obeyed--even by a Herlock Sholmes. They measured each other by their looks, enemies now--open and implacable foes. Lupin spoke again, but in a milder tone: "I have grown weary of your pursuit, and do not intend to waste any more time in avoiding the traps you lay for me. I warn you that my treatment of you will depend on your reply. Now, what do you know?" "Everything, monsieur." Arsène Lupin controlled his temper and said, in a jerky manner: "I will tell you what you know. You know that, under the name of Maxime Bermond, I have ... _improved_ fifteen houses that were originally constructed by Monsieur Destange." "Yes." "Of those fifteen houses, you have seen four." "Yes." "And you have a list of the other eleven." "Yes." "You made that list at Monsieur Destange's house on that night, no doubt." "Yes." "And you have an idea that, amongst those eleven houses, there is one that I have kept for the use of myself and my friends, and you have intrusted to Ganimard the task of finding my retreat." "No." "What does that signify?" "It signifies that I choose to act alone, and do not want his help." "Then I have nothing to fear, since you are in my hands." "You have nothing to fear as long as I remain in your hands." "You mean that you will not remain?" "Yes." Arsène Lupin approached the Englishman and, placing his hand on the latter's shoulder, said: "Listen, monsieur; I am not in a humor to argue with you, and, unfortunately for you, you are not in a position to choose. So let us finish our business." "Very well." "You are going to give me your word of honor that you will not try to escape from this boat until you arrive in English waters." "I give you my word of honor that I shall escape if I have an opportunity," replied the indomitable Sholmes. "But, sapristi! you know quite well that at a word from me you would soon be rendered helpless. All these men will obey me blindly. At a sign from me they would place you in irons----" "Irons can be broken." "And throw you overboard ten miles from shore." "I can swim." "I hadn't thought of that," said Lupin, with a laugh. "Excuse me, master ... and let us finish. You will agree that I must take the measures necessary to protect myself and my friends." "Certainly; but they will be useless." "And yet you do not wish me to take them." "It is your duty." "Very well, then." Lupin opened the door and called the captain and two sailors. The latter seized the Englishman, bound him hand and foot, and tied him to the captain's bunk. "That will do," said Lupin. "It was only on account of your obstinacy and the unusual gravity of the situation, that I ventured to offer you this indignity." The sailors retired. Lupin said to the captain: "Let one of the crew remain here to look after Monsieur Sholmes, and you can give him as much of your own company as possible. Treat him with all due respect and consideration. He is not a prisoner, but a guest. What time have you, captain?" "Five minutes after two." Lupin consulted his watch, then looked at the clock that was attached to the wall of the cabin. "Five minutes past two is right. How long will it take you to reach Southampton?" "Nine hours, easy going." "Make it eleven. You must not land there until after the departure of the midnight boat, which reaches Havre at eight o'clock in the morning. Do you understand, captain? Let me repeat: As it would be very dangerous for all of us to permit Monsieur to return to France by that boat, you must not reach Southampton before one o'clock in the morning." "I understand." "Au revoir, master; next year, in this world or in the next." "Until to-morrow," replied Sholmes. A few minutes later Sholmes heard the automobile going away, and at the same time the steam puffed violently in the depths of _The Swallow_. The boat had started for England. About three o'clock the vessel left the mouth of the river and plunged into the open sea. At that moment Sholmes was lying on the captain's bunk, sound asleep. * * * * * Next morning--it being the tenth and last day of the duel between Sholmes and Lupin--the _Echo de France_ published this interesting bit of news: "Yesterday a judgment of ejectment was entered in the case of Arsène Lupin against Herlock Sholmes, the English detective. Although signed at noon, the judgment was executed the same day. At one o'clock this morning Sholmes was landed at Southampton." CHAPTER VI. SECOND ARREST OF ARSÈNE LUPIN. Since eight o'clock a dozen moving-vans had encumbered the rue Crevaux between the avenue du Bois-de-Boulogne and the avenue Bugeaud. Mon. Felix Davey was leaving the apartment in which he lived on the fourth floor of No. 8; and Mon. Dubreuil, who had united into a single apartment the fifth floor of the same house and the fifth floor of the two adjoining houses, was moving on the same day--a mere coincidence, since the gentlemen were unknown to each other--the vast collection of furniture regarding which so many foreign agents visited him every day. A circumstance which had been noticed by some of the neighbors, but was not spoken of until later, was this: None of the twelve vans bore the name and address of the owner, and none of the men accompanying them visited the neighboring wine shops. They worked so diligently that the furniture was all out by eleven o'clock. Nothing remained but those scraps of papers and rags that are always left behind in the corners of the empty rooms. Mon. Felix Davey, an elegant young man, dressed in the latest fashion, carried in his hand a walking-stick, the weight of which indicated that its owner possessed extraordinary biceps--Mon. Felix Davey walked calmly away and took a seat on a bench in the avenue du Bois-de-Boulogne facing the rue Pergolese. Close to him a woman, dressed in a neat but inexpensive costume, was reading a newspaper, whilst a child was playing with a shovel in a heap of sand. After a few minutes Felix Davey spoke to the woman, without turning his head: "Ganimard!" "Went out at nine o'clock this morning." "Where?" "To police headquarters." "Alone?" "Yes." "No telegram during the night?" "No." "Do they suspect you in the house?" "No; I do some little things for Madame Ganimard, and she tells me everything her husband does. I have been with her all morning." "Very well. Until further orders come here every day at eleven o'clock." He rose and walked away in the direction of the Dauphine gate, stopping at the Chinese pavilion, where he partook of a frugal repast consisting of two eggs, with some fruit and vegetables. Then he returned to the rue Crevaux and said to the concierge: "I will just glance through the rooms and then give you the keys." He finished his inspection of the room that he had used as a library; then he seized the end of a gas-pipe, which hung down the side of the chimney. The pipe was bent and a hole made in the elbow. To this hole he fitted a small instrument in the form of an ear-trumpet and blew into it. A slight whistling sound came by way of reply. Placing the trumpet to his mouth, he said: "Anyone around, Dubreuil?" "No." "May I come up!" "Yes." He returned the pipe to its place, saying to himself: "How progressive we are! Our century abounds with little inventions which render life really charming and picturesque. And so amusing!... especially when a person knows how to enjoy life as I do." He turned one of the marble mouldings of the mantel, and the entire half of the mantel moved, and the mirror above it glided in invisible grooves, disclosing an opening and the lower steps of a stairs built in the very body of the chimney; all very clean and complete--the stairs were constructed of polished metal and the walls of white tiles. He ascended the steps, and at the fifth floor there was the same opening in the chimney. Mon. Dubreuil was waiting for him. "Have you finished in your rooms?" "Yes." "Everything cleared out?" "Yes." "And the people?" "Only the three men on guard." "Very well; come on." They ascended to the upper floor by the same means, one after the other, and there found three men, one of whom was looking through the window. "Anything new?" "Nothing, governor." "All quiet in the street?" "Yes." "In ten minutes I will be ready to leave. You will go also. But in the meantime if you see the least suspicious movement in the street, warn me." "I have my finger on the alarm-bell all the time." "Dubreuil, did you tell the moving men not to touch the wire of that bell?" "Certainly; it is working all right." "That is all I want to know." The two gentlemen then descended to the apartment of Felix Davey and the latter, after adjusting the marble mantel, exclaimed, joyfully: "Dubreuil, I should like to see the man who is able to discover all the ingenious devices, warning bells, net-works of electric wires and acoustic tubes, invisible passages, moving floors and hidden stairways. A real fairy-land!" "What fame for Arsène Lupin!" "Fame I could well dispense with. It's a pity to be compelled to leave a place so well equipped, and commence all over again, Dubreuil ... and on a new model, of course, for it would never do to duplicate this. Curse Herlock Sholmes!" "Has he returned to Paris?" "How could he? There has been only one boat come from Southampton and it left there at midnight; only one train from Havre, leaving there at eight o'clock this morning and due in Paris at eleven fifteen. As he could not catch the midnight boat at Southampton--and the instructions to the captain on that point were explicit--he cannot reach France until this evening via Newhaven and Dieppe." "Do you think he will come back?" "Yes; he never gives up. He will return to Paris; but it will be too late. We will be far away." "And Mademoiselle Destange?" "I am to see her in an hour." "At her house?" "Oh! no; she will not return there for several days. But you, Dubreuil, you must hurry. The loading of our goods will take a long time and you should be there to look after them." "Are you sure that we are not being watched?" "By whom? I am not afraid of anyone but Sholmes." Dubreuil retired. Felix Davey made a last tour of the apartment, picked up two or three torn letters, then, noticing a piece of chalk, he took it and, on the dark paper of the drawing-room, drew a large frame and wrote within it the following: "_Arsène Lupin, gentleman-burglar, lived here for five years at the beginning of the twentieth century_." This little pleasantry seemed to please him very much. He looked at it for a moment, whistling a lively air, then said to himself: "Now that I have placed myself in touch with the historians of future generations, I can go. You must hurry, Herlock Sholmes, as I shall leave my present abode in three minutes, and your defeat will be an accomplished fact.... Two minutes more! you are keeping me waiting, Monsieur Sholmes.... One minute more! Are you not coming? Well, then, I proclaim your downfall and my apotheosis. And now I make my escape. Farewell, kingdom of Arsène Lupin! I shall never see you again. Farewell to the fifty-five rooms of the six apartments over which I reigned! Farewell, my own royal bed chamber!" His outburst of joy was interrupted by the sharp ringing of a bell, which stopped twice, started again and then ceased. It was the alarm bell. What was wrong? What unforeseen danger? Ganimard? No; that wasn't possible! He was on the point of returning to his library and making his escape. But, first, he went to the window. There was no one in the street. Was the enemy already in the house? He listened and thought he could discern certain confused sounds. He hesitated no longer. He ran to his library, and as he crossed the threshold he heard the noise of a key being inserted in the lock of the vestibule door. "The deuce!" he murmured; "I have no time to lose. The house may be surrounded. The servants' stairway--impossible! Fortunately, there is the chimney." He pushed the moulding; it did not move. He made a greater effort--still it refused to move. At the same time he had the impression that the door below opened and that he could hear footsteps. "Good God!" he cried; "I am lost if this cursed mechanism--" He pushed with all his strength. Nothing moved--nothing! By some incredible accident, by some evil stroke of fortune, the mechanism, which had worked only a few moments ago, would not work now. He was furious. The block of marble remained immovable. He uttered frightful imprecations on the senseless stone. Was his escape to be prevented by that stupid obstacle? He struck the marble wildly, madly; he hammered it, he cursed it. "Ah! what's the matter, Monsieur Lupin? You seem to be displeased about something." Lupin turned around. Herlock Sholmes stood before him! * * * * * Herlock Sholmes!... Lupin gazed at him with squinting eyes as if his sight were defective and misleading. Herlock Sholmes in Paris! Herlock Sholmes, whom he had shipped to England only the day before as a dangerous person, now stood before him free and victorious!... Ah! such a thing was nothing less than a miracle; it was contrary to all natural laws; it was the culmination of all that is illogical and abnormal.... Herlock Sholmes here--before his face! And when the Englishman spoke his words were tinged with that keen sarcasm and mocking politeness with which his adversary had so often lashed him. He said: "Monsieur Lupin, in, the first place I have the honor to inform you that at this time and place I blot from my memory forever all thoughts of the miserable night that you forced me to endure in the house of Baron d'Hautrec, of the injury done to my friend Wilson, of my abduction in the automobile, and of the voyage I took yesterday under your orders, bound to a very uncomfortable couch. But the joy of this moment effaces all those bitter memories. I forgive everything. I forget everything--I wipe out the debt. I am paid--and royally paid." Lupin made no reply. So the Englishman continued: "Don't you think so yourself?" He appeared to insist as if demanding an acquiescence, as a sort of receipt in regard to the part. After a moment's reflection, during which the Englishman felt that he was scrutinized to the very depth of his soul, Lupin declared: "I presume, monsieur, that your conduct is based upon serious motives?" "Very serious." "The fact that you have escaped from my captain and his crew is only a secondary incident of our struggle. But the fact that you are here before me alone--understand, alone--face to face with Arsène Lupin, leads me to think that your revenge is as complete as possible." "As complete as possible." "This house?" "Surrounded." "The two adjoining houses?" "Surrounded." "The apartment above this?" "The _three_ apartments on the fifth floor that were formerly occupied by Monsieur Dubreuil are surrounded." "So that----" "So that you are captured, Monsieur Lupin--absolutely captured." The feelings that Sholmes had experienced during his trip in the automobile were now suffered by Lupin, the same concentrated fury, the same revolt, and also, let us admit, the same loyalty of submission to force of circumstances. Equally brave in victory or defeat. "Our accounts are squared, monsieur," said Lupin, frankly. The Englishman was pleased with that confession. After a short silence Lupin, now quite self-possessed, said smiling: "And I am not sorry! It becomes monotonous to win all the time. Yesterday I had only to stretch out my hand to finish you forever. Today I belong to you. The game is yours." Lupin laughed heartily and then continued: "At last the gallery will be entertained! Lupin in prison! How will he get out? In prison!... What an adventure!... Ah! Sholmes, life is just one damn thing after another!" He pressed his closed hands to his temples as if to suppress the tumultuous joy that surged within him, and his actions indicated that he was moved by an uncontrollable mirth. At last, when he had recovered his self-possession, he approached the detective and said: "And now what are you waiting for?" "What am I waiting for?" "Yes; Ganimard is here with his men--why don't they come in?" "I asked him not to." "And he consented?" "I accepted his services on condition that he would be guided by me. Besides, he thinks that Felix Davey is only an accomplice of Arsène Lupin." "Then I will repeat my question in another form. Why did you come in alone?" "Because I wished to speak to you alone." "Ah! ah! you have something to say to me." That idea seemed to please Lupin immensely. There are certain circumstances in which words are preferable to deeds. "Monsieur Sholmes, I am sorry I cannot offer you an easy chair. How would you like that broken box? Or perhaps you would prefer the window ledge? I am sure a glass of beer would be welcome ... light or dark?... But sit down, please." "Thank you; we can talk as well standing up." "Very well--proceed." "I will be brief. The object of my sojourn in France was not to accomplish your arrest. If I have been led to pursue you, it was because I saw no other way to achieve my real object." "Which was?" "To recover the blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Certainly; since the one found in Herr Bleichen's tooth-powder was only an imitation." "Quite right; the genuine diamond was taken by the blonde Lady. I made an exact duplicate of it and then, as I had designs on other jewels belonging to the Countess and as the Consul Herr Bleichen was already under suspicion, the aforesaid blonde Lady, in order to avert suspicion, slipped the false stone into the aforesaid Consul's luggage." "While you kept the genuine diamond?" "Of course." "That diamond--I want it." "I am very sorry, but it is impossible." "I have promised it to the Countess de Crozon. I must have it." "How will you get it, since it is in my possession?" "That is precisely the reason--because it is in your possession." "Oh! I am to give it to you?" "Yes." "Voluntarily?" "I will buy it." "Ah!" exclaimed Lupin, in an access of mirth, "you are certainly an Englishman. You treat this as a matter of business." "It is a matter of business." "Well? what is your offer?" "The liberty of Mademoiselle Destange." "Her liberty?... I didn't know she was under arrest." "I will give Monsieur Ganimard the necessary information. When deprived of your protection, she can readily be taken." Lupin laughed again, and said: "My dear monsieur, you are offering me something you do not possess. Mademoiselle Destange is in a place of safety, and has nothing to fear. You must make me another offer." The Englishman hesitated, visibly embarrassed and vexed. Then, placing his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, he said: "And if I should propose to you-" "My liberty?" "No ... but I can leave the room to consult with Ganimard." "And leave me alone!" "Yes." "Ah! mon dieu, what good would that be? The cursed mechanism will not work," said Lupin, at the same time savagely pushing the moulding of the mantel. He stifled a cry of surprise; this time fortune favored him--the block of marble moved. It was his salvation; his hope of escape. In that event, why submit to the conditions imposed by Sholmes? He paced up and down the room, as if he were considering his reply. Then, in his turn, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and said: "All things considered, Monsieur Sholmes, I prefer to do my own business in my own way." "But--" "No, I don't require anyone's assistance." "When Ganimard gets his hand on you, it will be all over. You can't escape from them." "Who knows?" "Come, that is foolish. Every door and window is guarded." "Except one." "Which?" "_The one I will choose_." "Mere words! Your arrest is as good as made." "Oh! no--not at all." "Well?" "I shall keep the blue diamond." Sholmes looked at his watch, and said: "It is now ten minutes to three. At three o'clock I shall call Ganimard." "Well, then, we have ten minutes to chat. And to satisfy my curiosity, Monsieur Sholmes, I should like to know how you procured my address and my name of Felix Davey?" Although his adversary's easy manner caused Sholmes some anxiety, he was willing to give Lupin the desired information since it reflected credit on his professional astuteness; so he replied: "Your address? I got it from the blonde Lady." "Clotilde!" "Herself. Do you remember, yesterday morning, when I wished to take her away in the automobile, she telephoned to her dressmaker." "Well?" "Well, I understood, later, that you were the dressmaker. And last night, on the boat, by exercising my memory--and my memory is something I have good reason to be proud of--I was able to recollect the last two figures of your telephone number--73. Then, as I possessed a list of the houses you had 'improved,' it was an easy matter, on my arrival in Paris at eleven o'clock this morning, to search in the telephone directory and find there the name and address of Felix Davey. Having obtained that information, I asked the aid of Monsieur Ganimard." "Admirable! I congratulate you. But bow did you manage to catch the eight o'clock train at Havre! How did you escape from _The Swallow_?" "I did not escape." "But----" "You ordered the captain not to reach Southampton before one o'clock. He landed me there at midnight. I was able to catch the twelve o'clock boat for Havre." "Did the captain betray me? I can't believe it." "No, he did not betray you." "Well, what then?" "It was his watch." "His watch?" "Yes, I put it ahead one hour." "How?" "In the usual way, by turning the hands. We were sitting side by side, talking, and I was telling him some funny stories.... Why! he never saw me do it." "Bravo! a very clever trick. I shall not forget it. But the clock that was hanging on the wall of the cabin?" "Ah! the clock was a more difficult matter, as my feet were tied, but the sailor, who guarded me during the captain's absence, was kind enough to turn the hands for me." "He? Nonsense! He wouldn't do it." "Oh! but he didn't know the importance of his act. I told him I must catch the first train for London, at any price, and ... he allowed himself to be persuaded----" "By means of----" "By means of a slight gift, which the excellent fellow, loyal and true to his master, intends to send to you." "What was it!" "A mere trifle." "But what?" "The blue diamond." "The blue diamond!" "Yes, the false stone that you substituted for the Countess' diamond. She gave it to me." There was a sudden explosion of violent laughter. Lupin laughed until the tears started in his eyes. "Mon dieu, but it is funny! My false diamond palmed off on my innocent sailor! And the captain's watch! And the hands of the clock!" Sholmes felt that the duel between him and Lupin was keener than ever. His marvellous instinct warned him that, behind his adversary's display of mirth, there was a shrewd intellect debating the ways and means to escape. Gradually Lupin approached the Englishman, who recoiled, and, unconsciously, slipped his hand into his watch-pocket. "It is three o'clock, Monsieur Lupin." "Three o'clock, already! What a pity! We were enjoying our chat so much." "I am waiting for your answer." "My answer? Mon dieu! but you are particular!... And so this is the last move in our little game--and the stake is my liberty!" "Or the blue diamond." "Very well. It's your play. What are you going to do!" "I play the king," said Sholmes, as he fired his revolver. "And I the ace," replied Lupin, as he struck at Sholmes with his fist. Sholmes had fired into the air, as a signal to Ganimard, whose assistance he required. But Lupin's fist had caught Sholmes in the stomach, and caused him to double up with pain. Lupin rushed to the fireplace and set the marble slab in motion.... Too late! The door opened. "Surrender, Lupin, or I fire!" Ganimard, doubtless stationed closer than Lupin had thought, Ganimard was there, with his revolver turned on Lupin. And behind Ganimard there were twenty men, strong and ruthless fellows, who would beat him like a dog at the least sign of resistance. "Hands down! I surrender!" said Lupin, calmly; and he folded his arms across his breast. Everyone was amazed. In the room, divested of its furniture and hangings, Arsène Lupin's words sounded like an echo.... "I surrender!" ... It seemed incredible. No one would have been astonished if he had suddenly vanished through a trap, or if a section of the wall had rolled away and allowed him to escape. But he surrendered! Ganimard advanced, nervously, and with all the gravity that the importance of the occasion demanded, he placed his hand on the shoulder of his adversary, and had the infinite pleasure of saying: "I arrest you, Arsène Lupin." "Brrr!" said Lupin, "you make me shiver, my dear Ganimard. What a lugubrious face! One would imagine you were speaking over the grave of a friend. For Heaven's sake, don't assume such a funereal air." "I arrest you." "Don't let that worry you! In the name of the law, of which he is a well-deserving pillar, Ganimard, the celebrated Parisian detective, arrests the wicked Arsène Lupin. An historic event, of which you will appreciate the true importance.... And it is the second time that it has happened. Bravo, Ganimard, you are sure of advancement in your chosen profession!" And he held out his wrists for the hand-cuffs. Ganimard adjusted them in a most solemn manner. The numerous policemen, despite their customary presumption and the bitterness of their feelings toward Lupin, conducted themselves with becoming modesty, astonished at being permitted to gaze upon that mysterious and intangible creature. "My poor Lupin," sighed our hero, "what would your aristocratic friends say if they should see you in this humiliating position?" He pulled his wrists apart with all his strength. The veins in his forehead expanded. The links of the chain cut into his flesh. The chain fell off--broken. "Another, comrades, that one was useless." They placed two on him this time. "Quite right," he said. "You cannot be too careful." Then, counting the detectives and policemen, he said: "How many are you, my friends? Twenty-five? Thirty? That's too many. I can't do anything. Ah! if there had been only fifteen!" There was something fascinating about Lupin; it was the fascination of the great actor who plays his rôle with spirit and understanding, combined with assurance and ease. Sholmes regarded him as one might regard a beautiful painting with a due appreciation of all its perfection in coloring and technique. And he really thought that it was an equal struggle between those thirty men on one side, armed as they were with all the strength and majesty of the law, and, on the other side, that solitary individual, unarmed and handcuffed. Yes, the two sides were well-matched. "Well, master," said Lupin to the Englishman, "this is your work. Thanks to you, Lupin is going to rot on the damp straw of a dungeon. Confess that your conscience pricks you a little, and that your soul is filled with remorse." In spite of himself, Sholmes shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: "It's your own fault." "Never! never!" exclaimed Lupin. "Give you the blue diamond? Oh! no, it has cost me too much trouble. I intend to keep it. On my occasion of my first visit to you in London--which will probably be next month--I will tell you my reasons. But will you be in London next month? Or do you prefer Vienna? Or Saint Petersburg?" Then Lupin received a surprise. A bell commenced to ring. It was not the alarm-bell, but the bell of the telephone which was located between the two windows of the room and had not yet been removed. The telephone! Ah! Who could it be? Who was about to fall into this unfortunate trap? Arsène Lupin exhibited an access of rage against the unlucky instrument as if he would like to break it into a thousand pieces and thus stifle the mysterious voice that was calling for him. But it was Ganimard who took down the receiver, and said: "Hello!... Hello!... number 648.73 ... yes, this is it." Then Sholmes stepped up, and, with an air of authority, pushed Ganimard aside, took the receiver, and covered the transmitter with his handkerchief in order to obscure the tone of his voice. At that moment he glanced toward Lupin, and the look which they exchanged indicated that the same idea had occurred to each of them, and that they fore-saw the ultimate result of that theory: it was the blonde Lady who was telephoning. She wished to telephone to Felix Davey, or rather to Maxime Bermond, and it was to Sholmes she was about to speak. The Englishman said: "Hello ... Hello!" Then, after a silence, he said: "Yes, it is I, Maxime." The drama had commenced and was progressing with tragic precision. Lupin, the irrepressible and nonchalant Lupin, did not attempt to conceal his anxiety, and he strained every nerve in a desire to hear or, at least, to divine the purport of the conversation. And Sholmes continued, in reply to the mysterious voice: "Hello!... Hello!... Yes, everything has been moved, and I am just ready to leave here and meet you as we agreed.... Where?... Where you are now.... Don't believe that he is here yet!..." Sholmes stopped, seeking for words. It was clear that he was trying to question the girl without betraying himself, and that he was ignorant of her whereabouts. Moreover, Ganimard's presence seemed to embarrass him.... Ah! if some miracle would only interrupt that cursed conversation! Lupin prayed for it with all his strength, with all the intensity of his incited nerves! After a momentary pause, Sholmes continued: "Hello!... Hello!... Do you hear me?... I can't hear you very well.... Can scarcely make out what you say.... Are you listening? Well, I think you had better return home.... No danger now.... But he is in England! I have received a telegram from Southampton announcing his arrival." The sarcasm of those words! Sholmes uttered them with an inexpressible comfort. And he added: "Very well, don't lose any time. I will meet you there." He hung up the receiver. "Monsieur Ganimard, can you furnish me with three men?" "For the blonde Lady, eh?" "Yes." "You know who she is, and where she is?" "Yes." "Good! That settles Monsieur Lupin.... Folenfant, take two men, and go with Monsieur Sholmes." The Englishman departed, accompanied by the three men. The game was ended. The blonde Lady was, also, about to fall into the hands of the Englishman. Thanks to his commendable persistence and to a combination of fortuitous circumstances, the battle had resulted in a victory for the detective, and in irreparable disaster for Lupin. "Monsieur Sholmes!" The Englishman stopped. "Monsieur Lupin?" Lupin was clearly shattered by this final blow. His forehead was marked by deep wrinkles. He was sullen and dejected. However, he pulled himself together, and, notwithstanding his defeat, he exclaimed, in a cheerful tone: "You will concede that fate has been against me. A few minutes ago, it prevented my escape through that chimney, and delivered me into your hands. Now, by means of the telephone, it presents you with the blonde Lady. I submit to its decrees." "What do you mean?" "I mean that I am ready to re-open our negotiation." Sholmes took Ganimard aside and asked, in a manner that did not permit a reply, the authority to exchange a few words with the prisoner. Then he approached Lupin, and said, in a sharp, nervous tone: "What do you want?" "Mademoiselle Destange's liberty." "You know the price." "Yes." "And you accept?" "Yes; I accept your terms." "Ah!" said the Englishman, in surprise, "but ... you refused ... for yourself----" "Yes, I can look out for myself, Monsieur Sholmes, but now the question concerns a young woman ... and a woman I love. In France, understand, we have very decided ideas about such things. And Lupin has the same feelings as other people." He spoke with simplicity and candor. Sholmes replied by an almost imperceptible inclination of his head, and murmured: "Very well, the blue diamond." "Take my cane, there, at the end of the mantel. Press on the head of the cane with one hand, and, with the other, turn the iron ferrule at the bottom." Holmes took the cane and followed the directions. As he did so, the head of the cane divided and disclosed a cavity which contained a small ball of wax which, in turn, enclosed a diamond. He examined it. It was the blue diamond. "Monsieur Lupin, Mademoiselle Destange is free." "Is her future safety assured? Has she nothing to fear from you?" "Neither from me, nor anyone else." "How can you manage it?" "Quite easily. I have forgotten her name and address." "Thank you. And au revoir--for I will see you again, sometime, Monsieur Sholmes?" "I have no doubt of it." Then followed an animated conversation between Sholmes and Ganimard, which was abruptly terminated by the Englishman, who said: "I am very sorry, Monsieur Ganimard, that we cannot agree on that point, but I have no time to waste trying to convince you. I leave for England within an hour." "But ... the blonde Lady?" "I do not know such a person." "And yet, a moment ago----" "You must take the affair as it stands. I have delivered Arsène Lupin into your hands. Here is the blue diamond, which you will have the pleasure of returning to the Countess de Crozon. What more do you want?" "The blonde Lady." "Find her." Sholmes pulled his cap down over his forehead and walked rapidly away, like a man who is accustomed to go as soon as his business is finished. "Bon voyage, monsieur," cried Lupin, "and, believe me, I shall never forget the friendly way in which our little business affairs have been arranged. My regards to Monsieur Wilson." Not receiving any reply, Lupin added, sneeringly: "That is what is called 'taking British leave.' Ah! their insular dignity lacks the flower of courtesy by which we are distinguished. Consider for a moment, Ganimard, what a charming exit a Frenchman would have made under similar circumstances! With what exquisite courtesy he would have masked his triumph!... But, God bless me, Ganimard, what are you doing? Making a search? Come, what's the use? There is nothing left--not even a scrap of paper. I assure you my archives are in a safe place." "I am not so sure of that," replied Ganimard. "I must search everything." Lupin submitted to the operation. Held by two detectives and surrounded by the others, he patiently endured the proceedings for twenty minutes, then he said: "Hurry up, Ganimard, and finish!" "You are in a hurry." "Of course I am. An important appointment." "At the police station?" "No; in the city." "Ah! at what time?" "Two o'clock." "It is three o'clock now." "Just so; I will be late. And punctuality is one of my virtues." "Well, give me five minutes." "Not a second more," said Lupin. "I am doing my best to expedite----" "Oh! don't talk so much.... Still searching that cupboard? It is empty." "Here are some letters." "Old invoices, I presume!" "No; a packet tied with a ribbon." "A red ribbon? Oh! Ganimard, for God's sake, don't untie it!" "From a woman?" "Yes." "A woman of the world?" "The best in the world." "Her name?" "Madame Ganimard." "Very funny! very funny!" exclaimed the detective. At that moment the men, who had been sent to search the other rooms, returned and announced their failure to find anything. Lupin laughed and said: "Parbleu! Did you expect to find my visiting list, or evidence of my business relations with the Emperor of Germany? But I can tell you what you should investigate, Ganimard: All the little mysteries of this apartment. For instance, that gas-pipe is a speaking tube. That chimney contains a stairway. That wall is hollow. And the marvellous system of bells! Ah! Ganimard, just press that button!" Ganimard obeyed. "Did you hear anything?" asked Lupin. "No." "Neither did I. And yet you notified my aeronaut to prepare the dirigible balloon which will soon carry us into the clouds. "Come!" said Ganimard, who had completed his search; "we've had enough nonsense--let's be off." He started away, followed by his men. Lupin did not move. His guardians pushed him in vain. "Well," said Ganimard, "do you refuse to go?" "Not at all. But it depends." "On what?" "Where you want to take me." "To the station-house, of course." "Then I refuse to go. I have no business there." "Are you crazy?" "Did I not tell you that I had an important appointment?" "Lupin!" "Why, Ganimard, I have an appointment with the blonde Lady, and do you suppose I would be so discourteous as to cause her a moment's anxiety? That would be very ungentlemanly." "Listen, Lupin," said the detective, who was becoming annoyed by this persiflage; "I have been very patient with you, but I will endure no more. Follow me." "Impossible; I have an appointment and I shall keep it." "For the last time--follow me!" "Im-pos-sible!" At a sign from Ganimard two men seized Lupin by the arms; but they released him at once, uttering cries of pain. Lupin had thrust two long needles into them. The other men now rushed at Lupin with cries of rage and hatred, eager to avenge their comrades and to avenge themselves for the many affronts he had heaped upon them; and now they struck and beat him to their heart's desire. A violent blow on the temple felled Lupin to the floor. "If you hurt him you will answer to me," growled Ganimard, in a rage. He leaned over Lupin to ascertain his condition. Then, learning that he was breathing freely, Ganimard ordered his men to carry the prisoner by the head and feet, while he himself supported the body. "Go gently, now!... Don't jolt him. Ah! the brutes would have killed him.... Well, Lupin, how goes it?" "None too well, Ganimard ... you let them knock me out." "It was your own fault; you were so obstinate," replied Ganimard. "But I hope they didn't hurt you." They had left the apartment and were now on the landing. Lupin groaned and stammered: "Ganimard ... the elevator ... they are breaking my bones." "A good idea, an excellent idea," replied Ganimard. "Besides, the stairway is too narrow." He summoned the elevator. They placed Lupin on the seat with the greatest care. Ganimard took his place beside him and said to his men: "Go down the stairs and wait for me below. Understand?" Ganimard closed the door of the elevator. Suddenly the elevator shot upward like a balloon released from its cable. Lupin burst into a fit of sardonic laughter. "Good God!" cried Ganimard, as he made a frantic search in the dark for the button of descent. Having found it, he cried: "The fifth floor! Watch the door of the fifth floor." His assistants clambered up the stairs, two and three steps at a time. But this strange circumstance happened: The elevator seemed to break through the ceiling of the last floor, disappeared from the sight of Ganimard's assistants, suddenly made its appearance on the upper floor--the servants' floor--and stopped. Three men were there waiting for it. They opened the door. Two of them seized Ganimard, who, astonished at the sudden attack, scarcely made any defence. The other man carried off Lupin. "I warned you, Ganimard ... about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don't be so tender-hearted. And, moreover, remember that Arsène Lupin doesn't allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu." The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants' stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants' floor through which the escape had been made. A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants' stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart. He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired: "Did four men pass here just now?" "Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends." "Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?" "Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved to-day, leaving the two servants, who went away just now." "Ah!" thought Ganimard; "what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses." And he sank down on a chair in despair. * * * * * Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood. "We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train.... Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days." "Neither will I." "Ah! it was a great struggle!" "Superb!" "A few repulses, here and there--" "Of no consequence." "And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!" "My arm broken!" "What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?" "Especially when it is my arm." "Ah! yes, don't you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?" "How lucky!" The doors of the carriages were being closed. "All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!" The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson. "What's the matter, Wilson? You're not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together." "My nerves are all right." "Well, what is it, then?" "I have only one hand." "What of it?" exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. "You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!" Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes. "Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes," said the porter. The Englishman looked at him; it was Arsène Lupin. "You!... you!" he stammered, absolutely astounded. And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said: "You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge." Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation: "Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part." The train whistled. Lupin continued: "I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches ... yes ... and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest--your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy...." He leaped to the platform and closed the door. "Adieu," he repeated, waving his handkerchief. "Adieu.... I shall write to you.... You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson.... I am truly sorry.... I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient.... Adieu.... See you soon." CHAPTER VII. THE JEWISH LAMP. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire. Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings. Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak: "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments." Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact--an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window. The lonely street extended between the gloomy façades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows! "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman." The man entered, shown in by the servant. "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?" Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned. "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence. "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case--here's one. Read----" Wilson read: "Monsieur, "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses. "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige, "Your humble servant, "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle, "18 rue Murillo, Paris." "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Arsène Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions." He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor. "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously. He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement: "My Dear Monsieur: "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat. "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside. "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARSÈNE LUPIN." "Arsène Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded. Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed: "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?" "I tell you--he's afraid," suggested Wilson. "Nonsense! Arsène Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it." "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?" "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy." "I thought ... I supposed----" "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?" "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things." "No person can perform _marvellous_ things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude--that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine." Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness: "Sholmes, you are going to Paris." "Possibly." "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle." "Possibly." "Sholmes, I shall go with you." "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?" "What can happen to me? You will be there." "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train." "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?" "What good are they?" "I will send a telegram." "No; if you do that, Arsène Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover." * * * * * That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was a delightful one. In the train from Calais to Paris, Sholmes had three hours sound sleep, while Wilson guarded the door of the compartment. Sholmes awoke in good spirits. He was delighted at the idea of another duel with Arsène Lupin, and he rubbed his hands with the satisfied air of a man who looks forward to a pleasant vacation. "At last!" exclaimed Wilson, "we are getting to work again." And he rubbed his hands with the same satisfied air. At the station, Sholmes took the wraps and, followed by Wilson, who carried the valises, he gave up his tickets and started off briskly. "Fine weather, Wilson.... Blue sky and sunshine! Paris is giving us a royal reception." "Yes, but what a crowd!" "So much the better, Wilson, we will pass unnoticed. No one will recognize us in such a crowd." "Is this Monsieur Sholmes?" He stopped, somewhat puzzled. Who the deuce could thus address him by his name? A woman stood beside him; a young girl whose simple dress outlined her slender form and whose pretty face had a sad and anxious expression. She repeated her enquiry: "You are Monsieur Sholmes?" As he still remained silent, as much from confusion as from a habit of prudence, the girl asked a third time: "Have I the honor of addressing Monsieur Sholmes?" "What do you want?" he replied, testily, considering the incident a suspicious one. "You must listen to me, Monsieur Sholmes, as it is a serious matter. I know that you are going to the rue Murillo." "What do you say?" "I know ... I know ... rue Murillo ... number 18. Well, you must not go ... no, you must not. I assure you that you will regret it. Do not think that I have any interest in the matter. I do it because it is right ... because my conscience tells me to do it." Sholmes tried to get away, but she persisted: "Oh! I beg of you, don't neglect my advice.... Ah! if I only knew how to convince you! Look at me! Look into my eyes! They are sincere ... they speak the truth." She gazed at Sholmes, fearlessly but innocently, with those beautiful eyes, serious and clear, in which her very soul seemed to be reflected. Wilson nodded his head, as he said: "Mademoiselle looks honest." "Yes," she implored, "and you must have confidence----" "I have confidence in you, mademoiselle," replied Wilson. "Oh, how happy you make me! And so has your friend? I feel it ... I am sure of it! What happiness! Everything will be all right now!... What a good idea of mine!... Ah! yes, there is a train for Calais in twenty minutes. You will take it.... Quick, follow me ... you must come this way ... there is just time." She tried to drag them along. Sholmes seized her arm, and in as gentle a voice as he could assume, said to her: "Excuse me, mademoiselle, if I cannot yield to your wishes, but I never abandon a task that I have once undertaken." "I beseech you ... I implore you.... Ah if you could only understand!" Sholmes passed outside and walked away at a quick pace. Wilson said to the girl: "Have no fear ... he will be in at the finish. He never failed yet." And he ran to overtake Sholmes. HERLOCK SHOLMES--ARSÈNE LUPIN. These words, in great black letters, met their gaze as soon as they left the railway station. A number of sandwich-men were parading through the street, one behind the other, carrying heavy canes with iron ferrules with which they struck the pavement in harmony, and, on their backs, they carried large posters, on which one could read the following notice: THE MATCH BETWEEN HERLOCK SHOLMES AND ARSÈNE LUPIN. ARRIVAL OF THE ENGLISH CHAMPION. THE GREAT DETECTIVE ATTACKS THE MYSTERY OF THE RUE MURILLO. READ THE DETAILS IN THE "ECHO DE FRANCE". Wilson shook his head, and said: "Look at that, Sholmes, and we thought we were traveling incognito! I shouldn't be surprised to find the republican guard waiting for us at the rue Murillo to give us an official reception with toasts and champagne." "Wilson, when you get funny, you get beastly funny," growled Sholmes. Then he approached one of the sandwich-men with the obvious intention of seizing him in his powerful grip and crushing him, together with his infernal sign-board. There was quite a crowd gathered about the men, reading the notices, and joking and laughing. Repressing a furious access of rage, Sholmes said to the man: "When did they hire you?" "This morning." "How long have you been parading?" "About an hour." "But the boards were ready before that?" "Oh, yes, they were ready when we went to the agency this morning." So then it appears that Arsène Lupin had foreseen that he, Sholmes, would accept the challenge. More than that, the letter written by Lupin showed that he was eager for the fray and that he was prepared to measure swords once more with his formidable rival. Why? What motive could Arsène Lupin have in renewing the struggle? Sholmes hesitated for a moment. Lupin must be very confident of his success to show so much insolence in advance; and was not he, Sholmes, falling into a trap by rushing into the battle at the first call for help? However, he called a carriage. "Come, Wilson!... Driver, 18 rue Murillo!" he exclaimed, with an outburst of his accustomed energy. With distended veins and clenched fists, as if he were about to engage in a boxing bout, he jumped into the carriage. * * * * * The rue Murillo is bordered with magnificent private residences, the rear of which overlook the Parc Monceau. One of the most pretentious of these houses is number 18, owned and occupied by the Baron d'Imblevalle and furnished in a luxurious manner consistent with the owner's taste and wealth. There was a courtyard in front of the house, and, in the rear, a garden well filled with trees whose branches mingle with those of the park. After ringing the bell, the two Englishmen were admitted, crossed the courtyard, and were received at the door by a footman who showed them into a small parlor facing the garden in the rear of the house. They sat down and, glancing about, made a rapid inspection of the many valuable objects with which the room was filled. "Everything very choice," murmured Wilson, "and in the best of taste. It is a safe deduction to make that those who had the leisure to collect these articles must now be at least fifty years of age." The door opened, and the Baron d'Imblevalle entered, followed by his wife. Contrary to the deduction made by Wilson, they were both quite young, of elegant appearance, and vivacious in speech and action. They were profuse in their expressions of gratitude. "So kind of you to come! Sorry to have caused you so much trouble! The theft now seems of little consequence, since it has procured us this pleasure." "How charming these French people are!" thought Wilson, evolving one of his commonplace deductions. "But time is money," exclaimed the baron, "especially your time, Monsieur Sholmes. So I will come to the point. Now, what do you think of the affair? Do you think you can succeed in it?" "Before I can answer that I must know what it is about." "I thought you knew." "No; so I must ask you for full particulars, even to the smallest detail. First, what is the nature of the case?" "A theft." "When did it take place?" "Last Saturday," replied the baron, "or, at least, some time during Saturday night or Sunday morning." "That was six days ago. Now, you can tell me all about it." "In the first place, monsieur, I must tell you that my wife and I, conforming to the manner of life that our position demands, go out very little. The education of our children, a few receptions, and the care and decoration of our house--such constitutes our life; and nearly all our evenings are spent in this little room, which is my wife's boudoir, and in which we have gathered a few artistic objects. Last Saturday night, about eleven o'clock, I turned off the electric lights, and my wife and I retired, as usual, to our room." "Where is your room?" "It adjoins this. That is the door. Next morning, that is to say, Sunday morning, I arose quite early. As Suzanne, my wife, was still asleep, I passed into the boudoir as quietly as possible so as not to wake her. What was my astonishment when I found that window open--as we had left it closed the evening before!" "A servant----" "No one enters here in the morning until we ring. Besides, I always take the precaution to bolt the second door which communicates with the ante-chamber. Therefore, the window must have been opened from the outside. Besides, I have some evidence of that: the second pane of glass from the right--close to the fastening--had been cut." "And what does that window overlook?" "As you can see for yourself, it opens on a little balcony, surrounded by a stone railing. Here, we are on the first floor, and you can see the garden behind the house and the iron fence which separates it from the Parc Monceau. It is quite certain that the thief came through the park, climbed the fence by the aid of a ladder, and thus reached the terrace below the window." "That is quite certain, you say!" "Well, in the soft earth on either side of the fence, they found the two holes made by the bottom of the ladder, and two similar holes can be seen below the window. And the stone railing of the balcony shows two scratches which were doubtless made by the contact of the ladder." "Is the Parc Monceau closed at night?" "No; but if it were, there is a house in course of erection at number 14, and a person could enter that way." Herlock Sholmes reflected for a few minutes, and then said: "Let us come down to the theft. It must have been committed in this room?" "Yes; there was here, between that twelfth century Virgin and that tabernacle of chased silver, a small Jewish lamp. It has disappeared." "And is that all?" "That is all." "Ah!... And what is a Jewish lamp?" "One of those copper lamps used by the ancient Jews, consisting of a standard which supported a bowl containing the oil, and from this bowl projected several burners intended for the wicks." "Upon the whole, an object of small value." "No great value, of course. But this one contained a secret hiding-place in which we were accustomed to place a magnificent jewel, a chimera in gold, set with rubies and emeralds, which was of great value." "Why did you hide it there?" "Oh! I can't give any reason, monsieur, unless it was an odd fancy to utilize a hiding-place of that kind." "Did anyone know it?" "No." "No one--except the thief," said Sholmes. "Otherwise he would not have taken the trouble to steal the lamp." "Of course. But how could he know it, as it was only by accident that the secret mechanism of the lamp was revealed to us." "A similar accident has revealed it to some one else ... a servant ... or an acquaintance. But let us proceed: I suppose the police have been notified?" "Yes. The examining magistrate has completed his investigation. The reporter-detectives attached to the leading newspapers have also made their investigations. But, as I wrote to you, it seems to me the mystery will never be solved." Sholmes arose, went to the window, examined the casement, the balcony, the terrace, studied the scratches on the stone railing with his magnifying-glass, and then requested Mon. d'Imblevalle to show him the garden. Outside, Sholmes sat down in a rattan chair and gazed at the roof of the house in a dreamy way. Then he walked over to the two little wooden boxes with which they had covered the holes made in the ground by the bottom of the ladder with a view of preserving them intact. He raised the boxes, kneeled on the ground, scrutinized the holes and made some measurements. After making a similar examination of the holes near the fence, he and the baron returned to the boudoir where Madame d'Imblevalle was waiting for them. After a short silence Sholmes said: "At the very outset of your story, baron, I was surprised at the very simple methods employed by the thief. To raise a ladder, cut a window-pane, select a valuable article, and walk out again--no, that is not the way such things are done. All that is too plain, too simple." "Well, what do you think?" "That the Jewish lamp was stolen under the direction of Arsène Lupin." "Arsène Lupin!" exclaimed the baron. "Yes, but he did not do it himself, as no one came from the outside. Perhaps a servant descended from the upper floor by means of a waterspout that I noticed when I was in the garden." "What makes you think so?" "Arsène Lupin would not leave this room empty-handed." "Empty-handed! But he had the lamp." "But that would not have prevented his taking that snuff-box, set with diamonds, or that opal necklace. When he leaves anything, it is because he can't carry it away." "But the marks of the ladder outside?" "A false scent. Placed there simply to avert suspicion." "And the scratches on the balustrade?" "A farce! They were made with a piece of sandpaper. See, here are scraps of the paper that I picked up in the garden." "And what about the marks made by the bottom of the ladder?" "Counterfeit! Examine the two rectangular holes below the window, and the two holes near the fence. They are of a similar form, but I find that the two holes near the house are closer to each other than the two holes near the fence. What does that fact suggest? To me, it suggested that the four holes were made by a piece of wood prepared for the purpose." "The better proof would be the piece of wood itself." "Here it is," said Sholmes, "I found it in the garden, under the box of a laurel tree." The baron bowed to Sholmes in recognition of his skill. Only forty minutes had elapsed since the Englishman had entered the house, and he had already exploded all the theories theretofore formed, and which had been based on what appeared to be obvious and undeniable facts. But what now appeared to be the real facts of the case rested upon a more solid foundation, to-wit, the astute reasoning of a Herlock Sholmes. "The accusation which you make against one of our household is a very serious matter," said the baroness. "Our servants have been with us a long time and none of them would betray our trust." "If none of them has betrayed you, how can you explain the fact that I received this letter on the same day and by the same mail as the letter you wrote to me?" He handed to the baroness the letter that he had received from Arsène Lupin. She exclaimed, in amazement: "Arsène Lupin! How could he know?" "Did you tell anyone that you had written to me?" "No one," replied the baron. "The idea occurred to us the other evening at the dinner-table." "Before the servants?" "No, only our two children. Oh, no ... Sophie and Henriette had left the table, hadn't they, Suzanne?" Madame d'Imblevalle, after a moment's reflection, replied: "Yes, they had gone to Mademoiselle." "Mademoiselle?" queried Sholmes. "The governess, Mademoiselle Alice Demun." "Does she take her meals with you?" "No. Her meals are served in her room." Wilson had an idea. He said: "The letter written to my friend Herlock Sholmes was posted?" "Of course." "Who posted it?" "Dominique, who has been my valet for twenty years," replied the baron. "Any search in that direction would be a waste of time." "One never wastes his time when engaged in a search," said Wilson, sententiously. This preliminary investigation now ended, and Sholmes asked permission to retire. At dinner, an hour later, he saw Sophie and Henriette, the two children of the family, one was six and the other eight years of age. There was very little conversation at the table. Sholmes responded to the friendly advances of his hosts in such a curt manner that they were soon reduced to silence. When the coffee was served, Sholmes swallowed the contents of his cup, and rose to take his leave. At that moment, a servant entered with a telephone message addressed to Sholmes. He opened it, and read: "You have my enthusiastic admiration. The results attained by you in so short a time are simply marvellous. I am dismayed. "ARSÈNE LUPIN." Sholmes made a gesture of indignation and handed the message to the baron, saying: "What do you think now, monsieur? Are the walls of your house furnished with eyes and ears?" "I don't understand it," said the baron, in amazement. "Nor do I; but I do understand that Lupin has knowledge of everything that occurs in this house. He knows every movement, every word. There is no doubt of it. But how does he get his information? That is the first mystery I have to solve, and when I know that I will know everything." * * * * * That night, Wilson retired with the clear conscience of a man who has performed his whole duty and thus acquired an undoubted right to sleep and repose. So he fell asleep very quickly, and was soon enjoying the most delightful dreams in which he pursued Lupin and captured him single-handed; and the sensation was so vivid and exciting that it woke him from his sleep. Someone was standing at his bedside. He seized his revolver, and cried: "Don't move, Lupin, or I'll fire." "The deuce! Wilson, what do you mean?" "Oh! it is you, Sholmes. Do you want me?" "I want to show you something. Get up." Sholmes led him to the window, and said: "Look!... on the other side of the fence...." "In the park?" "Yes. What do you see?" "I don't see anything." "Yes, you do see something." "Ah! of course, a shadow ... two of them." "Yes, close to the fence. See, they are moving. Come, quick!" Quickly they descended the stairs, and reached a room which opened into the garden. Through the glass door they could see the two shadowy forms in the same place. "It is very strange," said Sholmes, "but it seems to me I can hear a noise inside the house." "Inside the house? Impossible! Everybody is asleep." "Well, listen----" At that moment a low whistle came from the other side of the fence, and they perceived a dim light which appeared to come from the house. "The baron must have turned on the light in his room. It is just above us." "That must have been the noise you heard," said Wilson. "Perhaps they are watching the fence also." Then there was a second whistle, softer than before. "I don't understand it; I don't understand," said Sholmes, irritably. "No more do I," confessed Wilson. Sholmes turned the key, drew the bolt, and quietly opened the door. A third whistle, louder than before, and modulated to another form. And the noise above their heads became more pronounced. Sholmes said: "It seems to be on the balcony outside the boudoir window." He put his head through the half-opened door, but immediately recoiled, with a stifled oath. Then Wilson looked. Quite close to them there was a ladder, the upper end of which was resting on the balcony. "The deuce!" said Sholmes, "there is someone in the boudoir. That is what we heard. Quick, let us remove the ladder." But at that instant a man slid down the ladder and ran toward the spot where his accomplices were waiting for him outside the fence. He carried the ladder with him. Sholmes and Wilson pursued the man and overtook him just as he was placing the ladder against the fence. From the other side of the fence two shots were fired. "Wounded?" cried Sholmes. "No," replied Wilson. Wilson seized the man by the body and tried to hold him, but the man turned and plunged a knife into Wilson's breast. He uttered a groan, staggered and fell. "Damnation!" muttered Sholmes, "if they have killed him I will kill them." He laid Wilson on the grass and rushed toward the ladder. Too late--the man had climbed the fence and, accompanied by his confederates, had fled through the bushes. "Wilson, Wilson, it is not serious, hein? Merely a scratch." The house door opened, and Monsieur d'Imblevalle appeared, followed by the servants, carrying candles. "What's the matter?" asked the baron. "Is Monsieur Wilson wounded?" "Oh! it's nothing--a mere scratch," repeated Sholmes, trying to deceive himself. The blood was flowing profusely, and Wilson's face was livid. Twenty minutes later the doctor ascertained that the point of the knife had penetrated to within an inch and a half of the heart. "An inch and a half of the heart! Wilson always was lucky!" said Sholmes, in an envious tone. "Lucky ... lucky...." muttered the doctor. "Of course! Why, with his robust constitution he will soon be out again." "Six weeks in bed and two months of convalescence." "Not more?" "No, unless complications set in." "Oh! the devil! what does he want complications for?" Fully reassured, Sholmes joined the baron in the boudoir. This time the mysterious visitor had not exercised the same restraint. Ruthlessly, he had laid his vicious hand upon the diamond snuff-box, upon the opal necklace, and, in a general way, upon everything that could find a place in the greedy pockets of an enterprising burglar. The window was still open; one of the window-panes had been neatly cut; and, in the morning, a summary investigation showed that the ladder belonged to the house then in course of construction. "Now, you can see," said Mon. d'Imblevalle, with a touch of irony, "it is an exact repetition of the affair of the Jewish lamp." "Yes, if we accept the first theory adopted by the police." "Haven't you adopted it yet? Doesn't this second theft shatter your theory in regard to the first?" "It only confirms it, monsieur." "That is incredible! You have positive evidence that last night's theft was committed by an outsider, and yet you adhere to your theory that the Jewish lamp was stolen by someone in the house." "Yes, I am sure of it." "How do you explain it?" "I do not explain anything, monsieur; I have established two facts which do not appear to have any relation to each other, and yet I am seeking the missing link that connects them." His conviction seemed to be so earnest and positive that the baron submitted to it, and said: "Very well, we will notify the police----" "Not at all!" exclaimed the Englishman, quickly, "not at all! I intend to ask for their assistance when I need it--but not before." "But the attack on your friend?" "That's of no consequence. He is only wounded. Secure the license of the doctor. I shall be responsible for the legal side of the affair." * * * * * The next two days proved uneventful. Yet Sholmes was investigating the case with a minute care, and with a sense of wounded pride resulting from that audacious theft, committed under his nose, in spite of his presence and beyond his power to prevent it. He made a thorough investigation of the house and garden, interviewed the servants, and paid lengthy visits to the kitchen and stables. And, although his efforts were fruitless, he did not despair. "I will succeed," he thought, "and the solution must be sought within the walls of this house. This affair is quite different from that of the blonde Lady, where I had to work in the dark, on unknown ground. This time I am on the battlefield itself. The enemy is not the elusive and invisible Lupin, but the accomplice, in flesh and blood, who lives and moves within the confines of this house. Let me secure the slightest clue and the game is mine!" That clue was furnished to him by accident. On the afternoon of the third day, when he entered a room located above the boudoir, which served as a study for the children, he found Henriette, the younger of the two sisters. She was looking for her scissors. "You know," she said to Sholmes, "I make papers like that you received the other evening." "The other evening?" "Yes, just as dinner was over, you received a paper with marks on it ... you know, a telegram.... Well, I make them, too." She left the room. To anyone else these words would seem to be nothing more than the insignificant remark of a child, and Sholmes himself listened to them with a distracted air and continued his investigation. But, suddenly, he ran after the child, and overtook her at the head of the stairs. He said to her: "So you paste stamps and marks on papers?" Henriette, very proudly, replied: "Yes, I cut them out and paste them on." "Who taught you that little game?" "Mademoiselle ... my governess ... I have seen her do it often. She takes words out of the newspapers and pastes them----" "What does she make out of them?" "Telegrams and letters that she sends away." Herlock Sholmes returned to the study, greatly puzzled by the information and seeking to draw from it a logical deduction. There was a pile of newspapers on the mantel. He opened them and found that many words and, in some places, entire lines had been cut out. But, after reading a few of the word's which preceded or followed, he decided that the missing words had been cut out at random--probably by the child. It was possible that one of the newspapers had been cut by mademoiselle; but how could he assure himself that such was the case? Mechanically, Sholmes turned over the school-books on the table; then others which were lying on the shelf of a bookcase. Suddenly he uttered a cry of joy. In a corner of the bookcase, under a pile of old exercise books, he found a child's alphabet-book, in which the letters were ornamented with pictures, and on one of the pages of that book he discovered a place where a word had been removed. He examined it. It was a list of the days of the week. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc. The word "Saturday" was missing. Now, the theft of the Jewish lamp had occurred on a Saturday night. Sholmes experienced that slight fluttering of the heart which always announced to him, in the clearest manner, that he had discovered the road which leads to victory. That ray of truth, that feeling of certainty, never deceived him. With nervous fingers he hastened to examine the balance of the book. Very soon he made another discovery. It was a page composed of capital letters, followed by a line of figures. Nine of those letters and three of those figures had been carefully cut out. Sholmes made a list of the missing letters and figures in his memorandum book, in alphabetical and numerical order, and obtained the following result: CDEHNOPEZ--237. "Well? at first sight, it is a rather formidable puzzle," he murmured, "but, by transposing the letters and using all of them, is it possible to form one, two or three complete words?" Sholmes tried it, in vain. Only one solution seemed possible; it constantly appeared before him, no matter which way he tried to juggle the letters, until, at length, he was satisfied it was the true solution, since it harmonized with the logic of the facts and the general circumstances of the case. As that page of the book did not contain any duplicate letters it was probable, in fact quite certain, that the words he could form from those letters would be incomplete, and that the original words had been completed with letters taken from other pages. Under those conditions he obtained the following solution, errors and omissions excepted: REPOND Z--CH--237. The first word was quite clear: répondez [reply], a letter E is missing because it occurs twice in the word, and the book furnished only one letter of each kind. As to the second incomplete word, no doubt it formed, with the aid of the number 237, an address to which the reply was to be sent. They appointed Saturday as the time, and requested a reply to be sent to the address CH. 237. Or, perhaps, CH. 237 was an address for a letter to be sent to the "general delivery" of some postoffice, or, again, they might form a part of some incomplete word. Sholmes searched the book once more, but did not discover that any other letters had been removed. Therefore, until further orders, he decided to adhere to the foregoing interpretation. Henriette returned and observed what he was doing. "Amusing, isn't it?" "Yes, very amusing," he replied. "But, have you any other papers?... Or, rather, words already cut out that I can paste?" "Papers?... No.... And Mademoiselle wouldn't like it." "Mademoiselle?" "Yes, she has scolded me already." "Why?" "Because I have told you some things ... and she says that a person should never tell things about those they love." "You are quite right." Henriette was delighted to receive his approbation, in fact so highly pleased that she took from a little silk bag that was pinned to her dress some scraps of cloth, three buttons, two cubes of sugar and, lastly, a piece of paper which she handed to Sholmes. "See, I give it to you just the same." It was the number of a cab--8,279. "Where did this number come from?" "It fell out of her pocketbook." "When?" "Sunday, at mass, when she was taking out some sous for the collection." "Exactly! And now I shall tell you how to keep from being scolded again. Do not tell Mademoiselle that you saw me." Sholmes then went to Mon. d'Imblevalle and questioned him in regard to Mademoiselle. The baron replied, indignantly: "Alice Demun! How can you imagine such a thing? It is utterly impossible!" "How long has she been in your service?" "Only a year, but there is no one in the house in whom I have greater confidence." "Why have I not seen her yet?" "She has been away for a few days." "But she is here now." "Yes; since her return she has been watching at the bedside of your friend. She has all the qualities of a nurse ... gentle ... thoughtful ... Monsieur Wilson seems much pleased...." "Ah!" said Sholmes, who had completely neglected to inquire about his friend. After a moment's reflection he asked: "Did she go out on Sunday morning?" "The day after the theft?" "Yes." The baron called his wife and asked her. She replied: "Mademoiselle went to the eleven o'clock mass with the children, as usual." "But before that?" "Before that? No.... Let me see!... I was so upset by the theft ... but I remember now that, on the evening before, she asked permission to go out on Sunday morning ... to see a cousin who was passing through Paris, I think. But, surely, you don't suspect her?" "Of course not ... but I would like to see her." He went to Wilson's room. A woman dressed in a gray cloth dress, as in the hospitals, was bending over the invalid, giving him a drink. When she turned her face Sholmes recognized her as the young girl who had accosted him at the railway station. Alice Demun smiled sweetly; her great serious, innocent eyes showed no sign of embarrassment. The Englishman tried to speak, muttered a few syllables, and stopped. Then she resumed her work, acting quite naturally under Sholmes' astonished gaze, moved the bottles, unrolled and rolled cotton bandages, and again regarded Sholmes with her charming smile of pure innocence. He turned on his heels, descended the stairs, noticed Mon. d'Imblevalle's automobile in the courtyard, jumped into it, and went to Levallois, to the office of the cab company whose address was printed on the paper he had received from Henriette. The man who had driven carriage number 8,279 on Sunday morning not being there, Sholmes dismissed the automobile and waited for the man's return. He told Sholmes that he had picked up a woman in the vicinity of the Parc Monceau, a young woman dressed in black, wearing a heavy veil, and, apparently, quite nervous. "Did she have a package?" "Yes, quite a long package." "Where did you take her?" "Avenue des Ternes, corner of the Place Saint-Ferdinand. She remained there about ten minutes, and then returned to the Parc Monceau." "Could you recognize the house in the avenue des Ternes?" "Parbleu! Shall I take you there?" "Presently. First take me to 36 quai des Orfèvres." At the police office he saw Detective Ganimard. "Monsieur Ganimard, are you at liberty?" "If it has anything to do with Lupin--no!" "It has something to do with Lupin." "Then I do not go." "What! you surrender----" "I bow to the inevitable. I am tired of the unequal struggle, in which we are sure to be defeated. Lupin is stronger than I am--stronger than the two of us; therefore, we must surrender." "I will not surrender." "He will make you, as he has all others." "And you would be pleased to see it--eh, Ganimard?" "At all events, it is true," said Ganimard, frankly. "And since you are determined to pursue the game, I will go with you." Together they entered the carriage and were driven to the avenue des Ternes. Upon their order the carriage stopped on the other side of the street, at some distance from the house, in front of a little café, on the terrace of which the two men took seats amongst the shrubbery. It was commencing to grow dark. "Waiter," said Sholmes, "some writing material." He wrote a note, recalled the waiter and gave him the letter with instructions to deliver it to the concierge of the house which he pointed out. In a few minutes the concierge stood before them. Sholmes asked him if, on the Sunday morning, he had seen a young woman dressed in black. "In black? Yes, about nine o'clock. She went to the second floor." "Have you seen her often?" "No, but for some time--well, during the last few weeks, I have seen her almost every day." "And since Sunday?" "Only once ... until to-day." "What! Did she come to-day?" "She is here now." "Here now?" "Yes, she came about ten minutes ago. Her carriage is standing in the Place Saint-Ferdinand, as usual. I met her at the door." "Who is the occupant of the second floor?" "There are two: a modiste, Mademoiselle Langeais, and a gentleman who rented two furnished rooms a month ago under the name of Bresson." "Why do you say 'under the name'?" "Because I have an idea that it is an assumed name. My wife takes care of his rooms, and ... well, there are not two shirts there with the same initials." "Is he there much of the time?" "No; he is nearly always out. He has not been here for three days." "Was he here on Saturday night?" "Saturday night?... Let me think.... Yes, Saturday night, he came in and stayed all night." "What sort of a man is he?" "Well, I can scarcely answer that. He is so changeable. He is, by turns, big, little, fat, thin ... dark and light. I do not always recognize him." Ganimard and Sholmes exchanged looks. "That is he, all right," said Ganimard. "Ah!" said the concierge, "there is the girl now." Mademoiselle had just emerged from the house and was walking toward her carriage in the Place Saint-Ferdinand. "And there is Monsieur Bresson." "Monsieur Bresson? Which is he?" "The man with the parcel under his arm." "But he is not looking after the girl. She is going to her carriage alone." "Yes, I have never seen them together." The two detectives had arisen. By the light of the street-lamps they recognized the form of Arsène Lupin, who had started off in a direction opposite to that taken by the girl. "Which will you follow?" asked Ganimard. "I will follow him, of course. He's the biggest game." "Then I will follow the girl," proposed Ganimard. "No, no," said Sholmes, quickly, who did not wish to disclose the girl's identity to Ganimard, "I know where to find her. Come with me." They followed Lupin at a safe distance, taking care to conceal themselves as well as possible amongst the moving throng and behind the newspaper kiosks. They found the pursuit an easy one, as he walked steadily forward without turning to the right or left, but with a slight limp in the right leg, so slight as to require the keen eye of a professional observer to detect it. Ganimard observed it, and said: "He is pretending to be lame. Ah! if we could only collect two or three policemen and pounce on our man! We run a chance to lose him." But they did not meet any policemen before they reached the Porte des Ternes, and, having passed the fortifications, there was no prospect of receiving any assistance. "We had better separate," said Sholmes, "as there are so few people on the street." They were now on the Boulevard Victor-Hugo. They walked one on each side of the street, and kept well in the shadow of the trees. They continued thus for twenty minutes, when Lupin turned to the left and followed the Seine. Very soon they saw him descend to the edge of the river. He remained there only a few seconds, but they could not observe his movements. Then Lupin retraced his steps. His pursuers concealed themselves in the shadow of a gateway. Lupin passed in front of them. His parcel had disappeared. And as he walked away another man emerged from the shelter of a house and glided amongst the trees. "He seems to be following him also," said Sholmes, in a low voice. The pursuit continued, but was now embarrassed by the presence of the third man. Lupin returned the same way, passed through the Porte des Ternes, and re-entered the house in the avenue des Ternes. The concierge was closing the house for the night when Ganimard presented himself. "Did you see him?" "Yes," replied the concierge, "I was putting out the gas on the landing when he closed and bolted his door." "Is there any person with him?" "No; he has no servant. He never eats here." "Is there a servants' stairway?" "No." Ganimard said to Sholmes: "I had better stand at the door of his room while you go for the commissary of police in the rue Demours." "And if he should escape during that time?" said Sholmes. "While I am here! He can't escape." "One to one, with Lupin, is not an even chance for you." "Well, I can't force the door. I have no right to do that, especially at night." Sholmes shrugged his shoulders and said: "When you arrest Lupin no one will question the methods by which you made the arrest. However, let us go up and ring, and see what happens then." They ascended to the second floor. There was a double door at the left of the landing. Ganimard rang the bell. No reply. He rang again. Still no reply. "Let us go in," said Sholmes. "All right, come on," replied Ganimard. Yet, they stood still, irresolute. Like people who hesitate when they ought to accomplish a decisive action they feared to move, and it seemed to them impossible that Arsène Lupin was there, so close to them, on the other side of that fragile door that could be broken down by one blow of the fist. But they knew Lupin too well to suppose that he would allow himself to be trapped in that stupid manner. No, no--a thousand times, no--Lupin was no longer there. Through the adjoining houses, over the roofs, by some conveniently prepared exit, he must have already made his escape, and, once more, it would only be Lupin's shadow that they would seize. They shuddered as a slight noise, coming from the other side of the door, reached their ears. Then they had the impression, amounting almost to a certainty, that he was there, separated from them by that frail wooden door, and that he was listening to them, that he could hear them. What was to be done? The situation was a serious one. In spite of their vast experience as detectives, they were so nervous and excited that they thought they could hear the beating of their own hearts. Ganimard questioned Sholmes by a look. Then he struck the door a violent blow with his fist. Immediately they heard the sound of footsteps, concerning which there was no attempt at concealment. Ganimard shook the door. Then he and Sholmes, uniting their efforts, rushed at the door, and burst it open with their shoulders. Then they stood still, in surprise. A shot had been fired in the adjoining room. Another shot, and the sound of a falling body. When they entered they saw the man lying on the floor with his face toward the marble mantel. His revolver had fallen from his hand. Ganimard stooped and turned the man's head. The face was covered with blood, which was flowing from two wounds, one in the cheek, the other in the temple. "You can't recognize him for blood." "No matter!" said Sholmes. "It is not Lupin." "How do you know? You haven't even looked at him." "Do you think that Arsène Lupin is the kind of a man that would kill himself?" asked Sholmes, with a sneer. "But we thought we recognized him outside." "We thought so, because the wish was father to the thought. That man has us bewitched." "Then it must be one of his accomplices." "The accomplices of Arsène Lupin do not kill themselves." "Well, then, who is it?" They searched the corpse. In one pocket Herlock Sholmes found an empty pocketbook; in another Ganimard found several louis. There were no marks of identification on any part of his clothing. In a trunk and two valises they found nothing but wearing apparel. On the mantel there was a pile of newspapers. Ganimard opened them. All of them contained articles referring to the theft of the Jewish lamp. An hour later, when Ganimard and Sholmes left the house, they had acquired no further knowledge of the strange individual who had been driven to suicide by their untimely visit. Who was he? Why had he killed himself? What was his connection with the affair of the Jewish lamp? Who had followed him on his return from the river? The situation involved many complex questions--many mysteries---- * * * * * Herlock Sholmes went to bed in a very bad humor. Early next morning he received the following telephonic message: "Arsène Lupin has the honor to inform you of his tragic death in the person of Monsieur Bresson, and requests the honor of your presence at the funeral service and burial, which will be held at the public expense on Thursday, 25 June." CHAPTER VIII. THE SHIPWRECK. "That's what I don't like, Wilson," said Herlock Sholmes, after he had read Arsène Lupin's message; "that is what exasperates me in this affair--to feel that the cunning, mocking eye of that fellow follows me everywhere. He sees everything; he knows everything; he reads my inmost thoughts; he even foresees my slightest movement. Ah! he is possessed of a marvellous intuition, far surpassing that of the most instinctive woman, yes, surpassing even that of Herlock Sholmes himself. Nothing escapes him. I resemble an actor whose every step and movement are directed by a stage-manager; who says this and does that in obedience to a superior will. That is my position. Do you understand, Wilson?" Certainly Wilson would have understood if his faculties had not been deadened by the profound slumber of a man whose temperature varies between one hundred and one hundred and three degrees. But whether he heard or not was a matter of no consequence to Herlock Sholmes, who continued: "I have to concentrate all my energy and bring all my resources into action in order to make the slightest progress. And, fortunately for me, those petty annoyances are like so many pricks from a needle and serve only to stimulate me. As soon as the heat of the wound is appeased and the shock to my vanity has subsided I say to myself: 'Amuse yourself, my dear fellow, but remember that he who laughs last laughs best. Sooner or later you will betray yourself.' For you know, Wilson, it was Lupin himself, who, by his first dispatch and the observation that it suggested to little Henriette, disclosed to me the secret of his correspondence with Alice Hemun. Have you forgotten that circumstance, dear boy?" But Wilson was asleep; and Sholmes, pacing to and fro, resumed his speech: "And, now, things are not in a bad shape; a little obscure, perhaps, but the light is creeping in. In the first place, I must learn all about Monsieur Bresson. Ganimard and I will visit the bank of the river, at the spot where Bresson threw away the package, and the particular rôle of that gentleman will be known to me. After that the game will be played between me and Alice Demun. Rather a light-weight opponent, hein, Wilson? And do you not think that I will soon know the phrase represented by the letters clipped from the alphabet-book, and what the isolated letters--the 'C' and the 'H'--mean? That is all I want to know, Wilson." Mademoiselle entered at that moment, and, observing Sholmes gesticulating, she said, in her sweetest manner: "Monsieur Sholmes, I must scold you if you waken my patient. It isn't nice of you to disturb him. The doctor has ordered absolute rest." He looked at her in silence, astonished, as on their first meeting, at her wonderful self-possession. "Why do you look at me so, Monsieur Sholmes?... You seem to be trying to read my thoughts.... No?... Then what is it?" She questioned him with the most innocent expression on her pretty face and in her frank blue eyes. A smile played upon her lips; and she displayed so much unaffected candor that the Englishman almost lost his temper. He approached her and said, in a low voice: "Bresson killed himself last night." She affected not to understand him; so he repeated: "Bresson killed himself yesterday...." She did not show the slightest emotion; she acted as if the matter did not concern or interest her in any way. "You have been informed," said Sholmes, displaying his annoyance. "Otherwise, the news would have caused you to start, at least. Ah! you are stronger than I expected. But what's the use of your trying to conceal anything from me?" He picked up the alphabet-book, which he had placed on a convenient table, and, opening it at the mutilated page, said: "Will you tell me the order in which the missing letters should be arranged in order to express the exact wording of the message you sent to Bresson four days before the theft of the Jewish lamp?" "The order?... Bresson?... the theft of the Jewish lamp?" She repeated the words slowly, as if trying to grasp their meaning. He continued: "Yes. Here are the letters employed ... on this bit of paper.... What did you say to Bresson?" "The letters employed ... what did I say...." Suddenly she burst into laughter: "Ah! that is it! I understand! I am an accomplice in the crime! There is a Monsieur Bresson who stole the Jewish lamp and who has now committed suicide. And I am the friend of that gentleman. Oh! how absurd you are!" "Whom did you go to see last night on the second floor of a house in the avenue des Ternes?" "Who? My modiste, Mademoiselle Langeais. Do you suppose that my modiste and my friend Monsieur Bresson are the same person?" Despite all he knew, Sholmes was now in doubt. A person can feign terror, joy, anxiety, in fact all emotions; but a person cannot feign absolute indifference or light, careless laughter. Yet he continued to question her: "Why did you accost me the other evening at the Northern Railway station? And why did you entreat me to leave Paris immediately without investigating this theft?" "Ah! you are too inquisitive, Monsieur Sholmes," she replied, still laughing in the most natural manner. "To punish you I will tell you nothing, and, besides, you must watch the patient while I go to the pharmacy on an urgent message. Au revoir." She left the room. "I am beaten ... by a girl," muttered Sholmes. "Not only did I get nothing out of her but I exposed my hand and put her on her guard." And he recalled the affair of the blue diamond and his first interview with Clotilde Destange. Had not the blonde Lady met his question with the same unruffled serenity, and was he not once more face to face with one of those creatures who, under the protection and influence of Arsène Lupin, maintain the utmost coolness in the face of a terrible danger? "Sholmes ... Sholmes...." It was Wilson who called him. Sholmes approached the bed, and, leaning over, said: "What's the matter, Wilson? Does your wound pain you?" Wilson's lips moved, but he could not speak. At last, with a great effort, he stammered: "No ... Sholmes ... it is not she ... that is impossible----" "Come, Wilson, what do you know about it? I tell you that it is she! It is only when I meet one of Lupin's creatures, prepared and instructed by him, that I lose my head and make a fool of myself.... I bet you that within an hour Lupin will know all about our interview. Within an hour? What am I saying?... Why, he may know already. The visit to the pharmacy ... urgent message. All nonsense!... She has gone to telephone to Lupin." Sholmes left the house hurriedly, went down the avenue de Messine, and was just in time to see Mademoiselle enter a pharmacy. Ten minutes later she emerged from the shop carrying some small packages and a bottle wrapped in white paper. But she had not proceeded far, when she was accosted by a man who, with hat in hand and an obsequious air, appeared to be asking for charity. She stopped, gave him something, and proceeded on her way. "She spoke to him," said the Englishman to himself. If not a certainty, it was at least an intuition, and quite sufficient to cause him to change his tactics. Leaving the girl to pursue her own course, he followed the suspected mendicant, who walked slowly to the avenue des Ternes and lingered for a long time around the house in which Bresson had lived, sometimes raising his eyes to the windows of the second floor and watching the people who entered the house. At the end of an hour he climbed to the top of a tramcar going in the direction of Neuilly. Sholmes followed and took a seat behind the man, and beside a gentleman who was concealed behind the pages of a newspaper. At the fortifications the gentleman lowered the paper, and Sholmes recognized Ganimard, who thereupon whispered, as he pointed to the man in front: "It is the man who followed Bresson last night. He has been watching the house for an hour." "Anything new in regard to Bresson?" asked Sholmes. "Yes, a letter came to his address this morning." "This morning? Then it was posted yesterday before the sender could know of Bresson's death." "Exactly. It is now in the possession of the examining magistrate. But I read it. It says: _He will not accept any compromise. He wants everything--the first thing as well as those of the second affair. Otherwise he will proceed._" "There is no signature," added Ganimard. "It seems to me those few lines won't help us much." "I don't agree with you, Monsieur Ganimard. To me those few lines are very interesting." "Why so? I can't see it." "For reasons that are personal to me," replied Sholmes, with the indifference that he frequently displayed toward his colleague. The tramcar stopped at the rue de Château, which was the terminus. The man descended and walked away quietly. Sholmes followed at so short a distance that Ganimard protested, saying: "If he should turn around he will suspect us." "He will not turn around." "How do you know?" "He is an accomplice of Arsène Lupin, and the fact that he walks in that manner, with his hands in his pockets, proves, in the first place, that he knows he is being followed and, in the second place, that he is not afraid." "But I think we are keeping too close to him." "Not too close to prevent his slipping through our fingers. He is too sure of himself." "Ah! Look there! In front of that café there are two of the bicycle police. If I summon them to our assistance, how can the man slip through our fingers?" "Well, our friend doesn't seem to be worried about it. In fact, he is asking for their assistance himself." "Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Ganimard, "he has a nerve." The man approached the two policemen just as they were mounting their bicycles. After a few words with them he leaped on a third bicycle, which was leaning against the wall of the café, and rode away at a fast pace, accompanied by the two policemen. "Hein! one, two, three and away!" growled Sholmes. "And through, whose agency, Monsieur Ganimard? Two of your colleagues.... Ah! but Arsène Lupin has a wonderful organization! Bicycle policemen in his service!... I told you our man was too calm, too sure of himself." "Well, then," said Ganimard, quite vexed, "what are we to do now? It is easy enough to laugh! Anyone can do that." "Come, come, don't lose your temper! We will get our revenge. But, in the meantime, we need reinforcements." "Folenfant is waiting for me at the end of the avenue de Neuilly." "Well, go and get him and join me later. I will follow our fugitive." Sholmes followed the bicycle tracks, which were plainly visible in the dust of the road as two of the machines were furnished with striated tires. Very soon he ascertained that the tracks were leading him to the edge of the Seine, and that the three men had turned in the direction taken by Bresson on the preceding evening. Thus he arrived at the gateway where he and Ganimard had concealed themselves, and, a little farther on, he discovered a mingling of the bicycle tracks which showed that the men had halted at that spot. Directly opposite there was a little point of land which projected into the river and, at the extremity thereof, an old boat was moored. It was there that Bresson had thrown away the package, or, rather, had dropped it. Sholmes descended the bank and saw that the declivity was not steep and the water quite shallow, so it would be quite easy to recover the package, provided the three men had not forestalled him. "No, that can't be," he thought, "they have not had time. A quarter of an hour at the most. And yet, why did they come this way?" A fisherman was seated on the old boat. Sholmes asked him: "Did you see three men on bicycles a few minutes ago?" The fisherman made a negative gesture. But Sholmes insisted: "Three men who stopped on the road just on top of the bank?" The fisherman rested his pole under his arm, took a memorandum book from his pocket, wrote on one of the pages, tore it out, and handed it to Sholmes. The Englishman gave a start of surprise. In the middle of the paper which he held in his hand he saw the series of letters cut from the alphabet-book: CDEHNOPRZEO--237. The man resumed his fishing, sheltered from the sun by a large straw hat, with his coat and vest lying beside him. He was intently watching the cork attached to his line as it floated on the surface of the water. There was a moment of silence--solemn and terrible. "Is it he?" conjectured Sholmes, with an anxiety that was almost pitiful. Then the truth burst upon him: "It is he! It is he! No one else could remain there so calmly, without the slightest display of anxiety, without the least fear of what might happen. And who else would know the story of those mysterious letters? Alice had warned him by means of her messenger." Suddenly the Englishman felt that his hand--that his own hand had involuntarily seized the handle of his revolver, and that his eyes were fixed on the man's back, a little below the neck. One movement, and the drama would be finished; the life of the strange adventurer would come to a miserable end. The fisherman did not stir. Sholmes nervously toyed with his revolver, and experienced a wild desire to fire it and end everything; but the horror of such an act was repugnant to his nature. Death would be certain and would end all. "Ah!" he thought, "let him get up and defend himself. If he doesn't, so much the worse for him. One second more ... and I fire...." But a sound of footsteps behind him caused him to turn his head. It was Ganimard coming with some assistants. Then, quickly changing his plans, Sholmes leaped into the boat, which was broken from its moorings by his sudden action; he pounced upon the man and seized him around the body. They rolled to the bottom of the boat together. "Well, now!" exclaimed Lupin, struggling to free himself, "what does this mean? When one of us has conquered the other, what good will it do? You will not know what to do with me, nor I with you. We will remain here like two idiots." The two oars slipped into the water. The boat drifted into the stream. "Good Lord, what a fuss you make! A man of your age ought to know better! You act like a child." Lupin succeeded in freeing himself from the grasp of the detective, who, thoroughly exasperated and ready to kill, put his hand in his pocket. He uttered an oath: Lupin had taken his revolver. Then he knelt down and tried to capture one of the lost oars in order to regain the shore, while Lupin was trying to capture the other oar in order to drive the boat down the river. "It's gone! I can't reach it," said Lupin. "But it's of no consequence. If you get your oar I can prevent your using it. And you could do the same to me. But, you see, that is the way in this world, we act without any purpose or reason, as our efforts are in vain since Fate decides everything. Now, don't you see, Fate is on the side of his friend Lupin. The game is mine! The current favors me!" The boat was slowly drifting down the river. "Look out!" cried Lupin, quickly. Someone on the bank was pointing a revolver. Lupin stooped, a shot was fired; it struck the water beyond the boat. Lupin burst into laughter. "God bless me! It's my friend Ganimard! But it was very wrong of you to do that, Ganimard. You have no right to shoot except in self-defense. Does poor Lupin worry you so much that you forget yourself?... Now, be good, and don't shoot again!... If you do you will hit our English friend." He stood behind Sholmes, facing Ganimard, and said: "Now, Ganimard, I am ready! Aim for his heart!... Higher!... A little to the left.... Ah! you missed that time ... deuced bad shot.... Try again.... Your hand shakes, Ganimard.... Now, once more ... one, two, three, fire!... Missed!... Parbleu! the authorities furnish you with toy-pistols." Lupin drew a long revolver and fired without taking aim. Ganimard put his hand to his hat: the bullet had passed through it. "What do you think of that, Ganimard! Ah! that's a real revolver! A genuine English bulldog. It belongs to my friend, Herlock Sholmes." And, with a laugh, he threw the revolver to the shore, where it landed at Ganimard's feet. Sholmes could not withhold a smile of admiration. What a torrent of youthful spirits! And how he seemed to enjoy himself! It appeared as if the sensation of peril caused him a physical pleasure; and this extraordinary man had no other purpose in life than to seek for dangers simply for the amusement it afforded him in avoiding them. Many people had now gathered on the banks of the river, and Ganimard and his men followed the boat as it slowly floated down the stream. Lupin's capture was a mathematical certainty. "Confess, old fellow," said Lupin, turning to the Englishman, "that you would not exchange your present position for all the gold in the Transvaal! You are now in the first row of the orchestra chairs! But, in the first place, we must have the prologue ... after which we can leap, at one bound, to the fifth act of the drama, which will represent the capture or escape of Arsène Lupin. Therefore, I am going to ask you a plain question, to which I request a plain answer--a simple yes or no. Will you renounce this affair? At present I can repair the damage you have done; later it will be beyond my power. Is it a bargain?" "No." Lupin's face showed his disappointment and annoyance. He continued: "I insist. More for your sake than my own, I insist, because I am certain you will be the first to regret your intervention. For the last time, yes or no?" "No." Lupin stooped down, removed one of the boards in the bottom of the boat, and, for some minutes, was engaged in a work the nature of which Sholmes could not discern. Then he arose, seated himself beside the Englishman, and said: "I believe, monsieur, that we came to the river to-day for the same purpose: to recover the object which Bresson threw away. For my part I had invited a few friends to join me here, and I was on the point of making an examination of the bed of the river when my friends announced your approach. I confess that the news did not surprise me, as I have been notified every hour concerning the progress of your investigation. That was an easy matter. Whenever anything occurred in the rue Murillo that might interest me, simply a ring on the telephone and I was informed." He stopped. The board that he had displaced in the bottom of the boat was rising and water was working into the boat all around it. "The deuce! I didn't know how to fix it. I was afraid this old boat would leak. You are not afraid, monsieur?" Sholmes shrugged his shoulders. Lupin continued: "You will understand then, in those circumstances, and knowing in advance that you would be more eager to seek a battle than I would be to avoid it, I assure you I was not entirely displeased to enter into a contest of which the issue is quite certain, since I hold all the trump cards in my hand. And I desired that our meeting should be given the widest publicity in order that your defeat may be universally known, so that another Countess de Crozon or another Baron d'Imblevalle may not be tempted to solicit your aid against me. Besides, my dear monsieur--" He stopped again and, using his half-closed hands as a lorgnette, he scanned the banks of the river. "Mon Dieu! they have chartered a superb boat, a real war-vessel, and see how they are rowing. In five minutes they will be along-side, and I am lost. Monsieur Sholmes, a word of advice; you seize me, bind me and deliver me to the officers of the law. Does that programme please you?... Unless, in the meantime, we are shipwrecked, in which event we can do nothing but prepare our wills. What do you think?" They exchanged looks. Sholmes now understood Lupin's scheme: he had scuttled the boat. And the water was rising. It had reached the soles of their boots. Then it covered their feet; but they did not move. It was half-way to their knees. The Englishman took out his tobacco, rolled a cigarette, and lighted it. Lupin continued to talk: "But do not regard that offer as a confession of my weakness. I surrender to you in a battle in which I can achieve a victory in order to avoid a struggle upon a field not of my own choosing. In so doing I recognize the fact that Sholmes is the only enemy I fear, and announce my anxiety that Sholmes will not be diverted from my track. I take this opportunity to tell you these things since fate has accorded me the honor of a conversation with you. I have only one regret; it is that our conversation should have occurred while we are taking a foot-bath ... a situation that is lacking in dignity, I must confess.... What did I say? A foot-bath? It is worse than that." The water had reached the board on which they were sitting, and the boat was gradually sinking. Sholmes, smoking his cigarette, appeared to be calmly admiring the scenery. For nothing in the world, while face to face with that man who, while threatened by dangers, surrounded by a crowd, followed by a posse of police, maintained his equanimity and good humor, for nothing in the world would he, Sholmes, display the slightest sign of nervousness. Each of them looked as if he might say: Should a person be disturbed by such trifles? Are not people drowned in a river every day? Is it such an unusual event as to deserve special attention? One chatted, whilst the other dreamed; both concealing their wounded pride beneath a mask of indifference. One minute more and the boat will sink. Lupin continued his chatter: "The important thing to know is whether we will sink before or after the arrival of the champions of the law. That is the main question. As to our shipwreck, that is a fore-gone conclusion. Now, monsieur, the hour has come in which we must make our wills. I give, devise and bequeath all my property to Herlock Sholmes, a citizen of England, for his own use and benefit. But, mon Dieu, how quickly the champions of the law are approaching! Ah! the brave fellows! It is a pleasure to watch them. Observe the precision of the oars! Ah! is it you, Brigadier Folenfant? Bravo! The idea of a war-vessel is an excellent one. I commend you to your superiors, Brigadier Folenfant.... Do you wish a medal? You shall have it. And your comrade Dieuzy, where is he?... Ah! yes, I think I see him on the left bank of the river at the head of a hundred natives. So that, if I escape shipwreck, I shall be captured on the left by Dieuzy and his natives, or, on the right, by Ganimard and the populace of Neuilly. An embarrassing dilemma!" The boat entered an eddy; it swung around and Sholmes caught hold of the oarlocks. Lupin said to him: "Monsieur, you should remove your coat. You will find it easier to swim without a coat. No? You refuse? Then I shall put on my own." He donned his coat, buttoned it closely, the same as Sholmes, and said: "What a discourteous man you are! And what a pity that you should be so stubborn in this affair, in which, of course, you display your strength, but, oh! so vainly! really, you mar your genius----" "Monsieur Lupin," interrupted Sholmes, emerging from his silence, "you talk too much, and you frequently err through excess of confidence and through your frivolity." "That is a severe reproach." "Thus, without knowing it, you furnished me, only a moment ago, with the information I required." "What! you required some information and you didn't tell me?" "I had no occasion to ask you for it--you volunteered it. Within three hours I can deliver the key of the mystery to Monsieur d'Imblevalle. That is the only reply----" He did not finish the sentence. The boat suddenly sank, taking both of the men down with it. It emerged immediately, with its keel in the air. Shouts were heard on either bank, succeeded by an anxious moment of silence. Then the shouts were renewed: one of the shipwrecked party had come to the surface. It was Herlock Sholmes. He was an excellent swimmer, and struck out, with powerful strokes, for Folenfant's boat. "Courage, Monsieur Sholmes," shouted Folenfant; "we are here. Keep it up ... we will get you ... a little more, Monsieur Sholmes ... catch the rope." The Englishman seized the rope they had thrown to him. But, while they were hauling him into the boat, he heard a voice behind him, saying: "The key of the mystery, monsieur, yes, you shall have it. I am astonished that you haven't got it already. What then? What good will it do you? By that time you will have lost the battle...." Now comfortably installed astride the keel of the boat, Lupin continued his speech with solemn gestures, as if he hoped to convince his adversary. "You must understand, my dear Sholmes, there is nothing to be done, absolutely nothing. You find yourself in the deplorable position of a gentleman----" "Surrender, Lupin!" shouted Folenfant. "You are an ill-bred fellow, Folenfant, to interrupt me in the middle of a sentence. I was saying----" "Surrender, Lupin!" "Oh! parbleu! Brigadier Folenfant, a man surrenders only when he is in danger. Surely, you do not pretend to say that I am in any danger." "For the last time, Lupin, I call on you to surrender." "Brigadier Folenfant, you have no intention of killing me; you may wish to wound me since you are afraid I may escape. But if by chance the wound prove mortal! Just think of your remorse! It would embitter your old age." The shot was fired. Lupin staggered, clutched at the keel of the boat for a moment, then let go and disappeared. * * * * * It was exactly three o'clock when the foregoing events transpired. Precisely at six o'clock, as he had foretold, Herlock Sholmes, dressed in trousers that were too short and a coat that was too small, which he had borrowed from an innkeeper at Neuilly, wearing a cap and a flannel shirt, entered the boudoir in the Rue Murillo, after having sent word to Monsieur and Madame d'Imblevalle that he desired an interview. They found him walking up and down the room. And he looked so ludicrous in his strange costume that they could scarcely suppress their mirth. With pensive air and stooped shoulders, he walked like an automaton from the window to the door and from the door to the window, taking each time the same number of steps, and turning each time in the same manner. He stopped, picked up a small ornament, examined it mechanically, and resumed his walk. At last, planting himself before them, he asked: "Is Mademoiselle here?" "Yes, she is in the garden with the children."' "I wish Mademoiselle to be present at this interview." "Is it necessary----" "Have a little patience, monsieur. From the facts I am going to present to you, you will see the necessity for her presence here." "Very well. Suzanne, will you call her?" Madame d'Imblevalle arose, went out, and returned almost immediately, accompanied by Alice Demun. Mademoiselle, who was a trifle paler than usual, remained standing, leaning against a table, and without even asking why she had been called. Sholmes did not look at her, but, suddenly turning toward Monsieur d'Imblevalle, he said, in a tone which did not admit of a reply: "After several days' investigation, monsieur, I must repeat what I told you when I first came here: the Jewish lamp was stolen by some one living in the house." "The name of the guilty party?" "I know it." "Your proof?" "I have sufficient to establish that fact." "But we require more than that. We desire the restoration of the stolen goods." "The Jewish lamp? It is in my possession." "The opal necklace? The snuff-box?" "The opal necklace, the snuff-box, and all the goods stolen on the second occasion are in my possession." Sholmes delighted in these dramatic dialogues, and it pleased him to announce his victories in that curt manner. The baron and his wife were amazed, and looked at Sholmes with a silent curiosity, which was the highest praise. He related to them, very minutely, what he had done during those three days. He told of his discovery of the alphabet book, wrote upon a sheet of paper the sentence formed by the missing letters, then related the journey of Bresson to the bank of the river and the suicide of the adventurer, and, finally, his struggle with Lupin, the shipwreck, and the disappearance of Lupin. When he had finished, the baron said, in a low voice: "Now, you have told us everything except the name of the guilty party. Whom do you accuse?" "I accuse the person who cut the letters from the alphabet book, and communicated with Arsène Lupin by means of those letters." "How do you know that such correspondence was carried on with Arsène Lupin?" "My information comes from Lupin himself." He produced a piece of paper that was wet and crumpled. It was the page which Lupin had torn from his memorandum-book, and upon which he had written the phrase. "And you will notice," said Sholmes, with satisfaction, "that he was not obliged to give me that sheet of paper, and, in that way, disclose his identity. Simple childishness on his part, and yet it gave me exactly the information I desired." "What was it?" asked the baron. "I don't understand." Sholmes took a pencil and made a fresh copy of the letters and figures. "CDEHNOPRZEO--237." "Well?" said the baron; "it is the formula you showed me yourself." "No. If you had turned and returned that formula in every way, as I have done, you would have seen at first glance that this formula is not like the first one." "In what respect do they differ?" "This one has two more letters--an E and an O." "Really; I hadn't noticed that." "Join those two letters to the C and the H which remained after forming the word 'respondez,' and you will agree with me that the only possible word is ECHO." "What does that mean?" "It refers to the _Echo de France_, Lupin's newspaper, his official organ, the one in which he publishes his communications. Reply in the _Echo de France_, in the personal advertisements, under number 237. That is the key to the mystery, and Arsène Lupin was kind enough to furnish it to me. I went to the newspaper office." "What did you find there?" "I found the entire story of the relations between Arsène Lupin and his accomplice." Sholmes produced seven newspapers which he opened at the fourth page and pointed to the following lines: 1. Ars. Lup. Lady implores protection. 540. 2. 540. Awaiting particulars. A.L. 3. A.L. Under domin. enemy. Lost. 4. 540. Write address. Will make investigation. 5. A.L. Murillo. 6. 540. Park three o'clock. Violets. 7. 237. Understand. Sat. Will be Sun. morn. park. "And you call that the whole story!" exclaimed the baron. "Yes, and if you will listen to me for a few minutes, I think I can convince you. In the first place, a lady who signs herself 540 implores the protection of Arsène Lupin, who replies by asking for particulars. The lady replies that she is under the domination of an enemy--who is Bresson, no doubt--and that she is lost if some one does not come to her assistance. Lupin is suspicious and does not yet venture to appoint an interview with the unknown woman, demands the address and proposes to make an investigation. The lady hesitates for four days--look at the dates--finally, under stress of circumstances and influenced by Bresson's threats, she gives the name of the street--Murillo. Next day, Arsène Lupin announces that he will be in the Park Monceau at three o'clock, and asks his unknown correspondent to wear a bouquet of violets as a means of identification. Then there is a lapse of eight days in the correspondence. Arsène Lupin and the lady do not require to correspond through the newspaper now, as they see each other or write directly. The scheme is arranged in this way: in order to satisfy Bresson's demands, the lady is to carry off the Jewish lamp. The date is not yet fixed. The lady who, as a matter of prudence, corresponds by means of letters cut out of a book, decides on Saturday and adds: _Reply Echo 237_. Lupin replies that it is understood and that he will be in the park on Sunday morning. Sunday morning, the theft takes place." "Really, that is an excellent chain of circumstantial evidence and every link is complete," said the baron. "The theft has taken place," continued Sholmes. "The lady goes out on Sunday morning, tells Lupin what she has done, and carries the Jewish lamp to Bresson. Everything occurs then exactly as Lupin had foreseen. The officers of the law, deceived by an open window, four holes in the ground and two scratches on the balcony railing, immediately advance the theory that the theft was committed by a burglar. The lady is safe." "Yes, I confess the theory was a logical one," said the baron. "But the second theft--" "The second theft was provoked by the first. The newspapers having related how the Jewish lamp had disappeared, some one conceived the idea of repeating the crime and carrying away what had been left. This time, it was not a simulated theft, but a real one, a genuine burglary, with ladders and other paraphernalia--" "Lupin, of course--" "No. Lupin does not act so stupidly. He doesn't fire at people for trifling reasons." "Then, who was it?" "Bresson, no doubt, and unknown to the lady whom he had menaced. It was Bresson who entered here; it was Bresson that I pursued; it was Bresson who wounded poor Wilson." "Are you sure of it?" "Absolutely. One of Bresson's accomplices wrote to him yesterday, before his suicide, a letter which proves that negotiations were pending between this accomplice and Lupin for the restitution of all the articles stolen from your house. Lupin demanded everything, '_the first thing_ (that is, the Jewish lamp) _as well as those of the second affair_.' Moreover, he was watching Bresson. When the latter returned from the river last night, one of Lupin's men followed him as well as we." "What was Bresson doing at the river?" "Having been warned of the progress of my investigations----" "Warned! by whom?" "By the same lady, who justly feared that the discovery of the Jewish lamp would lead to the discovery of her own adventure. Thereupon, Bresson, having been warned, made into a package all the things that could compromise him and threw them into a place where he thought he could get them again when the danger was past. It was after his return, tracked by Ganimard and myself, having, no doubt, other sins on his conscience, that he lost his head and killed himself." "But what did the package contain?" "The Jewish lamp and your other ornaments." "Then, they are not in your possession?" "Immediately after Lupin's disappearance, I profited by the bath he had forced upon me, went to the spot selected by Bresson, where I found the stolen articles wrapped in some soiled linen. They are there, on the table." Without a word, the baron cut the cord, tore open the wet linen, picked out the lamp, turned a screw in the foot, then divided the bowl of the lamp which opened in two equal parts and there he found the golden chimera, set with rubies and emeralds. It was intact. * * * * * There was in that scene, so natural in appearance and which consisted of a simple exposition of facts, something which rendered it frightfully tragic--it was the formal, direct, irrefutable accusation that Sholmes launched in each of his words against Mademoiselle. And it was also the impressive silence of Alice Demun. During that long, cruel accumulation of accusing circumstances heaped one upon another, not a muscle of her face had moved, not a trace of revolt or fear had marred the serenity of her limpid eyes. What were her thoughts. And, especially, what was she going to say at the solemn moment when it would become necessary for her to speak and defend herself in order to break the chain of evidence that Herlock Sholmes had so cleverly woven around her? That moment had come, but the girl was silent. "Speak! Speak!" cried Mon. d'Imblevalle. She did not speak. So he insisted: "One word will clear you. One word of denial, and I will believe you." That word, she would not utter. The baron paced to and fro in his excitement; then, addressing Sholmes, he said: "No, monsieur, I cannot believe it, I do not believe it. There are impossible crimes! and this is opposed to all I know and to all that I have seen during the past year. No, I cannot believe it." He placed his hand on the Englishman's shoulder, and said: "But you yourself, monsieur, are you absolutely certain that you are right?" Sholmes hesitated, like a man on whom a sudden demand is made and cannot frame an immediate reply. Then he smiled, and said: "Only the person whom I accuse, by reason of her situation in your house, could know that the Jewish lamp contained that magnificent jewel." "I cannot believe it," repeated the baron. "Ask her." It was, really, the very thing he would not have done, blinded by the confidence the girl had inspired in him. But he could no longer refrain from doing it. He approached her and, looking into her eyes, said: "Was it you, mademoiselle? Was it you who took the jewel? Was it you who corresponded with Arsène Lupin and committed the theft?" "It was I, monsieur," she replied. She did not drop her head. Her face displayed no sign of shame or fear. "Is it possible?" murmured Mon. d'Imblevalle. "I would never have believed it.... You are the last person in the world that I would have suspected. How did you do it?" "I did it exactly as Monsieur Sholmes has told it. On Saturday night I came to the boudoir, took the lamp, and, in the morning I carried it ... to that man." "No," said the baron; "what you pretend to have done is impossible." "Impossible--why?" "Because, in the morning I found the door of the boudoir bolted." She blushed, and looked at Sholmes as if seeking his counsel. Sholmes was astonished at her embarrassment. Had she nothing to say? Did the confessions, which had corroborated the report that he, Sholmes, had made concerning the theft of the Jewish lamp, merely serve to mask a lie? Was she misleading them by a false confession? The baron continued: "That door was locked. I found the door exactly as I had left it the night before. If you entered by that door, as you pretend, some one must have opened it from the interior--that is to say, from the boudoir or from our chamber. Now, there was no one inside these two rooms ... there was no one except my wife and myself." Sholmes bowed his head and covered his face with his hands in order to conceal his emotion. A sudden light had entered his mind, that startled him and made him exceedingly uncomfortable. Everything was revealed to him, like the sudden lifting of a fog from the morning landscape. He was annoyed as well as ashamed, because his deductions were fallacious and his entire theory was wrong. Alice Demun was innocent! Alice Demun was innocent. That proposition explained the embarrassment he had experienced from the beginning in directing the terrible accusation against that young girl. Now, he saw the truth; he knew it. After a few seconds, he raised his head, and looked at Madame d'Imblevalle as naturally as he could. She was pale--with that unusual pallor which invades us in the relentless moments of our lives. Her hands, which she endeavored to conceal, were trembling as if stricken with palsy. "One minute more," thought Sholmes, "and she will betray herself." He placed himself between her and her husband in the desire to avert the awful danger which, _through his fault_, now threatened that man and woman. But, at sight of the baron, he was shocked to the very centre of his soul. The same dreadful idea had entered the mind of Monsieur d'Imblevalle. The same thought was at work in the brain of the husband. He understood, also! He saw the truth! In desperation, Alice Demun hurled herself against the implacable truth, saying: "You are right, monsieur. I made a mistake. I did not enter by this door. I came through the garden and the vestibule ... by aid of a ladder--" It was a supreme effort of true devotion. But a useless effort! The words rang false. The voice did not carry conviction, and the poor girl no longer displayed those clear, fearless eyes and that natural air of innocence which had served her so well. Now, she bowed her head--vanquished. The silence became painful. Madame d'Imblevalle was waiting for her husband's next move, overwhelmed with anxiety and fear. The baron appeared to be struggling against the dreadful suspicion, as if he would not submit to the overthrow of his happiness. Finally, he said to his wife: "Speak! Explain!" "I have nothing to tell you," she replied, in a very low voice, and with features drawn by anguish. "So, then ... Mademoiselle...." "Mademoiselle saved me ... through devotion ... through affection ... and accused herself...." "Saved you from what? From whom?" "From that man." "Bresson?" "Yes; it was I whom he held in fear by threats.... I met him at one of my friends'.... and I was foolish enough to listen to him. Oh! there was nothing that you cannot pardon. But I wrote him two letters ... letters which you will see.... I had to buy them back ... you know how.... Oh! have pity on me!... I have suffered so much!" "You! You! Suzanne!" He raised his clenched fists, ready to strike her, ready to kill her. But he dropped his arms, and murmured: "You, Suzanne.... You!... Is it possible?" By short detached sentences, she related the heartrending story, her dreadful awakening to the infamy of the man, her remorse, her fear, and she also told of Alice's devotion; how the young girl divined the sorrow of her mistress, wormed a confession out of her, wrote to Lupin, and devised the scheme of the theft in order to save her from Bresson. "You, Suzanne, you," repeated Monsieur d'Imblevalle, bowed with grief and shame.... "How could you?" ***** On the same evening, the steamer "City of London," which plies between Calais and Dover, was gliding slowly over the smooth sea. The night was dark; the wind was fainter than a zephyr. The majority of the passengers had retired to their cabins; but a few, more intrepid, were promenading on the deck or sleeping in large rocking-chairs, wrapped in their travelling-rugs. One could see, here and there, the light of a cigar, and one could hear, mingled with the soft murmur of the breeze, the faint sound of voices which were carefully subdued to harmonize with the deep silence of the night. One of the passengers, who had been pacing to and fro upon the deck, stopped before a woman who was lying on a bench, scrutinized her, and, when she moved a little, he said: "I thought you were asleep, Mademoiselle Alice." "No, Monsieur Sholmes, I am not sleepy. I was thinking." "Of what? If I may be so bold as to inquire?" "I was thinking of Madame d'Imblevalle. She must be very unhappy. Her life is ruined." "Oh! no, no," he replied quickly. "Her mistake was not a serious one. Monsieur d'Imblevalle will forgive and forget it. Why, even before we left, his manner toward her had softened." "Perhaps ... but he will remember it for a long time ... and she will suffer a great deal." "You love her?" "Very much. It was my love for her that gave me strength to smile when I was trembling from fear, that gave me courage to look in your face when I desired to hide from your sight." "And you are sorry to leave her?" "Yes, very sorry. I have no relatives, no friends--but her." "You will have friends," said the Englishman, who was affected by her sorrow. "I have promised that. I have relatives ... and some influence. I assure you that you will have no cause to regret coming to England." "That may be, monsieur, but Madame d'Imblevalle will not be there." Herlock Sholmes resumed his promenade upon the deck. After a few minutes, he took a seat near his travelling companion, filled his pipe, and struck four matches in a vain effort to light it. Then, as he had no more matches, he arose and said to a gentleman who was sitting near him: "May I trouble you for a match?" The gentleman opened a box of matches and struck one. The flame lighted up his face. Sholmes recognized him--it was Arsène Lupin. If the Englishman had not given an almost imperceptible movement of surprise, Lupin would have supposed that his presence on board had been known to Sholmes, so well did he control his feelings and so natural was the easy manner in which he extended his hand to his adversary. "How's the good health, Monsieur Lupin?" "Bravo!" exclaimed Lupin, who could not repress a cry of admiration at the Englishman's sang-froid. "Bravo? and why?" "Why? Because I appear before you like a ghost, only a few hours after you saw me drowned in the Seine; and through pride--a quality that is essentially English--you evince not the slightest surprise. You greet me as a matter of course. Ah! I repeat: Bravo! Admirable!" "There is nothing remarkable about it. From the manner in which you fell from the boat, I knew very well that you fell voluntarily, and that the bullet had not touched you." "And you went away without knowing what had become of me?" "What had become of you? Why, I knew that. There were at least five hundred people on the two banks of the river within a space of half-a-mile. If you escaped death, your capture was certain." "And yet I am here." "Monsieur Lupin, there are two men in the world at whom I am never astonished: in the first place, myself--and then, Arsène Lupin." The treaty of peace was concluded. If Sholmes had not been successful in his contests with Arsène Lupin; if Lupin remained the only enemy whose capture he must never hope to accomplish; if, in the course of their struggles, he had not always displayed a superiority, the Englishman had, none the less, by means of his extraordinary intuition and tenacity, succeeded in recovering the Jewish lamp as well as the blue diamond. This time, perhaps, the finish had not been so brilliant, especially from the stand-point of the public spectators, since Sholmes was obliged to maintain a discreet silence in regard to the circumstances in which the Jewish lamp had been recovered, and to announce that he did not know the name of the thief. But as man to man, Arsène Lupin against Herlock Sholmes, detective against burglar, there was neither victor nor vanquished. Each of them had won corresponding victories. Therefore they could now converse as courteous adversaries who had lain down their arms and held each other in high regard. At Sholmes' request, Arsène Lupin related the strange story of his escape. "If I may dignify it by calling it an escape," he said. "It was so simple! My friends were watching for me, as I had asked them to meet me there to recover the Jewish lamp. So, after remaining a good half-hour under the overturned boat, I took advantage of an occasion when Folenfant and his men were searching for my dead body along the bank of the river, to climb on top of the boat. Then my friends simply picked me up as they passed by in their motor-boat, and we sailed away under the staring eyes of an astonished multitude, including Ganimard and Folenfant." "Very good," exclaimed Sholmes, "very neatly played. And now you have some business in England?" "Yes, some accounts to square up.... But I forgot ... what about Monsieur d'Imblevalle?" "He knows everything." "All! my dear Sholmes, what did I tell you? The wrong is now irreparable. Would it not have been better to have allowed me to carry out the affair in my own way? In a day or two more, I should have recovered the stolen goods from Bresson, restored them to Monsieur d'Imblevalle, and those two honest citizens would have lived together in peace and happiness ever after. Instead of that--" "Instead of that," said Sholmes, sneeringly, "I have mixed the cards and sown the seeds of discord in the bosom of a family that was under your protection." "Mon Dieu! of course, I was protecting them. Must a person steal, cheat and wrong all the time?" "Then you do good, also?" "When I have the time. Besides, I find it amusing. Now, for instance, in our last adventure, I found it extremely diverting that I should be the good genius seeking to help and save unfortunate mortals, while you were the evil genius who dispensed only despair and tears." "Tears! Tears!" protested Sholmes. "Certainly! The d'Imblevalle household is demolished, and Alice Demun weeps." "She could not remain any longer. Ganimard would have discovered her some day, and, through her, reached Madame d'Imblevalle." "Quite right, monsieur; but whose fault is it?" Two men passed by. Sholmes said to Lupin, in a friendly tone: "Do you know those gentlemen?" "I thought I recognized one of them as the captain of the steamer." "And the other?" "I don't know." "It is Austin Gilett, who occupies in London a position similar to that of Monsieur Dudouis in Paris." "Ah! how fortunate! Will you be so kind as to introduce me? Monsieur Dudouis is one of my best friends, and I shall be delighted to say as much of Monsieur Austin Gilett." The two gentlemen passed again. "And if I should take you at your word, Monsieur Lupin?" said Sholmes, rising, and seizing Lupin's wrist with a hand of iron. "Why do you grasp me so tightly, monsieur? I am quite willing to follow you." In fact, he allowed himself to be dragged along without the least resistance. The two gentlemen were disappearing from sight. Sholmes quickened his pace. His finger-nails even sank into Lupin's flesh. "Come! Come!" he exclaimed, with a sort of feverish haste, in harmony with his action. "Come! quicker than that." But he stopped suddenly. Alice Demun was following them. "What are you doing, Mademoiselle? You need not come. You must not come!" It was Lupin who replied: "You will notice, monsieur, that she is not coming of her own free will. I am holding her wrist in the same tight grasp that you have on mine." "Why!" "Because I wish to present her also. Her part in the affair of the Jewish lamp is much more important than mine. Accomplice of Arsène Lupin, accomplice of Bresson, she has a right to tell her adventure with the Baroness d'Imblevalle--which will deeply interest Monsieur Gilett as an officer of the law. And by introducing her also, you will have carried your gracious intervention to the very limit, my dear Sholmes." The Englishman released his hold on his prisoner's wrist. Lupin liberated Mademoiselle. They stood looking at each other for a few seconds, silently and motionless. Then Sholmes returned to the bench and sat down, followed by Lupin and the girl. After a long silence, Lupin said: "You see, monsieur, whatever we may do, we will never be on the same side. You are on one side of the fence; I am on the other. We can exchange greetings, shake hands, converse a moment, but the fence is always there. You will remain Herlock Sholmes, detective, and I, Arsène Lupin, gentleman-burglar. And Herlock Sholmes will ever obey, more or less spontaneously, with more or less propriety, his instinct as a detective, which is to pursue the burglar and run him down, if possible. And Arsène Lupin, in obedience to his burglarious instinct, will always be occupied in avoiding the reach of the detective, and making sport of the detective, if he can do it. And, this time, he can do it. Ha-ha-ha!" He burst into a loud laugh, cunning, cruel and odious. Then, suddenly becoming serious, he addressed Alice Demun: "You may be sure, mademoiselle, even when reduced to the last extremity, I shall not betray you. Arsène Lupin never betrays anyone--especially those whom he loves and admires. And, may I be permitted to say, I love and admire the brave, dear woman you have proved yourself to be." He took from his pocket a visiting card, tore it in two, gave one-half of it to the girl, as he said, in a voice shaken with emotion: "If Monsieur Sholmes' plans for you do not succeed, mademoiselle, go to Lady Strongborough--you can easily find her address--and give her that half of the card, and, at the same time, say to her: _Faithful friend_. Lady Strongborough will show you the true devotion of a sister." "Thank you," said the girl; "I shall see her to-morrow." "And now, Monsieur Sholmes," exclaimed Lupin, with the satisfied air of a gentleman who has fulfilled his duty, "I will say good-night. We will not land for an hour yet, so I will get that much rest." He lay down on the bench, with his hands beneath his head. In a short time the high cliffs of the English coast loomed up in the increasing light of a new-born day. The passengers emerged from the cabins and crowded the deck, eagerly gazing on the approaching shore. Austin Gilette passed by, accompanied by two men whom Sholmes recognized as sleuths from Scotland Yard. Lupin was asleep, on his bench. THE END. _The further startling, wonderful and thrilling adventures of "Arsène Lupin" will be found in the book entitled "Arsène Lupin Gentleman-Burglar"._ 
7896	----	[Illustration: The girl gasped as Renine (Arsene Lupin) drew forth the mysterious telescope.] THE EIGHT STROKES OF THE CLOCK BY MAURICE LE BLANC AUTHOR'S NOTE These adventures were told to me in the old days by Arsène Lupin, as though they had happened to a friend of his, named Prince Rénine. As for me, considering the way in which they were conducted, the actions, the behaviour and the very character of the hero, I find it very difficult not to identify the two friends as one and the same person. Arsène Lupin is gifted with a powerful imagination and is quite capable of attributing to himself adventures which are not his at all and of disowning those which are really his. The reader will judge for himself. M. L. CONTENTS I ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER II THE WATER BOTTLE III THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS IV THE TELL-TALE FILM V THÉRÈSE AND GERMAINE VI THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET VII FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW VIII AT THE SIGN OF MERCURY I ON THE TOP OF THE TOWER Hortense Daniel pushed her window ajar and whispered: "Are you there, Rossigny?" "I am here," replied a voice from the shrubbery at the front of the house. Leaning forward, she saw a rather fat man looking up at her out of a gross red face with its cheeks and chin set in unpleasantly fair whiskers. "Well?" he asked. "Well, I had a great argument with my uncle and aunt last night. They absolutely refuse to sign the document of which my lawyer sent them the draft, or to restore the dowry squandered by my husband." "But your uncle is responsible by the terms of the marriage-settlement." "No matter. He refuses." "Well, what do you propose to do?" "Are you still determined to run away with me?" she asked, with a laugh. "More so than ever." "Your intentions are strictly honourable, remember!" "Just as you please. You know that I am madly in love with you." "Unfortunately I am not madly in love with you!" "Then what made you choose me?" "Chance. I was bored. I was growing tired of my humdrum existence. So I'm ready to run risks.... Here's my luggage: catch!" She let down from the window a couple of large leather kit-bags. Rossigny caught them in his arms. "The die is cast," she whispered. "Go and wait for me with your car at the If cross-roads. I shall come on horseback." "Hang it, I can't run off with your horse!" "He will go home by himself." "Capital!... Oh, by the way...." "What is it?" "Who is this Prince Rénine, who's been here the last three days and whom nobody seems to know?" "I don't know much about him. My uncle met him at a friend's shoot and asked him here to stay." "You seem to have made a great impression on him. You went for a long ride with him yesterday. He's a man I don't care for." "In two hours I shall have left the house in your company. The scandal will cool him off.... Well, we've talked long enough. We have no time to lose." For a few minutes she stood watching the fat man bending under the weight of her traps as he moved away in the shelter of an empty avenue. Then she closed the window. Outside, in the park, the huntsmen's horns were sounding the reveille. The hounds burst into frantic baying. It was the opening day of the hunt that morning at the Château de la Marèze, where, every year, in the first week in September, the Comte d'Aigleroche, a mighty hunter before the Lord, and his countess were accustomed to invite a few personal friends and the neighbouring landowners. Hortense slowly finished dressing, put on a riding-habit, which revealed the lines of her supple figure, and a wide-brimmed felt hat, which encircled her lovely face and auburn hair, and sat down to her writing-desk, at which she wrote to her uncle, M. d'Aigleroche, a farewell letter to be delivered to him that evening. It was a difficult letter to word; and, after beginning it several times, she ended by giving up the idea. "I will write to him later," she said to herself, "when his anger has cooled down." And she went downstairs to the dining-room. Enormous logs were blazing in the hearth of the lofty room. The walls were hung with trophies of rifles and shotguns. The guests were flocking in from every side, shaking hands with the Comte d'Aigleroche, one of those typical country squires, heavily and powerfully built, who lives only for hunting and shooting. He was standing before the fire, with a large glass of old brandy in his hand, drinking the health of each new arrival. Hortense kissed him absently: "What, uncle! You who are usually so sober!" "Pooh!" he said. "A man may surely indulge himself a little once a year!..." "Aunt will give you a scolding!" "Your aunt has one of her sick headaches and is not coming down. Besides," he added, gruffly, "it is not her business ... and still less is it yours, my dear child." Prince Rénine came up to Hortense. He was a young man, very smartly dressed, with a narrow and rather pale face, whose eyes held by turns the gentlest and the harshest, the most friendly and the most satirical expression. He bowed to her, kissed her hand and said: "May I remind you of your kind promise, dear madame?" "My promise?" "Yes, we agreed that we should repeat our delightful excursion of yesterday and try to go over that old boarded-up place the look of which made us so curious. It seems to be known as the Domaine de Halingre." She answered a little curtly: "I'm extremely sorry, monsieur, but it would be rather far and I'm feeling a little done up. I shall go for a canter in the park and come indoors again." There was a pause. Then Serge Rénine said, smiling, with his eyes fixed on hers and in a voice which she alone could hear: "I am sure that you'll keep your promise and that you'll let me come with you. It would be better." "For whom? For you, you mean?" "For you, too, I assure you." She coloured slightly, but did not reply, shook hands with a few people around her and left the room. A groom was holding the horse at the foot of the steps. She mounted and set off towards the woods beyond the park. It was a cool, still morning. Through the leaves, which barely quivered, the sky showed crystalline blue. Hortense rode at a walk down winding avenues which in half an hour brought her to a country-side of ravines and bluffs intersected by the high-road. She stopped. There was not a sound. Rossigny must have stopped his engine and concealed the car in the thickets around the If cross-roads. She was five hundred yards at most from that circular space. After hesitating for a few seconds, she dismounted, tied her horse carelessly, so that he could release himself by the least effort and return to the house, shrouded her face in the long brown veil that hung over her shoulders and walked on. As she expected, she saw Rossigny directly she reached the first turn in the road. He ran up to her and drew her into the coppice! "Quick, quick! Oh, I was so afraid that you would be late ... or even change your mind! And here you are! It seems too good to be true!" She smiled: "You appear to be quite happy to do an idiotic thing!" "I should think I _am_ happy! And so will you be, I swear you will! Your life will be one long fairy-tale. You shall have every luxury, and all the money you can wish for." "I want neither money nor luxuries." "What then?" "Happiness." "You can safely leave your happiness to me." She replied, jestingly: "I rather doubt the quality of the happiness which you would give me." "Wait! You'll see! You'll see!" They had reached the motor. Rossigny, still stammering expressions of delight, started the engine. Hortense stepped in and wrapped herself in a wide cloak. The car followed the narrow, grassy path which led back to the cross-roads and Rossigny was accelerating the speed, when he was suddenly forced to pull up. A shot had rung out from the neighbouring wood, on the right. The car was swerving from side to side. "A front tire burst," shouted Rossigny, leaping to the ground. "Not a bit of it!" cried Hortense. "Somebody fired!" "Impossible, my dear! Don't be so absurd!" At that moment, two slight shocks were felt and two more reports were heard, one after the other, some way off and still in the wood. Rossigny snarled: "The back tires burst now ... both of them.... But who, in the devil's name, can the ruffian be?... Just let me get hold of him, that's all!..." He clambered up the road-side slope. There was no one there. Moreover, the leaves of the coppice blocked the view. "Damn it! Damn it!" he swore. "You were right: somebody was firing at the car! Oh, this is a bit thick! We shall be held up for hours! Three tires to mend!... But what are you doing, dear girl?" Hortense herself had alighted from the car. She ran to him, greatly excited: "I'm going." "But why?" "I want to know. Some one fired. I want to know who it was." "Don't let us separate, please!" "Do you think I'm going to wait here for you for hours?" "What about your running away?... All our plans ...?" "We'll discuss that to-morrow. Go back to the house. Take back my things with you.... And good-bye for the present." She hurried, left him, had the good luck to find her horse and set off at a gallop in a direction leading away from La Marèze. There was not the least doubt in her mind that the three shots had been fired by Prince Rénine. "It was he," she muttered, angrily, "it was he. No one else would be capable of such behaviour." Besides, he had warned her, in his smiling, masterful way, that he would expect her. She was weeping with rage and humiliation. At that moment, had she found herself face to face with Prince Rénine, she could have struck him with her riding-whip. Before her was the rugged and picturesque stretch of country which lies between the Orne and the Sarthe, above Alençon, and which is known as Little Switzerland. Steep hills compelled her frequently to moderate her pace, the more so as she had to cover some six miles before reaching her destination. But, though the speed at which she rode became less headlong, though her physical effort gradually slackened, she nevertheless persisted in her indignation against Prince Rénine. She bore him a grudge not only for the unspeakable action of which he had been guilty, but also for his behaviour to her during the last three days, his persistent attentions, his assurance, his air of excessive politeness. She was nearly there. In the bottom of a valley, an old park-wall, full of cracks and covered with moss and weeds, revealed the ball-turret of a château and a few windows with closed shutters. This was the Domaine de Halingre. She followed the wall and turned a corner. In the middle of the crescent-shaped space before which lay the entrance-gates, Serge Rénine stood waiting beside his horse. She sprang to the ground, and, as he stepped forward, hat in hand, thanking her for coming, she cried: "One word, monsieur, to begin with. Something quite inexplicable happened just now. Three shots were fired at a motor-car in which I was sitting. Did you fire those shots?" "Yes." She seemed dumbfounded: "Then you confess it?" "You have asked a question, madame, and I have answered it." "But how dared you? What gave you the right?" "I was not exercising a right, madame; I was performing a duty!" "Indeed! And what duty, pray?" "The duty of protecting you against a man who is trying to profit by your troubles." "I forbid you to speak like that. I am responsible for my own actions, and I decided upon them in perfect liberty." "Madame, I overheard your conversation with M. Rossigny this morning and it did not appear to me that you were accompanying him with a light heart. I admit the ruthlessness and bad taste of my interference and I apologise for it humbly; but I risked being taken for a ruffian in order to give you a few hours for reflection." "I have reflected fully, monsieur. When I have once made up my mind to a thing, I do not change it." "Yes, madame, you do, sometimes. If not, why are you here instead of there?" Hortense was confused for a moment. All her anger had subsided. She looked at Rénine with the surprise which one experiences when confronted with certain persons who are unlike their fellows, more capable of performing unusual actions, more generous and disinterested. She realised perfectly that he was acting without any ulterior motive or calculation, that he was, as he had said, merely fulfilling his duty as a gentleman to a woman who has taken the wrong turning. Speaking very gently, he said: "I know very little about you, madame, but enough to make me wish to be of use to you. You are twenty-six years old and have lost both your parents. Seven years ago, you became the wife of the Comte d'Aigleroche's nephew by marriage, who proved to be of unsound mind, half insane indeed, and had to be confined. This made it impossible for you to obtain a divorce and compelled you, since your dowry had been squandered, to live with your uncle and at his expense. It's a depressing environment. The count and countess do not agree. Years ago, the count was deserted by his first wife, who ran away with the countess' first husband. The abandoned husband and wife decided out of spite to unite their fortunes, but found nothing but disappointment and ill-will in this second marriage. And you suffer the consequences. They lead a monotonous, narrow, lonely life for eleven months or more out of the year. One day, you met M. Rossigny, who fell in love with you and suggested an elopement. You did not care for him. But you were bored, your youth was being wasted, you longed for the unexpected, for adventure ... in a word, you accepted with the very definite intention of keeping your admirer at arm's length, but also with the rather ingenuous hope that the scandal would force your uncle's hand and make him account for his trusteeship and assure you of an independent existence. That is how you stand. At present you have to choose between placing yourself in M. Rossigny's hands ... or trusting yourself to me." She raised her eyes to his. What did he mean? What was the purport of this offer which he made so seriously, like a friend who asks nothing but to prove his devotion? After a moment's silence, he took the two horses by the bridle and tied them up. Then he examined the heavy gates, each of which was strengthened by two planks nailed cross-wise. An electoral poster, dated twenty years earlier, showed that no one had entered the domain since that time. Rénine tore up one of the iron posts which supported a railing that ran round the crescent and used it as a lever. The rotten planks gave way. One of them uncovered the lock, which he attacked with a big knife, containing a number of blades and implements. A minute later, the gate opened on a waste of bracken which led up to a long, dilapidated building, with a turret at each corner and a sort of a belvedere, built on a taller tower, in the middle. The Prince turned to Hortense: "You are in no hurry," he said. "You will form your decision this evening; and, if M. Rossigny succeeds in persuading you for the second time, I give you my word of honour that I shall not cross your path. Until then, grant me the privilege of your company. We made up our minds yesterday to inspect the château. Let us do so. Will you? It is as good a way as any of passing the time and I have a notion that it will not be uninteresting." He had a way of talking which compelled obedience. He seemed to be commanding and entreating at the same time. Hortense did not even seek to shake off the enervation into which her will was slowly sinking. She followed him to a half-demolished flight of steps at the top of which was a door likewise strengthened by planks nailed in the form of a cross. Rénine went to work in the same way as before. They entered a spacious hall paved with white and black flagstones, furnished with old sideboards and choir-stalls and adorned with a carved escutcheon which displayed the remains of armorial bearings, representing an eagle standing on a block of stone, all half-hidden behind a veil of cobwebs which hung down over a pair of folding-doors. "The door of the drawing-room, evidently," said Rénine. He found this more difficult to open; and it was only by repeatedly charging it with his shoulder that he was able to move one of the doors. Hortense had not spoken a word. She watched not without surprise this series of forcible entries, which were accomplished with a really masterly skill. He guessed her thoughts and, turning round, said in a serious voice: "It's child's-play to me. I was a locksmith once." She seized his arm and whispered: "Listen!" "To what?" he asked. She increased the pressure of her hand, to demand silence. The next moment, he murmured: "It's really very strange." "Listen, listen!" Hortense repeated, in bewilderment. "Can it be possible?" They heard, not far from where they were standing, a sharp sound, the sound of a light tap recurring at regular intervals; and they had only to listen attentively to recognise the ticking of a clock. Yes, it was this and nothing else that broke the profound silence of the dark room; it was indeed the deliberate ticking, rhythmical as the beat of a metronome, produced by a heavy brass pendulum. That was it! And nothing could be more impressive than the measured pulsation of this trivial mechanism, which by some miracle, some inexplicable phenomenon, had continued to live in the heart of the dead château. "And yet," stammered Hortense, without daring to raise her voice, "no one has entered the house?" "No one." "And it is quite impossible for that clock to have kept going for twenty years without being wound up?" "Quite impossible." "Then ...?" Serge Rénine opened the three windows and threw back the shutters. He and Hortense were in a drawing-room, as he had thought; and the room showed not the least sign of disorder. The chairs were in their places. Not a piece of furniture was missing. The people who had lived there and who had made it the most individual room in their house had gone away leaving everything just as it was, the books which they used to read, the knick-knacks on the tables and consoles. Rénine examined the old grandfather's clock, contained in its tall carved case which showed the disk of the pendulum through an oval pane of glass. He opened the door of the clock. The weights hanging from the cords were at their lowest point. At that moment there was a click. The clock struck eight with a serious note which Hortense was never to forget. "How extraordinary!" she said. "Extraordinary indeed," said he, "for the works are exceedingly simple and would hardly keep going for a week." "And do you see nothing out of the common?" "No, nothing ... or, at least...." He stooped and, from the back of the case, drew a metal tube which was concealed by the weights. Holding it up to the light: "A telescope," he said, thoughtfully. "Why did they hide it?... And they left it drawn out to its full length.... That's odd.... What does it mean?" The clock, as is sometimes usual, began to strike a second time, sounding eight strokes. Rénine closed the case and continued his inspection without putting his telescope down. A wide arch led from the drawing-room to a smaller apartment, a sort of smoking-room. This also was furnished, but contained a glass case for guns of which the rack was empty. Hanging on a panel near by was a calendar with the date of the 5th of September. "Oh," cried Hortense, in astonishment, "the same date as to-day!... They tore off the leaves until the 5th of September.... And this is the anniversary! What an astonishing coincidence!" "Astonishing," he echoed. "It's the anniversary of their departure ... twenty years ago to-day." "You must admit," she said, "that all this is incomprehensible. "Yes, of course ... but, all the same ... perhaps not." "Have you any idea?" He waited a few seconds before replying: "What puzzles me is this telescope hidden, dropped in that corner, at the last moment. I wonder what it was used for.... From the ground-floor windows you see nothing but the trees in the garden ... and the same, I expect, from all the windows.... We are in a valley, without the least open horizon.... To use the telescope, one would have to go up to the top of the house.... Shall we go up?" She did not hesitate. The mystery surrounding the whole adventure excited her curiosity so keenly that she could think of nothing but accompanying Rénine and assisting him in his investigations. They went upstairs accordingly, and, on the second floor, came to a landing where they found the spiral staircase leading to the belvedere. At the top of this was a platform in the open air, but surrounded by a parapet over six feet high. "There must have been battlements which have been filled in since," observed Prince Rénine. "Look here, there were loop-holes at one time. They may have been blocked." "In any case," she said, "the telescope was of no use up here either and we may as well go down again." "I don't agree," he said. "Logic tells us that there must have been some gap through which the country could be seen and this was the spot where the telescope was used." He hoisted himself by his wrists to the top of the parapet and then saw that this point of vantage commanded the whole of the valley, including the park, with its tall trees marking the horizon; and, beyond, a depression in a wood surmounting a hill, at a distance of some seven or eight hundred yards, stood another tower, squat and in ruins, covered with ivy from top to bottom. Rénine resumed his inspection. He seemed to consider that the key to the problem lay in the use to which the telescope was put and that the problem would be solved if only they could discover this use. He studied the loop-holes one after the other. One of them, or rather the place which it had occupied, attracted his attention above the rest. In the middle of the layer of plaster, which had served to block it, there was a hollow filled with earth in which plants had grown. He pulled out the plants and removed the earth, thus clearing the mouth of a hole some five inches in diameter, which completely penetrated the wall. On bending forward, Rénine perceived that this deep and narrow opening inevitably carried the eye, above the dense tops of the trees and through the depression in the hill, to the ivy-clad tower. At the bottom of this channel, in a sort of groove which ran through it like a gutter, the telescope fitted so exactly that it was quite impossible to shift it, however little, either to the right or to the left. Rénine, after wiping the outside of the lenses, while taking care not to disturb the lie of the instrument by a hair's breadth, put his eye to the small end. He remained for thirty or forty seconds, gazing attentively and silently. Then he drew himself up and said, in a husky voice: "It's terrible ... it's really terrible." "What is?" she asked, anxiously. "Look." She bent down but the image was not clear to her and the telescope had to be focussed to suit her sight. The next moment she shuddered and said: "It's two scarecrows, isn't it, both stuck up on the top? But why?" "Look again," he said. "Look more carefully under the hats ... the faces...." "Oh!" she cried, turning faint with horror, "how awful!" The field of the telescope, like the circular picture shown by a magic lantern, presented this spectacle: the platform of a broken tower, the walls of which were higher in the more distant part and formed as it were a back-drop, over which surged waves of ivy. In front, amid a cluster of bushes, were two human beings, a man and a woman, leaning back against a heap of fallen stones. But the words man and woman could hardly be applied to these two forms, these two sinister puppets, which, it is true, wore clothes and hats--or rather shreds of clothes and remnants of hats--but had lost their eyes, their cheeks, their chins, every particle of flesh, until they were actually and positively nothing more than two skeletons. "Two skeletons," stammered Hortense. "Two skeletons with clothes on. Who carried them up there?" "Nobody." "But still...." "That man and that woman must have died at the top of the tower, years and years ago ... and their flesh rotted under their clothes and the ravens ate them." "But it's hideous, hideous!" cried Hortense, pale as death, her face drawn with horror. * * * * * Half an hour later, Hortense Daniel and Rénine left the Château de Halingre. Before their departure, they had gone as far as the ivy-grown tower, the remains of an old donjon-keep more than half demolished. The inside was empty. There seemed to have been a way of climbing to the top, at a comparatively recent period, by means of wooden stairs and ladders which now lay broken and scattered over the ground. The tower backed against the wall which marked the end of the park. A curious fact, which surprised Hortense, was that Prince Rénine had neglected to pursue a more minute enquiry, as though the matter had lost all interest for him. He did not even speak of it any longer; and, in the inn at which they stopped and took a light meal in the nearest village, it was she who asked the landlord about the abandoned château. But she learnt nothing from him, for the man was new to the district and could give her no particulars. He did not even know the name of the owner. They turned their horses' heads towards La Marèze. Again and again Hortense recalled the squalid sight which had met their eyes. But Rénine, who was in a lively mood and full of attentions to his companion, seemed utterly indifferent to those questions. "But, after all," she exclaimed, impatiently, "we can't leave the matter there! It calls for a solution." "As you say," he replied, "a solution is called for. M. Rossigny has to know where he stands and you have to decide what to do about him." She shrugged her shoulders: "He's of no importance for the moment. The thing to-day...." "Is what?" "Is to know what those two dead bodies are." "Still, Rossigny...." "Rossigny can wait. But I can't. You have shown me a mystery which is now the only thing that matters. What do you intend to do?" "To do?" "Yes. There are two bodies.... You'll inform the police, I suppose." "Gracious goodness!" he exclaimed, laughing. "What for?" "Well, there's a riddle that has to be cleared up at all costs, a terrible tragedy." "We don't need any one to do that." "What! Do you mean to say that you understand it?" "Almost as plainly as though I had read it in a book, told in full detail, with explanatory illustrations. It's all so simple!" She looked at him askance, wondering if he was making fun of her. But he seemed quite serious. "Well?" she asked, quivering with curiosity. The light was beginning to wane. They had trotted at a good pace; and the hunt was returning as they neared La Marèze. "Well," he said, "we shall get the rest of our information from people living round about ... from your uncle, for instance; and you will see how logically all the facts fit in. When you hold the first link of a chain, you are bound, whether you like it or not, to reach the last. It's the greatest fun in the world." Once in the house, they separated. On going to her room, Hortense found her luggage and a furious letter from Rossigny in which he bade her good-bye and announced his departure. Then Rénine knocked at her door: "Your uncle is in the library," he said. "Will you go down with me? I've sent word that I am coming." She went with him. He added: "One word more. This morning, when I thwarted your plans and begged you to trust me, I naturally undertook an obligation towards you which I mean to fulfill without delay. I want to give you a positive proof of this." She laughed: "The only obligation which you took upon yourself was to satisfy my curiosity." "It shall be satisfied," he assured her, gravely, "and more fully than you can possibly imagine." M. d'Aigleroche was alone. He was smoking his pipe and drinking sherry. He offered a glass to Rénine, who refused. "Well, Hortense!" he said, in a rather thick voice. "You know that it's pretty dull here, except in these September days. You must make the most of them. Have you had a pleasant ride with Rénine?" "That's just what I wanted to talk about, my dear sir," interrupted the prince. "You must excuse me, but I have to go to the station in ten minutes, to meet a friend of my wife's." "Oh, ten minutes will be ample!" "Just the time to smoke a cigarette?" "No longer." He took a cigarette from the case which M. d'Aigleroche handed to him, lit it and said: "I must tell you that our ride happened to take us to an old domain which you are sure to know, the Domaine de Halingre." "Certainly I know it. But it has been closed, boarded up for twenty-five years or so. You weren't able to get in, I suppose?" "Yes, we were." "Really? Was it interesting?" "Extremely. We discovered the strangest things." "What things?" asked the count, looking at his watch. Rénine described what they had seen: "On a tower some way from the house there were two dead bodies, two skeletons rather ... a man and a woman still wearing the clothes which they had on when they were murdered." "Come, come, now! Murdered?" "Yes; and that is what we have come to trouble you about. The tragedy must date back to some twenty years ago. Was nothing known of it at the time?" "Certainly not," declared the count. "I never heard of any such crime or disappearance." "Oh, really!" said Rénine, looking a little disappointed. "I hoped to obtain a few particulars." "I'm sorry." "In that case, I apologise." He consulted Hortense with a glance and moved towards the door. But on second thought: "Could you not at least, my dear sir, bring me into touch with some persons in the neighbourhood, some members of your family, who might know more about it?" "Of my family? And why?" "Because the Domaine de Halingre used to belong and no doubt still belongs to the d'Aigleroches. The arms are an eagle on a heap of stones, on a rock. This at once suggested the connection." This time the count appeared surprised. He pushed back his decanter and his glass of sherry and said: "What's this you're telling me? I had no idea that we had any such neighbours." Rénine shook his head and smiled: "I should be more inclined to believe, sir, that you were not very eager to admit any relationship between yourself ... and the unknown owner of the property." "Then he's not a respectable man?" "The man, to put it plainly, is a murderer." "What do you mean?" The count had risen from his chair. Hortense, greatly excited, said: "Are you really sure that there has been a murder and that the murder was done by some one belonging to the house?" "Quite sure." "But why are you so certain?" "Because I know who the two victims were and what caused them to be killed." Prince Rénine was making none but positive statements and his method suggested the belief that he supported by the strongest proofs. M. d'Aigleroche strode up and down the room, with his hands behind his back. He ended by saying: "I always had an instinctive feeling that something had happened, but I never tried to find out.... Now, as a matter of fact, twenty years ago, a relation of mine, a distant cousin, used to live at the Domaine de Halingre. I hoped, because of the name I bear, that this story, which, as I say, I never knew but suspected, would remain hidden for ever." "So this cousin killed somebody?" "Yes, he was obliged to." Rénine shook his head: "I am sorry to have to amend that phrase, my dear sir. The truth, on the contrary, is that your cousin took his victims' lives in cold blood and in a cowardly manner. I never heard of a crime more deliberately and craftily planned." "What is it that you know?" The moment had come for Rénine to explain himself, a solemn and anguish-stricken moment, the full gravity of which Hortense understood, though she had not yet divined any part of the tragedy which the prince unfolded step by step." "It's a very simple story," he said. "There is every reason to believe that M. d'Aigleroche was married and that there was another couple living in the neighbourhood with whom the owner of the Domaine de Halingre were on friendly terms. What happened one day, which of these four persons first disturbed the relations between the two households, I am unable to say. But a likely version, which at once occurs to the mind, is that your cousin's wife, Madame d'Aigleroche, was in the habit of meeting the other husband in the ivy-covered tower, which had a door opening outside the estate. On discovering the intrigue, your cousin d'Aigleroche resolved to be revenged, but in such a manner that there should be no scandal and that no one even should ever know that the guilty pair had been killed. Now he had ascertained--as I did just now--that there was a part of the house, the belvedere, from which you can see, over the trees and the undulations of the park, the tower standing eight hundred yards away, and that this was the only place that overlooked the top of the tower. He therefore pierced a hole in the parapet, through one of the former loopholes, and from there, by using a telescope which fitted exactly in the grove which he had hollowed out, he watched the meetings of the two lovers. And it was from there, also, that, after carefully taking all his measurements, and calculating all his distances, on a Sunday, the 5th of September, when the house was empty, he killed them with two shots." The truth was becoming apparent. The light of day was breaking. The count muttered: "Yes, that's what must have happened. I expect that my cousin d'Aigleroche...." "The murderer," Rénine continued, "stopped up the loophole neatly with a clod of earth. No one would ever know that two dead bodies were decaying on the top of that tower which was never visited and of which he took the precaution to demolish the wooden stairs. Nothing therefore remained for him to do but to explain the disappearance of his wife and his friend. This presented no difficulty. He accused them of having eloped together." Hortense gave a start. Suddenly, as though the last sentence were a complete and to her an absolutely unexpected revelation, she understood what Rénine was trying to convey: "What do you mean?" she asked. "I mean that M. d'Aigleroche accused his wife and his friend of eloping together." "No, no!" she cried. "I can't allow that!... You are speaking of a cousin of my uncle's? Why mix up the two stories?" "Why mix up this story with another which took place at that time?" said the prince. "But I am not mixing them up, my dear madame; there is only one story and I am telling it as it happened." Hortense turned to her uncle. He sat silent, with his arms folded; and his head remained in the shadow cast by the lamp-shade. Why had he not protested? Rénine repeated in a firm tone: "There is only one story. On the evening of that very day, the 5th of September at eight o'clock, M. d'Aigleroche, doubtless alleging as his reason that he was going in pursuit of the runaway couple, left his house after boarding up the entrance. He went away, leaving all the rooms as they were and removing only the firearms from their glass case. At the last minute, he had a presentiment, which has been justified to-day, that the discovery of the telescope which had played so great a part in the preparation of his crime might serve as a clue to an enquiry; and he threw it into the clock-case, where, as luck would have it, it interrupted the swing of the pendulum. This unreflecting action, one of those which every criminal inevitably commits, was to betray him twenty years later. Just now, the blows which I struck to force the door of the drawing-room released the pendulum. The clock was set going, struck eight o'clock ... and I possessed the clue of thread which was to lead me through the labyrinth." "Proofs!" stammered Hortense. "Proofs!" "Proofs?" replied Rénine, in a loud voice. "Why, there are any number of proofs; and you know them as well as I do. Who could have killed at that distance of eight hundred yards, except an expert shot, an ardent sportsman? You agree, M. d'Aigleroche, do you not?... Proofs? Why was nothing removed from the house, nothing except the guns, those guns which an ardent sportsman cannot afford to leave behind--you agree, M. d'Aigleroche--those guns which we find here, hanging in trophies on the walls!... Proofs? What about that date, the 5th of September, which was the date of the crime and which has left such a horrible memory in the criminal's mind that every year at this time--at this time alone--he surrounds himself with distractions and that every year, on this same 5th of September, he forgets his habits of temperance? Well, to-day, is the 5th of September.... Proofs? Why, if there weren't any others, would that not be enough for you?" And Rénine, flinging out his arm, pointed to the Comte d'Aigleroche, who, terrified by this evocation of the past, had sunk huddled into a chair and was hiding his head in his hands. Hortense did not attempt to argue with him. She had never liked her uncle, or rather her husband's uncle. She now accepted the accusation laid against him. Sixty seconds passed. Then M. d'Aigleroche walked up to them and said: "Whether the story be true or not, you can't call a husband a criminal for avenging his honour and killing his faithless wife." "No," replied Rénine, "but I have told only the first version of the story. There is another which is infinitely more serious ... and more probable, one to which a more thorough investigation would be sure to lead." "What do you mean?" "I mean this. It may not be a matter of a husband taking the law into his own hands, as I charitably supposed. It may be a matter of a ruined man who covets his friend's money and his friend's wife and who, with this object in view, to secure his freedom, to get rid of his friend and of his own wife, draws them into a trap, suggests to them that they should visit that lonely tower and kills them by shooting them from a distance safely under cover." "No, no," the count protested. "No, all that is untrue." "I don't say it isn't. I am basing my accusation on proofs, but also on intuitions and arguments which up to now have been extremely accurate. All the same, I admit that the second version may be incorrect. But, if so, why feel any remorse? One does not feel remorse for punishing guilty people." "One does for taking life. It is a crushing burden to bear." "Was it to give himself greater strength to bear this burden that M. d'Aigleroche afterwards married his victim's widow? For that, sir, is the crux of the question. What was the motive of that marriage? Was M. d'Aigleroche penniless? Was the woman he was taking as his second wife rich? Or were they both in love with each other and did M. d'Aigleroche plan with her to kill his first wife and the husband of his second wife? These are problems to which I do not know the answer. They have no interest for the moment; but the police, with all the means at their disposal, would have no great difficulty in elucidating them." M. d'Aigleroche staggered and had to steady himself against the back of a chair. Livid in the face, he spluttered: "Are you going to inform the police?" "No, no," said Rénine. "To begin with, there is the statute of limitations. Then there are twenty years of remorse and dread, a memory which will pursue the criminal to his dying hour, accompanied no doubt by domestic discord, hatred, a daily hell ... and, in the end, the necessity of returning to the tower and removing the traces of the two murders, the frightful punishment of climbing that tower, of touching those skeletons, of undressing them and burying them. That will be enough. We will not ask for more. We will not give it to the public to batten on and create a scandal which would recoil upon M. d'Aigleroche's niece. No, let us leave this disgraceful business alone." The count resumed his seat at the table, with his hands clutching his forehead, and asked: "Then why ...?" "Why do I interfere?" said Rénine. "What you mean is that I must have had some object in speaking. That is so. There must indeed be a penalty, however slight, and our interview must lead to some practical result. But have no fear: M. d'Aigleroche will be let off lightly." The contest was ended. The count felt that he had only a small formality to fulfil, a sacrifice to accept; and, recovering some of his self-assurance, he said, in an almost sarcastic tone: "What's your price?" Rénine burst out laughing: "Splendid! You see the position. Only, you make a mistake in drawing me into the business. I'm working for the glory of the thing." "In that case?" "You will be called upon at most to make restitution." "Restitution?" Rénine leant over the table and said: "In one of those drawers is a deed awaiting your signature. It is a draft agreement between you and your niece Hortense Daniel, relating to her private fortune, which fortune was squandered and for which you are responsible. Sign the deed." M. d'Aigleroche gave a start: "Do you know the amount?" "I don't wish to know it." "And if I refuse?..." "I shall ask to see the Comtesse d'Aigleroche." Without further hesitation, the count opened a drawer, produced a document on stamped paper and quickly signed it: "Here you are," he said, "and I hope...." "You hope, as I do, that you and I may never have any future dealings? I'm convinced of it. I shall leave this evening; your niece, no doubt, tomorrow. Good-bye." * * * * * In the drawing-room, which was still empty, while the guests at the house were dressing for dinner, Rénine handed the deed to Hortense. She seemed dazed by all that she had heard; and the thing that bewildered her even more than the relentless light shed upon her uncle's past was the miraculous insight and amazing lucidity displayed by this man: the man who for some hours had controlled events and conjured up before her eyes the actual scenes of a tragedy which no one had beheld. "Are you satisfied with me?" he asked. She gave him both her hands: "You have saved me from Rossigny. You have given me back my freedom and my independence. I thank you from the bottom of my heart." "Oh, that's not what I am asking you to say!" he answered. "My first and main object was to amuse you. Your life seemed so humdrum and lacking in the unexpected. Has it been so to-day?" "How can you ask such a question? I have had the strangest and most stirring experiences." "That is life," he said. "When one knows how to use one's eyes. Adventure exists everywhere, in the meanest hovel, under the mask of the wisest of men. Everywhere, if you are only willing, you will find an excuse for excitement, for doing good, for saving a victim, for ending an injustice." Impressed by his power and authority, she murmured: "Who are you exactly?" "An adventurer. Nothing more. A lover of adventures. Life is not worth living except in moments of adventure, the adventures of others or personal adventures. To-day's has upset you because it affected the innermost depths of your being. But those of others are no less stimulating. Would you like to make the experiment?" "How?" "Become the companion of my adventures. If any one calls on me for help, help him with me. If chance or instinct puts me on the track of a crime or the trace of a sorrow, let us both set out together. Do you consent?" "Yes," she said, "but...." She hesitated, as though trying to guess Rénine's secret intentions. "But," he said, expressing her thoughts for her, with a smile, "you are a trifle sceptical. What you are saying to yourself is, 'How far does that lover of adventures want to make me go? It is quite obvious that I attract him; and sooner or later he would not be sorry to receive payment for his services.' You are quite right. We must have a formal contract." "Very formal," said Hortense, preferring to give a jesting tone to the conversation. "Let me hear your proposals." He reflected for a moment and continued: "Well, we'll say this. The clock at Halingre gave eight strokes this afternoon, the day of the first adventure. Will you accept its decree and agree to carry out seven more of these delightful enterprises with me, during a period, for instance, of three months? And shall we say that, at the eighth, you will be pledged to grant me...." "What?" He deferred his answer: "Observe that you will always be at liberty to leave me on the road if I do not succeed in interesting you. But, if you accompany me to the end, if you allow me to begin and complete the eighth enterprise with you, in three months, on the 5th of December, at the very moment when the eighth stroke of that clock sounds--and it will sound, you may be sure of that, for the old brass pendulum will not stop swinging again--you will be pledged to grant me...." "What?" she repeated, a little unnerved by waiting. He was silent. He looked at the beautiful lips which he had meant to claim as his reward. He felt perfectly certain that Hortense had understood and he thought it unnecessary to speak more plainly: "The mere delight of seeing you will be enough to satisfy me. It is not for me but for you to impose conditions. Name them: what do you demand?" She was grateful for his respect and said, laughingly: "What do I demand?" "Yes." "Can I demand anything I like, however difficult and impossible?" "Everything is easy and everything is possible to the man who is bent on winning you." Then she said: "I demand that you shall restore to me a small, antique clasp, made of a cornelian set in a silver mount. It came to me from my mother and everyone knew that it used to bring her happiness and me too. Since the day when it vanished from my jewel-case, I have had nothing but unhappiness. Restore it to me, my good genius." "When was the clasp stolen?" She answered gaily: "Seven years ago ... or eight ... or nine; I don't know exactly ... I don't know where ... I don't know how ... I know nothing about it...." "I will find it," Rénine declared, "and you shall be happy." II THE WATER-BOTTLE Four days after she had settled down in Paris, Hortense Daniel agreed to meet Prince Rénine in the Bois. It was a glorious morning and they sat down on the terrace of the Restaurant Impérial, a little to one side. Hortense, feeling glad to be alive, was in a playful mood, full of attractive grace. Rénine, lest he should startle her, refrained from alluding to the compact into which they had entered at his suggestion. She told him how she had left La Marèze and said that she had not heard of Rossigny. "I have," said Rénine. "I've heard of him." "Oh?" "Yes, he sent me a challenge. We fought a duel this morning. Rossigny got a scratch in the shoulder. That finished the duel. Let's talk of something else." There was no further mention of Rossigny. Rénine at once expounded to Hortense the plan of two enterprises which he had in view and in which he offered, with no great enthusiasm, to let her share: "The finest adventure," he declared, "is that which we do not foresee. It comes unexpectedly, unannounced; and no one, save the initiated, realizes that an opportunity to act and to expend one's energies is close at hand. It has to be seized at once. A moment's hesitation may mean that we are too late. We are warned by a special sense, like that of a sleuth-hound which distinguishes the right scent from all the others that cross it." The terrace was beginning to fill up around them. At the next table sat a young man reading a newspaper. They were able to see his insignificant profile and his long, dark moustache. From behind them, through an open window of the restaurant, came the distant strains of a band; in one of the rooms a few couples were dancing. As Rénine was paying for the refreshments, the young man with the long moustache stifled a cry and, in a choking voice, called one of the waiters: "What do I owe you?... No change? Oh, good Lord, hurry up!" Rénine, without a moment's hesitation, had picked up the paper. After casting a swift glance down the page, he read, under his breath: "Maître Dourdens, the counsel for the defence in the trial of Jacques Aubrieux, has been received at the Élysée. We are informed that the President of the Republic has refused to reprieve the condemned man and that the execution will take place to-morrow morning." After crossing the terrace, the young man found himself faced, at the entrance to the garden, by a lady and gentleman who blocked his way; and the latter said: "Excuse me, sir, but I noticed your agitation. It's about Jacques Aubrieux, isn't it?" "Yes, yes, Jacques Aubrieux," the young man stammered. "Jacques, the friend of my childhood. I'm hurrying to see his wife. She must be beside herself with grief." "Can I offer you my assistance? I am Prince Rénine. This lady and I would be happy to call on Madame Aubrieux and to place our services at her disposal." The young man, upset by the news which he had read, seemed not to understand. He introduced himself awkwardly: "My name is Dutreuil, Gaston Dutreuil." Rénine beckoned to his chauffeur, who was waiting at some little distance, and pushed Gaston Dutreuil into the car, asking: "What address? Where does Madame Aubrieux live?" "23 _bis_, Avenue du Roule." After helping Hortense in, Rénine repeated the address to the chauffeur and, as soon as they drove off, tried to question Gaston Dutreuil: "I know very little of the case," he said. "Tell it to me as briefly as you can. Jacques Aubrieux killed one of his near relations, didn't he?" "He is innocent, sir," replied the young man, who seemed incapable of giving the least explanation. "Innocent, I swear it. I've been Jacques' friend for twenty years ... He is innocent ... and it would be monstrous...." There was nothing to be got out of him. Besides, it was only a short drive. They entered Neuilly through the Porte des Sablons and, two minutes later, stopped before a long, narrow passage between high walls which led them to a small, one-storeyed house. Gaston Dutreuil rang. "Madame is in the drawing-room, with her mother," said the maid who opened the door. "I'll go in to the ladies," he said, taking Rénine and Hortense with him. It was a fair-sized, prettily-furnished room, which, in ordinary times, must have been used also as a study. Two women sat weeping, one of whom, elderly and grey-haired, came up to Gaston Dutreuil. He explained the reason for Rénine's presence and she at once cried, amid her sobs: "My daughter's husband is innocent, sir. Jacques? A better man never lived. He was so good-hearted! Murder his cousin? But he worshipped his cousin! I swear that he's not guilty, sir! And they are going to commit the infamy of putting him to death? Oh, sir, it will kill my daughter!" Rénine realized that all these people had been living for months under the obsession of that innocence and in the certainty that an innocent man could never be executed. The news of the execution, which was now inevitable, was driving them mad. He went up to a poor creature bent in two whose face, a quite young face, framed in pretty, flaxen hair, was convulsed with desperate grief. Hortense, who had already taken a seat beside her, gently drew her head against her shoulder. Rénine said to her: "Madame, I do not know what I can do for you. But I give you my word of honour that, if any one in this world can be of use to you, it is myself. I therefore implore you to answer my questions as though the clear and definite wording of your replies were able to alter the aspect of things and as though you wished to make me share your opinion of Jacques Aubrieux. For he is innocent, is he not?" "Oh, sir, indeed he is!" she exclaimed; and the woman's whole soul was in the words. "You are certain of it. But you were unable to communicate your certainty to the court. Well, you must now compel me to share it. I am not asking you to go into details and to live again through the hideous torment which you have suffered, but merely to answer certain questions. Will you do this?" "I will." Rénine's influence over her was complete. With a few sentences Rénine had succeeded in subduing her and inspiring her with the will to obey. And once more Hortense realized all the man's power, authority and persuasion. "What was your husband?" he asked, after begging the mother and Gaston Dutreuil to preserve absolute silence. "An insurance-broker." "Lucky in business?" "Until last year, yes." "So there have been financial difficulties during the past few months?" "Yes." "And the murder was committed when?" "Last March, on a Sunday." "Who was the victim?" "A distant cousin, M. Guillaume, who lived at Suresnes." "What was the sum stolen?" "Sixty thousand-franc notes, which this cousin had received the day before, in payment of a long-outstanding debt." "Did your husband know that?" "Yes. His cousin told him of it on the Sunday, in the course of a conversation on the telephone, and Jacques insisted that his cousin ought not to keep so large a sum in the house and that he ought to pay it into a bank next day." "Was this in the morning?" "At one o'clock in the afternoon. Jacques was to have gone to M. Guillaume on his motor-cycle. But he felt tired and told him that he would not go out. So he remained here all day." "Alone?" "Yes. The two servants were out. I went to the Cinéma des Ternes with my mother and our friend Dutreuil. In the evening, we learnt that M. Guillaume had been murdered. Next morning, Jacques was arrested." "On what evidence?" The poor creature hesitated to reply: the evidence of guilt had evidently been overwhelming. Then, obeying a sign from Rénine, she answered without a pause: "The murderer went to Suresnes on a motorcycle and the tracks discovered were those of my husband's machine. They found a handkerchief with my husband's initials; and the revolver which was used belonged to him. Lastly, one of our neighbours maintains that he saw my husband go out on his bicycle at three o'clock and another that he saw him come in at half-past four. The murder was committed at four o'clock." "And what does Jacques Aubrieux say in his defence?" "He declares that he slept all the afternoon. During that time, some one came who managed to unlock the cycle-shed and take the motor-cycle to go to Suresnes. As for the handkerchief and the revolver, they were in the tool-bag. There would be nothing surprising in the murderer's using them." "It seems a plausible explanation." "Yes, but the prosecution raised two objections. In the first place, nobody, absolutely nobody, knew that my husband was going to stay at home all day, because, on the contrary, it was his habit to go out on his motor-cycle every Sunday afternoon." "And the second objection?" She flushed and murmured: "The murderer went to the pantry at M. Guillaume's and drank half a bottle of wine straight out of the bottle, which shows my husband's fingerprints." It seemed as though her strength was exhausted and as though, at the same time, the unconscious hope which Rénine's intervention had awakened in her had suddenly vanished before the accumulation of adverse facts. Again she collapsed, withdrawn into a sort of silent meditation from which Hortense's affectionate attentions were unable to distract her. The mother stammered: "He's not guilty, is he, sir? And they can't punish an innocent man. They haven't the right to kill my daughter. Oh dear, oh dear, what have we done to be tortured like this? My poor little Madeleine!" "She will kill herself," said Dutreuil, in a scared voice. "She will never be able to endure the idea that they are guillotining Jacques. She will kill herself presently ... this very night...." Rénine was striding up and down the room. "You can do nothing for her, can you?" asked Hortense. "It's half-past eleven now," he replied, in an anxious tone, "and it's to happen to-morrow morning." "Do you think he's guilty?" "I don't know.... I don't know.... The poor woman's conviction is too impressive to be neglected. When two people have lived together for years, they can hardly be mistaken about each other to that degree. And yet...." He stretched himself out on a sofa and lit a cigarette. He smoked three in succession, without a word from any one to interrupt his train of thought. From time to time he looked at his watch. Every minute was of such importance! At last he went back to Madeleine Aubrieux, took her hands and said, very gently: "You must not kill yourself. There is hope left until the last minute has come; and I promise you that, for my part, I will not be disheartened until that last minute. But I need your calmness and your confidence." "I will be calm," she said, with a pitiable air. "And confident?" "And confident." "Well, wait for me. I shall be back in two hours from now. Will you come with us, M. Dutreuil?" As they were stepping into his car, he asked the young man: "Do you know any small, unfrequented restaurant, not too far inside Paris?" "There's the Brasserie Lutetia, on the ground-floor of the house in which I live, on the Place des Ternes." "Capital. That will be very handy." They scarcely spoke on the way. Rénine, however, said to Gaston Dutreuil: "So far as I remember, the numbers of the notes are known, aren't they?" "Yes. M. Guillaume had entered the sixty numbers in his pocket-book." Rénine muttered, a moment later: "That's where the whole problem lies. Where are the notes? If we could lay our hands on them, we should know everything." At the Brasserie Lutetia there was a telephone in the private room where he asked to have lunch served. When the waiter had left him alone with Hortense and Dutreuil, he took down the receiver with a resolute air: "Hullo!... Prefecture of police, please.... Hullo! Hullo!... Is that the Prefecture of police? Please put me on to the criminal investigation department. I have a very important communication to make. You can say it's Prince Rénine." Holding the receiver in his hand, he turned to Gaston Dutreuil: "I can ask some one to come here, I suppose? We shall be quite undisturbed?" "Quite." He listened again: "The secretary to the head of the criminal investigation department? Oh, excellent! Mr. Secretary, I have on several occasions been in communication with M. Dudouis and have given him information which has been of great use to him. He is sure to remember Prince Rénine. I may be able to-day to show him where the sixty thousand-franc notes are hidden which Aubrieux the murderer stole from his cousin. If he's interested in the proposal, beg him to send an inspector to the Brasserie Lutetia, Place des Ternes. I shall be there with a lady and M. Dutreuil, Aubrieux's friend. Good day, Mr. Secretary." When Rénine hung up the instrument, he saw the amazed faces of Hortense and of Gaston Dutreuil confronting him. Hortense whispered: "Then you know? You've discovered ...?" "Nothing," he said, laughing. "Well?" "Well, I'm acting as though I knew. It's not a bad method. Let's have some lunch, shall we?" The clock marked a quarter to one. "The man from the prefecture will be here," he said, "in twenty minutes at latest." "And if no one comes?" Hortense objected. "That would surprise me. Of course, if I had sent a message to M. Dudouis saying, 'Aubrieux is innocent,' I should have failed to make any impression. It's not the least use, on the eve of an execution, to attempt to convince the gentry of the police or of the law that a man condemned to death is innocent. No. From henceforth Jacques Aubrieux belongs to the executioner. But the prospect of securing the sixty bank-notes is a windfall worth taking a little trouble over. Just think: that was the weak point in the indictment, those sixty notes which they were unable to trace." "But, as you know nothing of their whereabouts...." "My dear girl--I hope you don't mind my calling you so?--my dear girl, when a man can't explain this or that physical phenomenon, he adopts some sort of theory which explains the various manifestations of the phenomenon and says that everything happened as though the theory were correct. That's what I am doing." "That amounts to saying that you are going upon a supposition?" Rénine did not reply. Not until some time later, when lunch was over, did he say: "Obviously I am going upon a supposition. If I had several days before me, I should take the trouble of first verifying my theory, which is based upon intuition quite as much as upon a few scattered facts. But I have only two hours; and I am embarking on the unknown path as though I were certain that it would lead me to the truth." "And suppose you are wrong?" "I have no choice. Besides, it is too late. There's a knock. Oh, one word more! Whatever I may say, don't contradict me. Nor you, M. Dutreuil." He opened the door. A thin man, with a red imperial, entered: "Prince Rénine?" "Yes, sir. You, of course, are from M. Dudouis?" "Yes." And the newcomer gave his name: "Chief-inspector Morisseau." "I am obliged to you for coming so promptly, Mr. Chief-inspector," said Prince Rénine, "and I hope that M. Dudouis will not regret having placed you at my disposal." "At your entire disposal, in addition to two inspectors whom I have left in the square outside and who have been in the case, with me, from the first." "I shall not detain you for any length of time," said Rénine, "and I will not even ask you to sit down. We have only a few minutes in which to settle everything. You know what it's all about?" "The sixty thousand-franc notes stolen from M. Guillaume. I have the numbers here." Rénine ran his eyes down the slip of paper which the chief-inspector handed him and said: "That's right. The two lists agree." Inspector Morisseau seemed greatly excited: "The chief attaches the greatest importance to your discovery. So you will be able to show me?..." Rénine was silent for a moment and then declared: "Mr. Chief-inspector, a personal investigation--and a most exhaustive investigation it was, as I will explain to you presently--has revealed the fact that, on his return from Suresnes, the murderer, after replacing the motor-cycle in the shed in the Avenue du Roule, ran to the Ternes and entered this house." "This house?" "Yes." "But what did he come here for?" "To hide the proceeds of his theft, the sixty bank-notes." "How do you mean? Where?" "In a flat of which he had the key, on the fifth floor." Gaston Dutreuil exclaimed, in amazement: "But there's only one flat on the fifth floor and that's the one I live in!" "Exactly; and, as you were at the cinema with Madame Aubrieux and her mother, advantage was taken of your absence...." "Impossible! No one has the key except myself." "One can get in without a key." "But I have seen no marks of any kind." Morisseau intervened: "Come, let us understand one another. You say the bank-notes were hidden in M. Dutreuil's flat?" "Yes." "Then, as Jacques Aubrieux was arrested the next morning, the notes ought to be there still?" "That's my opinion." Gaston Dutreuil could not help laughing: "But that's absurd! I should have found them!" "Did you look for them?" "No. But I should have come across them at any moment. The place isn't big enough to swing a cat in. Would you care to see it?" "However small it may be, it's large enough to hold sixty bits of paper." "Of course, everything is possible," said Dutreuil. "Still, I must repeat that nobody, to my knowledge, has been to my rooms; that there is only one key; that I am my own housekeeper; and that I can't quite understand...." Hortense too could not understand. With her eyes fixed on Prince Rénine's, she was trying to read his innermost thoughts. What game was he playing? Was it her duty to support his statements? She ended by saying: "Mr. Chief-inspector, since Prince Rénine maintains that the notes have been put away upstairs, wouldn't the simplest thing be to go and look? M. Dutreuil will take us up, won't you?" "This minute," said the young man. "As you say, that will be simplest." They all four climbed the five storys of the house and, after Dutreuil had opened the door, entered a tiny set of chambers consisting of a sitting-room, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom, all arranged with fastidious neatness. It was easy to see that every chair in the sitting-room occupied a definite place. The pipes had a rack to themselves; so had the matches. Three walking-sticks, arranged according to their length, hung from three nails. On a little table before the window a hat-box, filled with tissue-paper, awaited the felt hat which Dutreuil carefully placed in it. He laid his gloves beside it, on the lid. He did all this with sedate and mechanical movements, like a man who loves to see things in the places which he has chosen for them. Indeed, no sooner did Rénine shift something than Dutreuil made a slight gesture of protest, took out his hat again, stuck it on his head, opened the window and rested his elbows on the sill, with his back turned to the room, as though he were unable to bear the sight of such vandalism. "You're positive, are you not?" the inspector asked Rénine. "Yes, yes, I'm positive that the sixty notes were brought here after the murder." "Let's look for them." This was easy and soon done. In half an hour, not a corner remained unexplored, not a knick-knack unlifted. "Nothing," said Inspector Morisseau. "Shall we continue?" "No," replied Rénine, "The notes are no longer here." "What do you mean?" "I mean that they have been removed." "By whom? Can't you make a more definite accusation?" Rénine did not reply. But Gaston Dutreuil wheeled round. He was choking and spluttered: "Mr. Inspector, would you like _me_ to make the accusation more definite, as conveyed by this gentleman's remarks? It all means that there's a dishonest man here, that the notes hidden by the murderer were discovered and stolen by that dishonest man and deposited in another and safer place. That is your idea, sir, is it not? And you accuse me of committing this theft don't you?" He came forward, drumming his chest with his fists: "Me! Me! I found the notes, did I, and kept them for myself? You dare to suggest that!" Rénine still made no reply. Dutreuil flew into a rage and, taking Inspector Morisseau aside, exclaimed: "Mr. Inspector, I strongly protest against all this farce and against the part which you are unconsciously playing in it. Before your arrival, Prince Rénine told this lady and myself that he knew nothing, that he was venturing into this affair at random and that he was following the first road that offered, trusting to luck. Do you deny it, sir?" Rénine did not open his lips. "Answer me, will you? Explain yourself; for, really, you are putting forward the most improbable facts without any proof whatever. It's easy enough to say that I stole the notes. And how were you to know that they were here at all? Who brought them here? Why should the murderer choose this flat to hide them in? It's all so stupid, so illogical and absurd!... Give us your proofs, sir ... one single proof!" Inspector Morisseau seemed perplexed. He questioned Rénine with a glance. Rénine said: "Since you want specific details, we will get them from Madame Aubrieux herself. She's on the telephone. Let's go downstairs. We shall know all about it in a minute." Dutreuil shrugged his shoulders: "As you please; but what a waste of time!" He seemed greatly irritated. His long wait at the window, under a blazing sun, had thrown him into a sweat. He went to his bedroom and returned with a bottle of water, of which he took a few sips, afterwards placing the bottle on the window-sill: "Come along," he said. Prince Rénine chuckled. "You seem to be in a hurry to leave the place." "I'm in a hurry to show you up," retorted Dutreuil, slamming the door. They went downstairs to the private room containing the telephone. The room was empty. Rénine asked Gaston Dutreuil for the Aubrieuxs' number, took down the instrument and was put through. The maid who came to the telephone answered that Madame Aubrieux had fainted, after giving way to an access of despair, and that she was now asleep. "Fetch her mother, please. Prince Rénine speaking. It's urgent." He handed the second receiver to Morisseau. For that matter, the voices were so distinct that Dutreuil and Hortense were able to hear every word exchanged. "Is that you, madame?" "Yes. Prince Rénine, I believe?" "Prince Rénine." "Oh, sir, what news have you for me? Is there any hope?" asked the old lady, in a tone of entreaty. "The enquiry is proceeding very satisfactorily," said Rénine, "and you may hope for the best. For the moment, I want you to give me some very important particulars. On the day of the murder, did Gaston Dutreuil come to your house?" "Yes, he came to fetch my daughter and myself, after lunch." "Did he know at the time that M. Guillaume had sixty thousand francs at his place?" "Yes, I told him." "And that Jacques Aubrieux was not feeling very well and was proposing not to take his usual cycle-ride but to stay at home and sleep?" "Yes." "You are sure?" "Absolutely certain." "And you all three went to the cinema together?" "Yes." "And you were all sitting together?" "Oh, no! There was no room. He took a seat farther away." "A seat where you could see him?" "No." "But he came to you during the interval?" "No, we did not see him until we were going out." "There is no doubt of that?" "None at all." "Very well, madame. I will tell you the result of my efforts in an hour's time. But above all, don't wake up Madame Aubrieux." "And suppose she wakes of her own accord?" "Reassure her and give her confidence. Everything is going well, very well indeed." He hung up the receiver and turned to Dutreuil, laughing: "Ha, ha, my boy! Things are beginning to look clearer. What do you say?" It was difficult to tell what these words meant or what conclusions Rénine had drawn from his conversation. The silence was painful and oppressive. "Mr. Chief-Inspector, you have some of your men outside, haven't you?" "Two detective-sergeants." "It's important that they should be there. Please also ask the manager not to disturb us on any account." And, when Morisseau returned, Rénine closed the door, took his stand in front of Dutreuil and, speaking in a good-humoured but emphatic tone, said: "It amounts to this, young man, that the ladies saw nothing of you between three and five o'clock on that Sunday. That's rather a curious detail." "A perfectly natural detail," Dutreuil retorted, "and one, moreover, which proves nothing at all." "It proves, young man, that you had a good two hours at your disposal." "Obviously. Two hours which I spent at the cinema." "Or somewhere else." Dutreuil looked at him: "Somewhere else?" "Yes. As you were free, you had plenty of time to go wherever you liked ... to Suresnes, for instance." "Oh!" said the young man, jesting in his turn. "Suresnes is a long way off!" "It's quite close! Hadn't you your friend Jacques Aubrieux's motor-cycle?" A fresh pause followed these words. Dutreuil had knitted his brows as though he were trying to understand. At last he was heard to whisper: "So that is what he was trying to lead up to!... The brute!..." Rénine brought down his hand on Dutreuil's shoulder: "No more talk! Facts! Gaston Dutreuil, you are the only person who on that day knew two essential things: first, that Cousin Guillaume had sixty thousand francs in his house; secondly, that Jacques Aubrieux was not going out. You at once saw your chance. The motor-cycle was available. You slipped out during the performance. You went to Suresnes. You killed Cousin Guillaume. You took the sixty bank-notes and left them at your rooms. And at five o'clock you went back to fetch the ladies." Dutreuil had listened with an expression at once mocking and flurried, casting an occasional glance at Inspector Morisseau as though to enlist him as a witness: "The man's mad," it seemed to say. "It's no use being angry with him." When Rénine had finished, he began to laugh: "Very funny!... A capital joke!... So it was I whom the neighbours saw going and returning on the motor-cycle?" "It was you disguised in Jacques Aubrieux's clothes." "And it was my finger-prints that were found on the bottle in M. Guillaume's pantry?" "The bottle had been opened by Jacques Aubrieux at lunch, in his own house, and it was you who took it with you to serve as evidence." "Funnier and funnier!" cried Dutreuil, who had the air of being frankly amused. "Then I contrived the whole affair so that Jacques Aubrieux might be accused of the crime?" "It was the safest means of not being accused yourself." "Yes, but Jacques is a friend whom I have known from childhood." "You're in love with his wife." The young man gave a sudden, infuriated start: "You dare!... What! You dare make such an infamous suggestion?" "I have proof of it." "That's a lie! I have always respected Madeleine Aubrieux and revered her...." "Apparently. But you're in love with her. You desire her. Don't contradict me. I have abundant proof of it." "That's a lie, I tell you! You have only known me a few hours!" "Come, come! I've been quietly watching you for days, waiting for the moment to pounce upon you." He took the young man by the shoulders and shook him: "Come, Dutreuil, confess! I hold all the proofs in my hand. I have witnesses whom we shall meet presently at the criminal investigation department. Confess, can't you? In spite of everything, you're tortured by remorse. Remember your dismay, at the restaurant, when you had seen the newspaper. What? Jacques Aubrieux condemned to die? That's more than you bargained for! Penal servitude would have suited your book; but the scaffold!... Jacques Aubrieux executed to-morrow, an innocent man!... Confess, won't you? Confess to save your own skin! Own up!" Bending over the other, he was trying with all his might to extort a confession from him. But Dutreuil drew himself up and coldly, with a sort of scorn in his voice, said: "Sir, you are a madman. Not a word that you have said has any sense in it. All your accusations are false. What about the bank-notes? Did you find them at my place as you said you would?" Rénine, exasperated, clenched his fist in his face: "Oh, you swine, I'll dish you yet, I swear I will!" He drew the inspector aside: "Well, what do you say to it? An arrant rogue, isn't he?" The inspector nodded his head: "It may be.... But, all the same ... so far there's no real evidence." "Wait, M. Morisseau," said Rénine. "Wait until we've had our interview with M. Dudouis. For we shall see M. Dudouis at the prefecture, shall we not?" "Yes, he'll be there at three o'clock." "Well, you'll be convinced, Mr. Inspector! I tell you here and now that you will be convinced." Rénine was chuckling like a man who feels certain of the course of events. Hortense, who was standing near him and was able to speak to him without being heard by the others, asked, in a low voice: "You've got him, haven't you?" He nodded his head in assent: "Got him? I should think I have! All the same, I'm no farther forward than I was at the beginning." "But this is awful! And your proofs?" "Not the shadow of a proof ... I was hoping to trip him up. But he's kept his feet, the rascal!" "Still, you're certain it's he?" "It can't be any one else. I had an intuition at the very outset; and I've not taken my eyes off him since. I have seen his anxiety increasing as my investigations seemed to centre on him and concern him more closely. Now I know." "And he's in love with Madame Aubrieux?" "In logic, he's bound to be. But so far we have only hypothetical suppositions, or rather certainties which are personal to myself. We shall never intercept the guillotine with those. Ah, if we could only find the bank-notes! Given the bank-notes, M. Dudouis would act. Without them, he will laugh in my face." "What then?" murmured Hortense, in anguished accents. He did not reply. He walked up and down the room, assuming an air of gaiety and rubbing his hands. All was going so well! It was really a treat to take up a case which, so to speak, worked itself out automatically. "Suppose we went on to the prefecture, M. Morisseau? The chief must be there by now. And, having gone so far, we may as well finish. Will M. Dutreuil come with us?" "Why not?" said Dutreuil, arrogantly. But, just as Rénine was opening the door, there was a noise in the passage and the manager ran up, waving his arms: "Is M. Dutreuil still here?... M. Dutreuil, your flat is on fire!... A man outside told us. He saw it from the square." The young man's eyes lit up. For perhaps half a second his mouth was twisted by a smile which Rénine noticed: "Oh, you ruffian!" he cried. "You've given yourself away, my beauty! It was you who set fire to the place upstairs; and now the notes are burning." He blocked his exit. "Let me pass," shouted Dutreuil. "There's a fire and no one can get in, because no one else has a key. Here it is. Let me pass, damn it!" Rénine snatched the key from his hand and, holding him by the collar of his coat: "Don't you move, my fine fellow! The game's up! You precious blackguard! M. Morisseau, will you give orders to the sergeant not to let him out of his sight and to blow out his brains if he tries to get away? Sergeant, we rely on you! Put a bullet into him, if necessary!..." He hurried up the stairs, followed by Hortense and the chief inspector, who was protesting rather peevishly: "But, I say, look here, it wasn't he who set the place on fire! How do you make out that he set it on fire, seeing that he never left us?" "Why, he set it on fire beforehand, to be sure!" "How? I ask you, how?" "How do I know? But a fire doesn't break out like that, for no reason at all, at the very moment when a man wants to burn compromising papers." They heard a commotion upstairs. It was the waiters of the restaurant trying to burst the door open. An acrid smell filled the well of the stair-case. Rénine reached the top floor: "By your leave, friends. I have the key." He inserted it in the lock and opened the door. He was met by a gust of smoke so dense that one might well have supposed the whole floor to be ablaze. Rénine at once saw that the fire had gone out of its own accord, for lack of fuel, and that there were no more flames: "M. Morisseau, you won't let any one come in with us, will you? An intruder might spoil everything. Bolt the door, that will be best." He stepped into the front room, where the fire had obviously had its chief centre. The furniture, the walls and the ceiling, though blackened by the smoke, had not been touched. As a matter of fact, the fire was confined to a blaze of papers which was still burning in the middle of the room, in front of the window. Rénine struck his forehead: "What a fool I am! What an unspeakable ass!" "Why?" asked the inspector. "The hat-box, of course! The cardboard hat-box which was standing on the table. That's where he hid the notes. They were there all through our search." "Impossible!" "Why, yes, we always overlook that particular hiding-place, the one just under our eyes, within reach of our hands! How could one imagine that a thief would leave sixty thousand francs in an open cardboard box, in which he places his hat when he comes in, with an absent-minded air? That's just the one place we don't look in.... Well played, M. Dutreuil!" The inspector, who remained incredulous, repeated: "No, no, impossible! We were with him and he could not have started the fire himself." "Everything was prepared beforehand on the supposition that there might be an alarm.... The hat-box ... the tissue paper ... the bank-notes: they must all have been steeped in some inflammable liquid. He must have thrown a match, a chemical preparation or what not into it, as we were leaving." "But we should have seen him, hang it all! And then is it credible that a man who has committed a murder for the sake of sixty thousand francs should do away with the money in this way? If the hiding-place was such a good one--and it was, because we never discovered it--why this useless destruction?" "He got frightened, M. Morisseau. Remember that his head is at stake and he knows it. Anything rather than the guillotine; and they--the bank-notes--were the only proof which we had against him. How could he have left them where they were?" Morisseau was flabbergasted: "What! The only proof?" "Why, obviously!" "But your witnesses? Your evidence? All that you were going to tell the chief?" "Mere bluff." "Well, upon my word," growled the bewildered inspector, "you're a cool customer!" "Would you have taken action without my bluff?" "No." "Then what more do you want?" Rénine stooped to stir the ashes. But there was nothing left, not even those remnants of stiff paper which still retain their shape. "Nothing," he said. "It's queer, all the same! How the deuce did he manage to set the thing alight?" He stood up, looking attentively about him. Hortense had a feeling that he was making his supreme effort and that, after this last struggle in the dark, he would either have devised his plan of victory or admit that he was beaten. Faltering with anxiety, she asked: "It's all up, isn't it?" "No, no," he said, thoughtfully, "it's not all up. It was, a few seconds ago. But now there is a gleam of light ... and one that gives me hope." "God grant that it may be justified!" "We must go slowly," he said. "It is only an attempt, but a fine, a very fine attempt; and it may succeed." He was silent for a moment; then, with an amused smile and a click of the tongue, he said: "An infernally clever fellow, that Dutreuil! His trick of burning the notes: what a fertile imagination! And what coolness! A pretty dance the beggar has led me! He's a master!" He fetched a broom from the kitchen and swept a part of the ashes into the next room, returning with a hat-box of the same size and appearance as the one which had been burnt. After crumpling the tissue paper with which it was filled, he placed the hat-box on the little table and set fire to it with a match. It burst into flames, which he extinguished when they had consumed half the cardboard and nearly all the paper. Then he took from an inner pocket of his waistcoat a bundle of bank-notes and selected six, which he burnt almost completely, arranging the remains and hiding the rest of the notes at the bottom of the box, among the ashes and the blackened bits of paper: "M. Morisseau," he said, when he had done, "I am asking for your assistance for the last time. Go and fetch Dutreuil. Tell him just this: 'You are unmasked. The notes did not catch fire. Come with me.' And bring him up here." Despite his hesitation and his fear of exceeding his instructions from the head of the detective service, the chief-inspector was powerless to throw off the ascendancy which Rénine had acquired over him. He left the room. Rénine turned to Hortense: "Do you understand my plan of battle?" "Yes," she said, "but it's a dangerous experiment. Do you think that Dutreuil will fall into the trap?" "Everything depends on the state of his nerves and the degree of demoralization to which he is reduced. A surprise attack may very well do for him." "Nevertheless, suppose he recognizes by some sign that the box has been changed?" "Oh, of course, he has a few chances in his favour! The fellow is much more cunning than I thought and quite capable of wriggling out of the trap. On the other hand, however, how uneasy he must be! How the blood must be buzzing in his ears and obscuring his sight! No, I don't think that he will avoid the trap.... He will give in.... He will give in...." They exchanged no more words. Rénine did not move. Hortense was stirred to the very depths of her being. The life of an innocent man hung trembling in the balance. An error of judgment, a little bad luck ... and, twelve hours later, Jacques Aubrieux would be put to death. And together with a horrible anguish she experienced, in spite of all, a feeling of eager curiosity. What was Prince Rénine going to do? What would be the outcome of the experiment on which he was venturing? What resistance would Gaston Dutreuil offer? She lived through one of those minutes of superhuman tension in which life becomes intensified until it reaches its utmost value. They heard footsteps on the stairs, the footsteps of men in a hurry. The sound drew nearer. They were reaching the top floor. Hortense looked at her companion. He had stood up and was listening, his features already transfigured by action. The footsteps were now echoing in the passage. Then, suddenly, he ran to the door and cried: "Quick! Let's make an end of it!" Two or three detectives and a couple of waiters entered. He caught hold of Dutreuil in the midst of the detectives and pulled him by the arm, gaily exclaiming: "Well done, old man! That trick of yours with the table and the water-bottle was really splendid! A masterpiece, on my word! Only, it didn't come off!" "What do you mean? What's the matter?" mumbled Gaston Dutreuil, staggering. "What I say: the fire burnt only half the tissue-paper and the hat-box; and, though some of the bank-notes were destroyed, like the tissue-paper, the others are there, at the bottom.... You understand? The long-sought notes, the great proof of the murder: they're there, where you hid them.... As chance would have it, they've escaped burning.... Here, look: there are the numbers; you can check them.... Oh, you're done for, done for, my beauty!" The young man drew himself up stiffly. His eyelids quivered. He did not accept Rénine's invitation to look; he examined neither the hat-box nor the bank-notes. From the first moment, without taking the time to reflect and before his instinct could warn him, he believed what he was told and collapsed heavily into a chair, weeping. The surprise attack, to use Rénine's expression, had succeeded. On seeing all his plans baffled and the enemy master of his secrets, the wretched man had neither the strength nor the perspicacity necessary to defend himself. He threw up the sponge. Rénine gave him no time to breathe: "Capital! You're saving your head; and that's all, my good youth! Write down your confession and get it off your chest. Here's a fountain-pen.... The luck has been against you, I admit. It was devilishly well thought out, your trick of the last moment. You had the bank-notes which were in your way and which you wanted to destroy. Nothing simpler. You take a big, round-bellied water-bottle and stand it on the window-sill. It acts as a burning-glass, concentrating the rays of the sun on the cardboard and tissue-paper, all nicely prepared. Ten minutes later, it bursts into flames. A splendid idea! And, like all great discoveries, it came quite by chance, what? It reminds one of Newton's apple.... One day, the sun, passing through the water in that bottle, must have set fire to a scrap of cotton or the head of a match; and, as you had the sun at your disposal just now, you said to yourself, 'Now's the time,' and stood the bottle in the right position. My congratulations, Gaston!... Look, here's a sheet of paper. Write down: 'It was I who murdered M. Guillaume.' Write, I tell you!" Leaning over the young man, with all his implacable force of will he compelled him to write, guiding his hand and dictating the sentences. Dutreuil, exhausted, at the end of his strength, wrote as he was told. "Here's the confession, Mr. Chief-inspector," said Rénine. "You will be good enough to take it to M. Dudouis. These gentlemen," turning to the waiters, from the restaurant, "will, I am sure, consent to serve as witnesses." And, seeing that Dutreuil, overwhelmed by what had happened, did not move, he gave him a shake: "Hi, you, look alive! Now that you've been fool enough to confess, make an end of the job, my gentle idiot!" The other watched him, standing in front of him. "Obviously," Rénine continued, "you're only a simpleton. The hat-box was fairly burnt to ashes: so were the notes. That hat-box, my dear fellow, is a different one; and those notes belong to me. I even burnt six of them to make you swallow the stunt. And you couldn't make out what had happened. What an owl you must be! To furnish me with evidence at the last moment, when I hadn't a single proof of my own! And such evidence! A written confession! Written before witnesses!... Look here, my man, if they do cut off your head--as I sincerely hope they will--upon my word, you'll have jolly well deserved it! Good-bye, Dutreuil!" * * * * * Downstairs, in the street, Rénine asked Hortense Daniel to take the car, go to Madeleine Aubrieux and tell her what had happened. "And you?" asked Hortense. "I have a lot to do ... urgent appointments...." "And you deny yourself the pleasure of bringing the good news?" "It's one of the pleasures that pall upon one. The only pleasure that never flags is that of the fight itself. Afterwards, things cease to be interesting." She took his hand and for a moment held it in both her own. She would have liked to express all her admiration to that strange man, who seemed to do good as a sort of game and who did it with something like genius. But she was unable to speak. All these rapid incidents had upset her. Emotion constricted her throat and brought the tears to her eyes. Rénine bowed his head, saying: "Thank you. I have my reward." III THE CASE OF JEAN LOUIS "Monsieur," continued the young girl, addressing Serge Rénine, "it was while I was spending the Easter holidays at Nice with my father that I made the acquaintance of Jean Louis d'Imbleval...." Rénine interrupted her: "Excuse me, mademoiselle, but just now you spoke of this young man as Jean Louis Vaurois." "That's his name also," she said. "Has he two names then?" "I don't know ... I don't know anything about it," she said, with some embarrassment, "and that is why, by Hortense's advice, I came to ask for your help." This conversation was taking place in Rénine's flat on the Boulevard Haussmann, to which Hortense had brought her friend Geneviève Aymard, a slender, pretty little creature with a face over-shadowed by an expression of the greatest melancholy. "Rénine will be successful, take my word for it, Geneviève. You will, Rénine, won't you?" "Please tell me the rest of the story, mademoiselle," he said. Geneviève continued: "I was already engaged at the time to a man whom I loathe and detest. My father was trying to force me to marry him and is still trying to do so. Jean Louis and I felt the keenest sympathy for each other, a sympathy that soon developed into a profound and passionate affection which, I can assure you, was equally sincere on both sides. On my return to Paris, Jean Louis, who lives in the country with his mother and his aunt, took rooms in our part of the town; and, as I am allowed to go out by myself, we used to see each other daily. I need not tell you that we were engaged to be married. I told my father so. And this is what he said: 'I don't particularly like the fellow. But, whether it's he or another, what I want is that you should get married. So let him come and ask for your hand. If not, you must do as I say.' In the middle of June, Jean Louis went home to arrange matters with his mother and aunt. I received some passionate letters; and then just these few words: 'There are too many obstacles in the way of our happiness. I give up. I am mad with despair. I love you more than ever. Good-bye and forgive me.' "Since then, I have received nothing: no reply to my letters and telegrams." "Perhaps he has fallen in love with somebody else?" asked Rénine. "Or there may be some old connection which he is unable to shake off." Geneviève shook her head: "Monsieur, believe me, if our engagement had been broken off for an ordinary reason, I should not have allowed Hortense to trouble you. But it is something quite different, I am absolutely convinced. There's a mystery in Jean Louis' life, or rather an endless number of mysteries which hamper and pursue him. I never saw such distress in a human face; and, from the first moment of our meeting, I was conscious in him of a grief and melancholy which have always persisted, even at times when he was giving himself to our love with the greatest confidence." "But your impression must have been confirmed by minor details, by things which happened to strike you as peculiar?" "I don't quite know what to say." "These two names, for instance?" "Yes, there was certainly that." "By what name did he introduce himself to you?" "Jean Louis d'Imbleval." "But Jean Louis Vaurois?" "That's what my father calls him." "Why?" "Because that was how he was introduced to my father, at Nice, by a gentleman who knew him. Besides, he carries visiting-cards which describe him under either name." "Have you never questioned him on this point?" "Yes, I have, twice. The first time, he said that his aunt's name was Vaurois and his mother's d'Imbleval." "And the second time?" "He told me the contrary: he spoke of his mother as Vaurois and of his aunt as d'Imbleval. I pointed this out. He coloured up and I thought it better not to question him any further." "Does he live far from Paris?" "Right down in Brittany: at the Manoir d'Elseven, five miles from Carhaix." Rénine rose and asked the girl, seriously: "Are you quite certain that he loves you, mademoiselle?" "I am certain of it and I know too that he represents all my life and all my happiness. He alone can save me. If he can't, then I shall be married in a week's time to a man whom I hate. I have promised my father; and the banns have been published." "We shall leave for Carhaix, Madame Daniel and I, this evening," said Rénine. That evening he and Hortense took the train for Brittany. They reached Carhaix at ten o'clock in the morning; and, after lunch, at half past twelve o'clock they stepped into a car borrowed from a leading resident of the district. "You're looking a little pale, my dear," said Rénine, with a laugh, as they alighted by the gate of the garden at Elseven. "I'm very fond of Geneviève," she said. "She's the only friend I have. And I'm feeling frightened." He called her attention to the fact that the central gate was flanked by two wickets bearing the names of Madame d'Imbleval and Madame Vaurois respectively. Each of these wickets opened on a narrow path which ran among the shrubberies of box and aucuba to the left and right of the main avenue. The avenue itself led to an old manor-house, long, low and picturesque, but provided with two clumsily-built, ugly wings, each in a different style of architecture and each forming the destination of one of the side-paths. Madame d'Imbleval evidently lived on the left and Madame Vaurois on the right. Hortense and Rénine listened. Shrill, hasty voices were disputing inside the house. The sound came through one of the windows of the ground-floor, which was level with the garden and covered throughout its length with red creepers and white roses. "We can't go any farther," said Hortense. "It would be indiscreet." "All the more reason," whispered Rénine. "Look here: if we walk straight ahead, we shan't be seen by the people who are quarrelling." The sounds of conflict were by no means abating; and, when they reached the window next to the front-door, through the roses and creepers they could both see and hear two old ladies shrieking at the tops of their voices and shaking their fists at each other. The women were standing in the foreground, in a large dining-room where the table was not yet cleared; and at the farther side of the table sat a young man, doubtless Jean Louis himself, smoking his pipe and reading a newspaper, without appearing to trouble about the two old harridans. One of these, a thin, tall woman, was wearing a purple silk dress; and her hair was dressed in a mass of curls much too yellow for the ravaged face around which they tumbled. The other, who was still thinner, but quite short, was bustling round the room in a cotton dressing-gown and displayed a red, painted face blazing with anger: "A baggage, that's what you are!" she yelped. "The wickedest woman in the world and a thief into the bargain!" "I, a thief!" screamed the other. "What about that business with the ducks at ten francs apiece: don't you call that thieving?" "Hold your tongue, you low creature! Who stole the fifty-franc note from my dressing-table? Lord, that I should have to live with such a wretch!" The other started with fury at the outrage and, addressing the young man, cried: "Jean, are you going to sit there and let me be insulted by your hussy of a d'Imbleval?" And the tall one retorted, furiously: "Hussy! Do you hear that, Louis? Look at her, your Vaurois! She's got the airs of a superannuated barmaid! Make her stop, can't you?" Suddenly Jean Louis banged his fist upon the table, making the plates and dishes jump, and shouted: "Be quiet, both of you, you old lunatics!" They turned upon him at once and loaded him with abuse: "Coward!... Hypocrite!... Liar!... A pretty sort of son you are!... The son of a slut and not much better yourself!..." The insults rained down upon him. He stopped his ears with his fingers and writhed as he sat at table like a man who has lost all patience and has need to restrain himself lest he should fall upon his enemy. Rénine whispered: "Now's the time to go in." "In among all those infuriated people?" protested Hortense. "Exactly. We shall see them better with their masks off." And, with a determined step, he walked to the door, opened it and entered the room, followed by Hortense. His advent gave rise to a feeling of stupefaction. The two women stopped yelling, but were still scarlet in the face and trembling with rage. Jean Louis, who was very pale, stood up. Profiting by the general confusion, Rénine said briskly: "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Prince Rénine. This is Madame Daniel. We are friends of Mlle. Geneviève Aymard and we have come in her name. I have a letter from her addressed to you, monsieur." Jean Louis, already disconcerted by the newcomers' arrival, lost countenance entirely on hearing the name of Geneviève. Without quite knowing what he was saying and with the intention of responding to Rénine's courteous behaviour, he tried in his turn to introduce the two ladies and let fall the astounding words: "My mother, Madame d'Imbleval; my mother, Madame Vaurois." For some time no one spoke. Rénine bowed. Hortense did not know with whom she should shake hands, with Madame d'Imbleval, the mother, or with Madame Vaurois, the mother. But what happened was that Madame d'Imbleval and Madame Vaurois both at the same time attempted to snatch the letter which Rénine was holding out to Jean Louis, while both at the same time mumbled: "Mlle. Aymard!... She has had the coolness ... she has had the audacity...!" Then Jean Louis, recovering his self-possession, laid hold of his mother d'Imbleval and pushed her out of the room by a door on the left and next of his mother Vaurois and pushed her out of the room by a door on the right. Then, returning to his two visitors, he opened the envelope and read, in an undertone: "I am to be married in a week, Jean Louis. Come to my rescue, I beseech you. My friend Hortense and Prince Rénine will help you to overcome the obstacles that baffle you. Trust them. I love you. "GENEVIÈVE." He was a rather dull-looking young man, whose very swarthy, lean and bony face certainly bore the expression of melancholy and distress described by Geneviève. Indeed, the marks of suffering were visible in all his harassed features, as well as in his sad and anxious eyes. He repeated Geneviève's name over and over again, while looking about him with a distracted air. He seemed to be seeking a course of conduct. He seemed on the point of offering an explanation but could find nothing to say. The sudden intervention had taken him at a disadvantage, like an unforseen attack which he did not know how to meet. Rénine felt that the adversary would capitulate at the first summons. The man had been fighting so desperately during the last few months and had suffered so severely in the retirement and obstinate silence in which he had taken refuge that he was not thinking of defending himself. Moreover, how could he do so, now that they had forced their way into the privacy of his odious existence? "Take my word for it, monsieur," declared Rénine, "that it is in your best interests to confide in us. We are Geneviève Aymard's friends. Do not hesitate to speak." "I can hardly hesitate," he said, "after what you have just heard. This is the life I lead, monsieur. I will tell you the whole secret, so that you may tell it to Geneviève. She will then understand why I have not gone back to her ... and why I have not the right to do so." He pushed a chair forward for Hortense. The two men sat down, and, without any need of further persuasion, rather as though he himself felt a certain relief in unburdening himself, he said: "You must not be surprised, monsieur, if I tell my story with a certain flippancy, for, as a matter of fact, it is a frankly comical story and cannot fail to make you laugh. Fate often amuses itself by playing these imbecile tricks, these monstrous farces which seem as though they must have been invented by the brain of a madman or a drunkard. Judge for yourself. Twenty-seven years ago, the Manoir d'Elseven, which at that time consisted only of the main building, was occupied by an old doctor who, to increase his modest means, used to receive one or two paying guests. In this way, Madame d'Imbleval spent the summer here one year and Madame Vaurois the following summer. Now these two ladies did not know each other. One of them was married to a Breton of a merchant-vessel and the other to a commercial traveller from the Vendée. "It so happened that they lost their husbands at the same time, at a period when each of them was expecting a baby. And, as they both lived in the country, at places some distance from any town, they wrote to the old doctor that they intended to come to his house for their confinement.... He agreed. They arrived almost on the same day, in the autumn. Two small bedrooms were prepared for them, behind the room in which we are sitting. The doctor had engaged a nurse, who slept in this very room. Everything was perfectly satisfactory. The ladies were putting the finishing touches to their baby-clothes and were getting on together splendidly. They were determined that their children should be boys and had chosen the names of Jean and Louis respectively.... One evening the doctor was called out to a case and drove off in his gig with the man-servant, saying that he would not be back till next day. In her master's absence, a little girl who served as maid-of-all-work ran out to keep company with her sweetheart. These accidents destiny turned to account with diabolical malignity. At about midnight, Madame d'Imbleval was seized with the first pains. The nurse, Mlle. Boussignol, had had some training as a midwife and did not lose her head. But, an hour later, Madame Vaurois' turn came; and the tragedy, or I might rather say the tragi-comedy, was enacted amid the screams and moans of the two patients and the bewildered agitation of the nurse running from one to the other, bewailing her fate, opening the window to call out for the doctor or falling on her knees to implore the aid of Providence.... Madame Vaurois was the first to bring a son into the world. Mlle. Boussignol hurriedly carried him in here, washed and tended him and laid him in the cradle prepared for him.... But Madame d'Imbleval was screaming with pain; and the nurse had to attend to her while the newborn child was yelling like a stuck pig and the terrified mother, unable to stir from her bed, fainted.... Add to this all the wretchedness of darkness and disorder, the only lamp, without any oil, for the servant had neglected to fill it, the candles burning out, the moaning of the wind, the screeching of the owls, and you will understand that Mlle. Boussignol was scared out of her wits. However, at five o'clock in the morning, after many tragic incidents, she came in here with the d'Imbleval baby, likewise a boy, washed and tended him, laid him in his cradle and went off to help Madame Vaurois, who had come to herself and was crying out, while Madame d'Imbleval had fainted in her turn. And, when Mlle. Boussignol, having settled the two mothers, but half-crazed with fatigue, her brain in a whirl, returned to the new-born children, she realized with horror that she had wrapped them in similar binders, thrust their feet into similar woolen socks and laid them both, side by side, _in the same cradle_, so that it was impossible to tell Louis d'Imbleval from Jean Vaurois!... To make matters worse, when she lifted one of them out of the cradle, she found that his hands were cold as ice and that he had ceased to breathe. He was dead. What was his name and what the survivor's?... Three hours later, the doctor found the two women in a condition of frenzied delirium, while the nurse was dragging herself from one bed to the other, entreating the two mothers to forgive her. She held me out first to one, then to the other, to receive their caresses--for I was the surviving child--and they first kissed me and then pushed me away; for, after all, who was I? The son of the widowed Madame d'Imbleval and the late merchant-captain or the son of the widowed Madame Vaurois and the late commercial traveller? There was not a clue by which they could tell.... The doctor begged each of the two mothers to sacrifice her rights, at least from the legal point of view, so that I might be called either Louis d'Imbleval or Jean Vaurois. They refused absolutely. 'Why Jean Vaurois, if he's a d'Imbleval?' protested the one. 'Why Louis d'Imbleval, if he's a Vaurois?' retorted the other. And I was registered under the name of Jean Louis, the son of an unknown father and mother." Prince Rénine had listened in silence. But Hortense, as the story approached its conclusion, had given way to a hilarity which she could no longer restrain and suddenly, in spite of all her efforts, she burst into a fit of the wildest laughter: "Forgive me," she said, her eyes filled with tears, "do forgive me; it's too much for my nerves...." "Don't apologize, madame," said the young man, gently, in a voice free from resentment. "I warned you that my story was laughable; I, better than any one, know how absurd, how nonsensical it is. Yes, the whole thing is perfectly grotesque. But believe me when I tell you that it was no fun in reality. It seems a humorous situation and it remains humorous by the force of circumstances; but it is also horrible. You can see that for yourself, can't you? The two mothers, neither of whom was certain of being a mother, but neither of whom was certain that she was not one, both clung to Jean Louis. He might be a stranger; on the other hand, he might be their own flesh and blood. They loved him to excess and fought for him furiously. And, above all, they both came to hate each other with a deadly hatred. Differing completely in character and education and obliged to live together because neither was willing to forego the advantage of her possible maternity, they lived the life of irreconcilable enemies who can never lay their weapons aside.... I grew up in the midst of this hatred and had it instilled into me by both of them. When my childish heart, hungering for affection, inclined me to one of them, the other would seek to inspire me with loathing and contempt for her. In this manor-house, which they bought on the old doctor's death and to which they added the two wings, I was the involuntary torturer and their daily victim. Tormented as a child, and, as a young man, leading the most hideous of lives, I doubt if any one on earth ever suffered more than I did." "You ought to have left them!" exclaimed Hortense, who had stopped laughing. "One can't leave one's mother; and one of those two women was my mother. And a woman can't abandon her son; and each of them was entitled to believe that I was her son. We were all three chained together like convicts, with chains of sorrow, compassion, doubt and also of hope that the truth might one day become apparent. And here we still are, all three, insulting one another and blaming one another for our wasted lives. Oh, what a hell! And there was no escaping it. I tried often enough ... but in vain. The broken bonds became tied again. Only this summer, under the stimulus of my love for Geneviève, I tried to free myself and did my utmost to persuade the two women whom I call mother. And then ... and then! I was up against their complaints, their immediate hatred of the wife, of the stranger, whom I was proposing to force upon them.... I gave way. What sort of a life would Geneviève have had here, between Madame d'Imbleval and Madame Vaurois? I had no right to victimize her." Jean Louis, who had been gradually becoming excited, uttered these last words in a firm voice, as though he would have wished his conduct to be ascribed to conscientious motives and a sense of duty. In reality, as Rénine and Hortense clearly saw, his was an unusually weak nature, incapable of reacting against a ridiculous position from which he had suffered ever since he was a child and which he had come to look upon as final and irremediable. He endured it as a man bears a cross which he has no right to cast aside; and at the same time he was ashamed of it. He had never spoken of it to Geneviève, from dread of ridicule; and afterwards, on returning to his prison, he had remained there out of habit and weakness. He sat down to a writing-table and quickly wrote a letter which he handed to Rénine: "Would you be kind enough to give this note to Mlle. Aymard and beg her once more to forgive me?" Rénine did not move and, when the other pressed the letter upon him, he took it and tore it up. "What does this mean?" asked the young man. "It means that I will not charge myself with any message." "Why?" "Because you are coming with us." "I?" "Yes. You will see Mlle. Aymard to-morrow and ask for her hand in marriage." Jean Louis looked at Rénine with a rather disdainful air, as though he were thinking: "Here's a man who has not understood a word of what I've been explaining to him." But Hortense went up to Rénine: "Why do you say that?" "Because it will be as I say." "But you must have your reasons?" "One only; but it will be enough, provided this gentleman is so kind as to help me in my enquiries." "Enquiries? With what object?" asked the young man. "With the object of proving that your story is not quite accurate." Jean Louis took umbrage at this: "I must ask you to believe, monsieur, that I have not said a word which is not the exact truth." "I expressed myself badly," said Rénine, with great kindliness. "Certainly you have not said a word that does not agree with what you believe to be the exact truth. But the truth is not, cannot be what you believe it to be." The young man folded his arms: "In any case, monsieur, it seems likely that I should know the truth better than you do." "Why better? What happened on that tragic night can obviously be known to you only at secondhand. You have no proofs. Neither have Madame d'Imbleval and Madame Vaurois." "No proofs of what?" exclaimed Jean Louis, losing patience. "No proofs of the confusion that took place." "What! Why, it's an absolute certainty! The two children were laid in the same cradle, with no marks to distinguish one from the other; and the nurse was unable to tell...." "At least, that's her version of it," interrupted Rénine. "What's that? Her version? But you're accusing the woman." "I'm accusing her of nothing." "Yes, you are: you're accusing her of lying. And why should she lie? She had no interest in doing so; and her tears and despair are so much evidence of her good faith. For, after all, the two mothers were there ... they saw the woman weeping ... they questioned her.... And then, I repeat, what interest had she ...?" Jean Louis was greatly excited. Close beside him, Madame d'Imbleval and Madame Vaurois, who had no doubt been listening behind the doors and who had stealthily entered the room, stood stammering, in amazement: "No, no ... it's impossible.... We've questioned her over and over again. Why should she tell a lie?..." "Speak, monsieur, speak," Jean Louis enjoined. "Explain yourself. Give your reasons for trying to cast doubt upon an absolute truth!" "Because that truth is inadmissible," declared Rénine, raising his voice and growing excited in turn to the point of punctuating his remarks by thumping the table. "No, things don't happen like that. No, fate does not display those refinements of cruelty and chance is not added to chance with such reckless extravagance! It was already an unprecedented chance that, on the very night on which the doctor, his man-servant and his maid were out of the house, the two ladies should be seized with labour-pains at the same hour and should bring two sons into the world at the same time. Don't let us add a still more exceptional event! Enough of the uncanny! Enough of lamps that go out and candles that refuse to burn! No and again no, it is not admissable that a midwife should become confused in the essential details of her trade. However bewildered she may be by the unforeseen nature of the circumstances, a remnant of instinct is still on the alert, so that there is a place prepared for each child and each is kept distinct from the other. The first child is here, the second is there. Even if they are lying side by side, one is on the left and the other on the right. Even if they are wrapped in the same kind of binders, some little detail differs, a trifle which is recorded by the memory and which is inevitably recalled to the mind without any need of reflection. Confusion? I refuse to believe in it. Impossible to tell one from the other? It isn't true. In the world of fiction, yes, one can imagine all sorts of fantastic accidents and heap contradiction on contradiction. But, in the world of reality, at the very heart of reality, there is always a fixed point, a solid nucleus, about which the facts group themselves in accordance with a logical order. I therefore declare most positively that Nurse Boussignol could not have mixed up the two children." All this he said decisively, as though he had been present during the night in question; and so great was his power of persuasion that from the very first he shook the certainty of those who for more than a quarter of a century had never doubted. The two women and their son pressed round him and questioned him with breathless anxiety: "Then you think that she may know ... that she may be able to tell us....?" He corrected himself: "I don't say yes and I don't say no. All I say is that there was something in her behaviour during those hours that does not tally with her statements and with reality. All the vast and intolerable mystery that has weighed down upon you three arises not from a momentary lack of attention but from something of which we do not know, but of which she does. That is what I maintain; and that is what happened." Jean Louis said, in a husky voice: "She is alive.... She lives at Carhaix.... We can send for her...." Hortense at once proposed: "Would you like me to go for her? I will take the motor and bring her back with me. Where does she live?" "In the middle of the town, at a little draper's shop. The chauffeur will show you. Mlle. Boussignol: everybody knows her...." "And, whatever you do," added Rénine, "don't warn her in any way. If she's uneasy, so much the better. But don't let her know what we want with her." Twenty minutes passed in absolute silence. Rénine paced the room, in which the fine old furniture, the handsome tapestries, the well-bound books and pretty knick-knacks denoted a love of art and a seeking after style in Jean Louis. This room was really his. In the adjoining apartments on either side, through the open doors, Rénine was able to note the bad taste of the two mothers. He went up to Jean Louis and, in a low voice, asked: "Are they well off?" "Yes." "And you?" "They settled the manor-house upon me, with all the land around it, which makes me quite independent." "Have they any relations?" "Sisters, both of them." "With whom they could go to live?" "Yes; and they have sometimes thought of doing so. But there can't be any question of that. Once more, I assure you...." Meantime the car had returned. The two women jumped up hurriedly, ready to speak. "Leave it to me," said Rénine, "and don't be surprised by anything that I say. It's not a matter of asking her questions but of frightening her, of flurrying her.... The sudden attack," he added between his teeth. The car drove round the lawn and drew up outside the windows. Hortense sprang out and helped an old woman to alight, dressed in a fluted linen cap, a black velvet bodice and a heavy gathered skirt. The old woman entered in a great state of alarm. She had a pointed face, like a weasel's, with a prominent mouth full of protruding teeth. "What's the matter, Madame d'Imbleval?" she asked, timidly stepping into the room from which the doctor had once driven her. "Good day to you, Madame Vaurois." The ladies did not reply. Rénine came forward and said, sternly: "Mlle. Boussignol, I have been sent by the Paris police to throw light upon a tragedy which took place here twenty-seven years ago. I have just secured evidence that you have distorted the truth and that, as the result of your false declarations, the birth-certificate of one of the children born in the course of that night is inaccurate. Now false declarations in matters of birth-certificates are misdemeanours punishable by law. I shall therefore be obliged to take you to Paris to be interrogated ... unless you are prepared here and now to confess everything that might repair the consequences of your offence." The old maid was shaking in every limb. Her teeth were chattering. She was evidently incapable of opposing the least resistance to Rénine. "Are you ready to confess everything?" he asked. "Yes," she panted. "Without delay? I have to catch a train. The business must be settled immediately. If you show the least hesitation, I take you with me. Have you made up your mind to speak?" "Yes." He pointed to Jean Louis: "Whose son is this gentleman? Madame d'Imbleval's?" "No." "Madame Vaurois', therefore?" "No." A stupefied silence welcomed the two replies. "Explain yourself," Rénine commanded, looking at his watch. Then Madame Boussignol fell on her knees and said, in so low and dull a voice that they had to bend over her in order to catch the sense of what she was mumbling: "Some one came in the evening ... a gentleman with a new-born baby wrapped in blankets, which he wanted the doctor to look after. As the doctor wasn't there, he waited all night and it was he who did it all." "Did what?" asked Rénine. "What did he do? What happened?" "Well, what happened was that it was not one child but the two of them that died: Madame d'Imbleval's and Madame Vaurois' too, both in convulsions. Then the gentleman, seeing this, said, 'This shows me where my duty lies. I must seize this opportunity of making sure that my own boy shall be happy and well cared for. Put him in the place of one of the dead children.' He offered me a big sum of money, saying that this one payment would save him the expense of providing for his child every month; and I accepted. Only, I did not know in whose place to put him and whether to say that the boy was Louis d'Imbleval or Jean Vaurois. The gentleman thought a moment and said neither. Then he explained to me what I was to do and what I was to say after he had gone. And, while I was dressing his boy in vest and binders the same as one of the dead children, he wrapped the other in the blankets he had brought with him and went out into the night." Mlle. Boussignol bent her head and wept. After a moment, Rénine said: "Your deposition agrees with the result of my investigations." "Can I go?" "Yes." "And is it over, as far as I'm concerned? They won't be talking about this all over the district?" "No. Oh, just one more question: do you know the man's name?" "No. He didn't tell me his name." "Have you ever seen him since?" "Never." "Have you anything more to say?" "No." "Are you prepared to sign the written text of your confession?" "Yes." "Very well. I shall send for you in a week or two. Till then, not a word to anybody." He saw her to the door and closed it after her. When he returned, Jean Louis was between the two old ladies and all three were holding hands. The bond of hatred and wretchedness which had bound them had suddenly snapped; and this rupture, without requiring them to reflect upon the matter, filled them with a gentle tranquillity of which they were hardly conscious, but which made them serious and thoughtful. "Let's rush things," said Rénine to Hortense. "This is the decisive moment of the battle. We must get Jean Louis on board." Hortense seemed preoccupied. She whispered: "Why did you let the woman go? Were you satisfied with her statement?" "I don't need to be satisfied. She told us what happened. What more do you want?" "Nothing.... I don't know...." "We'll talk about it later, my dear. For the moment, I repeat, we must get Jean Louis on board. And immediately.... Otherwise...." He turned to the young man: "You agree with me, don't you, that, things being as they are, it is best for you and Madame Vaurois and Madame d'Imbleval to separate for a time? That will enable you all to see matters more clearly and to decide in perfect freedom what is to be done. Come with us, monsieur. The most pressing thing is to save Geneviève Aymard, your _fiancée_." Jean Louis stood perplexed and undecided. Rénine turned to the two women: "That is your opinion too, I am sure, ladies?" They nodded. "You see, monsieur," he said to Jean Louis, "we are all agreed. In great crises, there is nothing like separation ... a few days' respite. Quickly now, monsieur." And, without giving him time to hesitate, he drove him towards his bedroom to pack up. Half an hour later, Jean Louis left the manor-house with his new friends. "And he won't go back until he's married," said Rénine to Hortense, as they were waiting at Carhaix station, to which the car had taken them, while Jean Louis was attending to his luggage. "Everything's for the best. Are you satisfied?" "Yes, Geneviève will be glad," she replied, absently. When they had taken their seats in the train, Rénine and she repaired to the dining-car. Rénine, who had asked Hortense several questions to which she had replied only in monosyllables, protested: "What's the matter with you, my child? You look worried!" "I? Not at all!" "Yes, yes, I know you. Now, no secrets, no mysteries!" She smiled: "Well, since you insist on knowing if I am satisfied, I am bound to admit that of course I am ... as regards my friend Geneviève, but that, in another respect--from the point of view of the adventure--I have an uncomfortable sort of feeling...." "To speak frankly, I haven't 'staggered' you this time?" "Not very much." "I seem to you to have played a secondary part. For, after all, what have I done? We arrived. We listened to Jean Louis' tale of woe. I had a midwife fetched. And that was all." "Exactly. I want to know if that _was_ all; and I'm not quite sure. To tell you the truth, our other adventures left behind them an impression which was--how shall I put it?--more definite, clearer." "And this one strikes you as obscure?" "Obscure, yes, and incomplete." "But in what way?" "I don't know. Perhaps it has something to do with that woman's confession. Yes, very likely that is it. It was all so unexpected and so short." "Well, of course, I cut it short, as you can readily imagine!" said Rénine, laughing. "We didn't want too many explanations." "What do you mean?" "Why, if she had given her explanations with too much detail, we should have ended by doubting what she was telling us." "By doubting it?" "Well, hang it all, the story is a trifle far-fetched! That fellow arriving at night, with a live baby in his pocket, and going away with a dead one: the thing hardly holds water. But you see, my dear, I hadn't much time to coach the unfortunate woman in her part." Hortense stared at him in amazement: "What on earth do you mean?" "Well, you know how dull-witted these countrywomen are. And she and I had no time to spare. So we worked out a little scene in a hurry ... and she really didn't act it so badly. It was all in the right key: terror, _tremolo_, tears...." "Is it possible?" murmured Hortense. "Is it possible? You had seen her beforehand?" "I had to, of course." "But when?" "This morning, when we arrived. While you were titivating yourself at the hotel at Carhaix, I was running round to see what information I could pick up. As you may imagine, everybody in the district knows the d'Imbleval-Vaurois story. I was at once directed to the former midwife, Mlle. Boussignol. With Mlle. Boussignol it did not take long. Three minutes to settle a new version of what had happened and ten thousand francs to induce her to repeat that ... more or less credible ... version to the people at the manor-house." "A quite incredible version!" "Not so bad as all that, my child, seeing that you believed it ... and the others too. And that was the essential thing. What I had to do was to demolish at one blow a truth which had been twenty-seven years in existence and which was all the more firmly established because it was founded on actual facts. That was why I went for it with all my might and attacked it by sheer force of eloquence. Impossible to identify the children? I deny it. Inevitable confusion? It's not true. 'You're all three,' I say, 'the victims of something which I don't know but which it is your duty to clear up!' 'That's easily done,' says Jean Louis, whose conviction is at once shaken. 'Let's send for Mlle. Boussignol.' 'Right! Let's send for her.' Whereupon Mlle. Boussignol arrives and mumbles out the little speech which I have taught her. Sensation! General stupefaction ... of which I take advantage to carry off our young man!" Hortense shook her head: "But they'll get over it, all three of them, on thinking!" "Never! Never! They will have their doubts, perhaps. But they will never consent to feel certain! They will never agree to think! Use your imagination! Here are three people whom I have rescued from the hell in which they have been floundering for a quarter of a century. Do you think they're going back to it? Here are three people who, from weakness or a false sense of duty, had not the courage to escape. Do you think that they won't cling like grim death to the liberty which I'm giving them? Nonsense! Why, they would have swallowed a hoax twice as difficult to digest as that which Mlle. Boussignol dished up for them! After all, my version was no more absurd than the truth. On the contrary. And they swallowed it whole! Look at this: before we left, I heard Madame d'Imbleval and Madame Vaurois speak of an immediate removal. They were already becoming quite affectionate at the thought of seeing the last of each other." "But what about Jean Louis?" "Jean Louis? Why, he was fed up with his two mothers! By Jingo, one can't do with two mothers in a life-time! What a situation! And when one has the luck to be able to choose between having two mothers or none at all, why, bless me, one doesn't hesitate! And, besides, Jean Louis is in love with Geneviève." He laughed. "And he loves her well enough, I hope and trust, not to inflict two mothers-in-law upon her! Come, you may be easy in your mind. Your friend's happiness is assured; and that is all you asked for. All that matters is the object which we achieve and not the more or less peculiar nature of the methods which we employ. And, if some adventures are wound up and some mysteries elucidated by looking for and finding cigarette-ends, or incendiary water-bottles and blazing hat-boxes as on our last expedition, others call for psychology and for purely psychological solutions. I have spoken. And I charge you to be silent." "Silent?" "Yes, there's a man and woman sitting behind us who seem to be saying something uncommonly interesting." "But they're talking in whispers." "Just so. When people talk in whispers, it's always about something shady." He lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair. Hortense listened, but in vain. As for him, he was emitting little slow puffs of smoke. Fifteen minutes later, the train stopped and the man and woman got out. "Pity," said Rénine, "that I don't know their names or where they're going. But I know where to find them. My dear, we have a new adventure before us." Hortense protested: "Oh, no, please, not yet!... Give me a little rest!... And oughtn't we to think of Geneviève?" He seemed greatly surprised: "Why, all that's over and done with! Do you mean to say you want to waste any more time over that old story? Well, I for my part confess that I've lost all interest in the man with the two mammas." And this was said in such a comical tone and with such diverting sincerity that Hortense was once more seized with a fit of giggling. Laughter alone was able to relax her exasperated nerves and to distract her from so many contradictory emotions. IV THE TELL-TALE FILM "Do look at the man who's playing the butler," said Serge Rénine. "What is there peculiar about him?" asked Hortense. They were sitting in the balcony at a picture-palace, to which Hortense had asked to be taken so that she might see on the screen the daughter of a lady, now dead, who used to give her piano-lessons. Rose Andrée, a lovely girl with lissome movements and a smiling face, was that evening figuring in a new film, _The Happy Princess_, which she lit up with her high spirits and her warm, glowing beauty. Rénine made no direct reply, but, during a pause in the performance, continued: "I sometimes console myself for an indifferent film by watching the subordinate characters. It seems to me that those poor devils, who are made to rehearse certain scenes ten or twenty times over, must often be thinking of other things than their parts at the time of the final exposure. And it's great fun noting those little moments of distraction which reveal something of their temperament, of their instinct self. As, for instance, in the case of that butler: look!" The screen now showed a luxuriously served table. The Happy Princess sat at the head, surrounded by all her suitors. Half-a-dozen footmen moved about the room, under the orders of the butler, a big fellow with a dull, coarse face, a common appearance and a pair of enormous eyebrows which met across his forehead in a single line. "He looks a brute," said Hortense, "but what do you see in him that's peculiar?" "Just note how he gazes at the princess and tell me if he doesn't stare at her oftener than he ought to." "I really haven't noticed anything, so far," said Hortense. "Why, of course he does!" Serge Rénine declared. "It is quite obvious that in actual life he entertains for Rose Andrée personal feelings which are quite out of place in a nameless servant. It is possible that, in real life, no one has any idea of such a thing; but, on the screen, when he is not watching himself, or when he thinks that the actors at rehearsal cannot see him, his secret escapes him. Look...." The man was standing still. It was the end of dinner. The princess was drinking a glass of champagne and he was gloating over her with his glittering eyes half-hidden behind their heavy lids. Twice again they surprised in his face those strange expressions to which Rénine ascribed an emotional meaning which Hortense refused to see: "It's just his way of looking at people," she said. The first part of the film ended. There were two parts, divided by an _entr'acte_. The notice on the programme stated that "a year had elapsed and that the Happy Princess was living in a pretty Norman cottage, all hung with creepers, together with her husband, a poor musician." The princess was still happy, as was evident on the screen, still as attractive as ever and still besieged by the greatest variety of suitors. Nobles and commoners, peasants and financiers, men of all kinds fell swooning at her feet; and prominent among them was a sort of boorish solitary, a shaggy, half-wild woodcutter, whom she met whenever she went out for a walk. Armed with his axe, a formidable, crafty being, he prowled around the cottage; and the spectators felt with a sense of dismay that a peril was hanging over the Happy Princess' head. "Look at that!" whispered Rénine. "Do you realise who the man of the woods is?" "No." "Simply the butler. The same actor is doubling the two parts." In fact, notwithstanding the new figure which he cut, the butler's movements and postures were apparent under the heavy gait and rounded shoulders of the woodcutter, even as under the unkempt beard and long, thick hair the once clean-shaven face was visible with the cruel expression and the bushy line of the eyebrows. The princess, in the background, was seen to emerge from the thatched cottage. The man hid himself behind a clump of trees. From time to time, the screen displayed, on an enormously enlarged scale, his fiercely rolling eyes or his murderous hands with their huge thumbs. "The man frightens me," said Hortense. "He is really terrifying." "Because he's acting on his own account," said Rénine. "You must understand that, in the space of three or four months that appears to separate the dates at which the two films were made, his passion has made progress; and to him it is not the princess who is coming but Rose Andrée." The man crouched low. The victim approached, gaily and unsuspectingly. She passed, heard a sound, stopped and looked about her with a smiling air which became attentive, then uneasy, and then more and more anxious. The woodcutter had pushed aside the branches and was coming through the copse. They were now standing face to face. He opened his arms as though to seize her. She tried to scream, to call out for help; but the arms closed around her before she could offer the slightest resistance. Then he threw her over his shoulder and began to run. "Are you satisfied?" whispered Rénine. "Do you think that this fourth-rate actor would have had all that strength and energy if it had been any other woman than Rose Andrée?" Meanwhile the woodcutter was crossing the skirt of a forest and plunging through great trees and masses of rocks. After setting the princess down, he cleared the entrance to a cave which the daylight entered by a slanting crevice. A succession of views displayed the husband's despair, the search and the discovery of some small branches which had been broken by the princess and which showed the path that had been taken. Then came the final scene, with the terrible struggle between the man and the woman when the woman, vanquished and exhausted, is flung to the ground, the sudden arrival of the husband and the shot that puts an end to the brute's life.... * * * * * "Well," said Rénine, when they had left the picture-palace--and he spoke with a certain gravity--"I maintain that the daughter of your old piano-teacher has been in danger ever since the day when that last scene was filmed. I maintain that this scene represents not so much an assault by the man of the woods on the Happy Princess as a violent and frantic attack by an actor on the woman he desires. Certainly it all happened within the bounds prescribed by the part and nobody saw anything in it--nobody except perhaps Rose Andrée herself--but I, for my part, have detected flashes of passion which leave not a doubt in my mind. I have seen glances that betrayed the wish and even the intention to commit murder. I have seen clenched hands, ready to strangle, in short, a score of details which prove to me that, at that time, the man's instinct was urging him to kill the woman who could never be his." "And it all amounts to what?" "We must protect Rose Andrée if she is still in danger and if it is not too late." "And to do this?" "We must get hold of further information." "From whom?" "From the World's Cinema Company, which made the film. I will go to them to-morrow morning. Will you wait for me in your flat about lunch-time?" At heart, Hortense was still sceptical. All these manifestations of passion, of which she denied neither the ardour nor the ferocity, seemed to her to be the rational behaviour of a good actor. She had seen nothing of the terrible tragedy which Rénine contended that he had divined; and she wondered whether he was not erring through an excess of imagination. "Well," she asked, next day, not without a touch of irony, "how far have you got? Have you made a good bag? Anything mysterious? Anything thrilling?" "Pretty good." "Oh, really? And your so-called lover...." "Is one Dalbrèque, originally a scene-painter, who played the butler in the first part of the film and the man of the woods in the second and was so much appreciated that they engaged him for a new film. Consequently, he has been acting lately. He was acting near Paris. But, on the morning of Friday the 18th of September, he broke into the garage of the World's Cinema Company and made off with a magnificent car and forty thousand francs in money. Information was lodged with the police; and on the Sunday the car was found a little way outside Dreux. And up to now the enquiry has revealed two things, which will appear in the papers to-morrow: first, Dalbrèque is alleged to have committed a murder which created a great stir last year, the murder of Bourguet, the jeweller; secondly, on the day after his two robberies, Dalbrèque was driving through Le Havre in a motor-car with two men who helped him to carry off, in broad daylight and in a crowded street, a lady whose identity has not yet been discovered." "Rose Andrée?" asked Hortense, uneasily. "I have just been to Rose Andrée's: the World's Cinema Company gave me her address. Rose Andrée spent this summer travelling and then stayed for a fortnight in the Seine-inférieure, where she has a small place of her own, the actual cottage in _The Happy Princess_. On receiving an invitation from America to do a film there, she came back to Paris, registered her luggage at the Gare Saint-Lazare and left on Friday the 18th of September, intending to sleep at Le Havre and take Saturday's boat." "Friday the 18th," muttered Hortense, "the same day on which that man...." "And it was on the Saturday that a woman was carried off by him at Le Havre. I looked in at the Compagnie Transatlantique and a brief investigation showed that Rose Andrée had booked a cabin but that the cabin remained unoccupied. The passenger did not turn up." "This is frightful. She has been carried off. You were right." "I fear so." "What have you decided to do?" "Adolphe, my chauffeur, is outside with the car. Let us go to Le Havre. Up to the present, Rose Andrée's disappearance does not seem to have become known. Before it does and before the police identify the woman carried off by Dalbrèque with the woman who did not turn up to claim her cabin, we will get on Rose Andrée's track." There was not much said on the journey. At four o'clock Hortense and Rénine reached Rouen. But here Rénine changed his road. "Adolphe, take the left bank of the Seine." He unfolded a motoring-map on his knees and, tracing the route with his finger, showed Hortense that, if you draw a line from Le Havre, or rather from Quillebeuf, where the road crosses the Seine, to Dreux, where the stolen car was found, this line passes through Routot, a market-town lying west of the forest of Brotonne: "Now it was in the forest of Brotonne," he continued, "according to what I heard, that the second part of _The Happy Princess_ was filmed. And the question that arises is this: having got hold of Rose Andrée, would it not occur to Dalbrèque, when passing near the forest on the Saturday night, to hide his prey there, while his two accomplices went on to Dreux and from there returned to Paris? The cave was quite near. Was he not bound to go to it? How should he do otherwise? Wasn't it while running to this cave, a few months ago, that he held in his arms, against his breast, within reach of his lips, the woman whom he loved and whom he has now conquered? By every rule of fate and logic, the adventure is being repeated all over again ... but this time in reality. Rose Andrée is a captive. There is no hope of rescue. The forest is vast and lonely. That night, or on one of the following nights, Rose Andrée must surrender ... or die." Hortense gave a shudder: "We shall be too late. Besides, you don't suppose that he's keeping her a prisoner?" "Certainly not. The place I have in mind is at a cross-roads and is not a safe retreat. But we may discover some clue or other." The shades of night were falling from the tall trees when they entered the ancient forest of Brotonne, full of Roman remains and mediaeval relics. Rénine knew the forest well and remembered that near a famous oak, known as the Wine-cask, there was a cave which must be the cave of the Happy Princess. He found it easily, switched on his electric torch, rummaged in the dark corners and brought Hortense back to the entrance: "There's nothing inside," he said, "but here is the evidence which I was looking for. Dalbrèque was obsessed by the recollection of the film, but so was Rose Andrée. The Happy Princess had broken off the tips of the branches on the way through the forest. Rose Andrée has managed to break off some to the right of this opening, in the hope that she would be discovered as on the first occasion." "Yes," said Hortense, "it's a proof that she has been here; but the proof is three weeks old. Since that time...." "Since that time, she is either dead and buried under a heap of leaves or else alive in some hole even lonelier than this." "If so, where is he?" Rénine pricked up his ears. Repeated blows of the axe were sounding from some distance, no doubt coming from a part of the forest that was being cleared. "He?" said Rénine, "I wonder whether he may not have continued to behave under the influence of the film and whether the man of the woods in _The Happy Princess_ has not quite naturally resumed his calling. For how is the man to live, to obtain his food, without attracting attention? He will have found a job." "We can't make sure of that." "We might, by questioning the woodcutters whom we can hear." The car took them by a forest-road to another cross-roads where they entered on foot a track which was deeply rutted by waggon-wheels. The sound of axes ceased. After walking for a quarter of an hour, they met a dozen men who, having finished work for the day, were returning to the villages near by. "Will this path take us to Routot?" ask Rénine, in order to open a conversation with them. "No, you're turning your backs on it," said one of the men, gruffly. And he went on, accompanied by his mates. Hortense and Rénine stood rooted to the spot. They had recognized the butler. His cheeks and chin were shaved, but his upper lip was covered by a black moustache, evidently dyed. The eyebrows no longer met and were reduced to normal dimensions. * * * * * Thus, in less than twenty hours, acting on the vague hints supplied by the bearing of a film-actor, Serge Rénine had touched the very heart of the tragedy by means of purely psychological arguments. "Rose Andrée is alive," he said. "Otherwise Dalbrèque would have left the country. The poor thing must be imprisoned and bound up; and he takes her some food at night." "We will save her, won't we?" "Certainly, by keeping a watch on him and, if necessary, but in the last resort, compelling him by force to give up his secret." They followed the woodcutter at a distance and, on the pretext that the car needed overhauling, engaged rooms in the principal inn at Routot. Attached to the inn was a small café from which they were separated by the entrance to the yard and above which were two rooms, reached by a wooden outer staircase, at one side. Dalbrèque occupied one of these rooms and Rénine took the other for his chauffeur. Next morning he learnt from Adolphe that Dalbrèque, on the previous evening, after all the lights were out, had carried down a bicycle from his room and mounted it and had not returned until shortly before sunrise. The bicycle tracks led Rénine to the uninhabited Château des Landes, five miles from the village. They disappeared in a rocky path which ran beside the park down to the Seine, opposite the Jumièges peninsula. Next night, he took up his position there. At eleven o'clock, Dalbrèque climbed a bank, scrambled over a wire fence, hid his bicycle under the branches and moved away. It seemed impossible to follow him in the pitchy darkness, on a mossy soil that muffled the sound of footsteps. Rénine did not make the attempt; but, at daybreak, he came with his chauffeur and hunted through the park all the morning. Though the park, which covered the side of a hill and was bounded below by the river, was not very large, he found no clue which gave him any reason to suppose that Rose Andrée was imprisoned there. He therefore went back to the village, with the firm intention of taking action that evening and employing force: "This state of things cannot go on," he said to Hortense. "I must rescue Rose Andrée at all costs and save her from that ruffian's clutches. He must be made to speak. He must. Otherwise there's a danger that we may be too late." That day was Sunday; and Dalbrèque did not go to work. He did not leave his room except for lunch and went upstairs again immediately afterwards. But at three o'clock Rénine and Hortense, who were keeping a watch on him from the inn, saw him come down the wooden staircase, with his bicycle on his shoulder. Leaning it against the bottom step, he inflated the tires and fastened to the handle-bar a rather bulky object wrapped in a newspaper. "By Jove!" muttered Rénine. "What's the matter?" In front of the café was a small terrace bordered on the right and left by spindle-trees planted in boxes, which were connected by a paling. Behind the shrubs, sitting on a bank but stooping forward so that they could see Dalbrèque through the branches, were four men. "Police!" said Rénine. "What bad luck! If those fellows take a hand, they will spoil everything." "Why? On the contrary, I should have thought...." "Yes, they will. They will put Dalbrèque out of the way ... and then? Will that give us Rose Andrée?" Dalbrèque had finished his preparations. Just as he was mounting his bicycle, the detectives rose in a body, ready to make a dash for him. But Dalbrèque, though quite unconscious of their presence, changed his mind and went back to his room as though he had forgotten something. "Now's the time!" said Rénine. "I'm going to risk it. But it's a difficult situation and I've no great hopes." He went out into the yard and, at a moment when the detectives were not looking, ran up the staircase, as was only natural if he wished to give an order to his chauffeur. But he had no sooner reached the rustic balcony at the back of the house, which gave admission to the two bedrooms than he stopped. Dalbrèque's door was open. Rénine walked in. Dalbrèque stepped back, at once assuming the defensive: "What do you want? Who said you could...." "Silence!" whispered Rénine, with an imperious gesture. "It's all up with you!" "What are you talking about?" growled the man, angrily. "Lean out of your window. There are four men below on the watch for you to leave, four detectives." Dalbrèque leant over the terrace and muttered an oath: "On the watch for me?" he said, turning round. "What do I care?" "They have a warrant." He folded his arms: "Shut up with your piffle! A warrant! What's that to me?" "Listen," said Rénine, "and let us waste no time. It's urgent. Your name's Dalbrèque, or, at least, that's the name under which you acted in _The Happy Princess_ and under which the police are looking for you as being the murderer of Bourguet the jeweller, the man who stole a motor-car and forty thousand francs from the World's Cinema Company and the man who abducted a woman at Le Havre. All this is known and proved ... and here's the upshot. Four men downstairs. Myself here, my chauffeur in the next room. You're done for. Do you want me to save you?" Dalbrèque gave his adversary a long look: "Who are you?" "A friend of Rose Andrée's," said Rénine. The other started and, to some extent dropping his mask, retorted: "What are your conditions?" "Rose Andrée, whom you have abducted and tormented, is dying in some hole or corner. Where is she?" A strange thing occurred and impressed Rénine. Dalbrèque's face, usually so common, was lit up by a smile that made it almost attractive. But this was only a flashing vision: the man immediately resumed his hard and impassive expression. "And suppose I refuse to speak?" he said. "So much the worse for you. It means your arrest." "I dare say; but it means the death of Rose Andrée. Who will release her?" "You. You will speak now, or in an hour, or two hours hence at least. You will never have the heart to keep silent and let her die." Dalbrèque shrugged his shoulders. Then, raising his hand, he said: "I swear on my life that, if they arrest me, not a word will leave my lips." "What then?" "Then save me. We will meet this evening at the entrance to the Parc des Landes and say what we have to say." "Why not at once?" "I have spoken." "Will you be there?" "I shall be there." Rénine reflected. There was something in all this that he failed to grasp. In any case, the frightful danger that threatened Rose Andrée dominated the whole situation; and Rénine was not the man to despise this threat and to persist out of vanity in a perilous course. Rose Andrée's life came before everything. He struck several blows on the wall of the next bedroom and called his chauffeur. "Adolphe, is the car ready?" "Yes, sir." "Set her going and pull her up in front of the terrace outside the café, right against the boxes so as to block the exit. As for you," he continued, addressing Dalbrèque, "you're to jump on your machine and, instead of making off along the road, cross the yard. At the end of the yard is a passage leading into a lane. There you will be free. But no hesitation and no blundering ... else you'll get yourself nabbed. Good luck to you." He waited till the car was drawn up in accordance with his instructions and, when he reached it, he began to question his chauffeur, in order to attract the detectives' attention. One of them, however, having cast a glance through the spindle-trees, caught sight of Dalbrèque just as he reached the bottom of the staircase. He gave the alarm and darted forward, followed by his comrades, but had to run round the car and bumped into the chauffeur, which gave Dalbrèque time to mount his bicycle and cross the yard unimpeded. He thus had some seconds' start. Unfortunately for him as he was about to enter the passage at the back, a troop of boys and girls appeared, returning from vespers. On hearing the shouts of the detectives, they spread their arms in front of the fugitive, who gave two or three lurches and ended by falling. Cries of triumph were raised: "Lay hold of him! Stop him!" roared the detectives as they rushed forward. Rénine, seeing that the game was up, ran after the others and called out: "Stop him!" He came up with them just as Dalbrèque, after regaining his feet, knocked one of the policemen down and levelled his revolver. Rénine snatched it out of his hands. But the two other detectives, startled, had also produced their weapons. They fired. Dalbrèque, hit in the leg and the chest, pitched forward and fell. "Thank you, sir," said the inspector to Rénine introducing himself. "We owe a lot to you." "It seems to me that you've done for the fellow," said Rénine. "Who is he?" "One Dalbrèque, a scoundrel for whom we were looking." Rénine was beside himself. Hortense had joined him by this time; and he growled: "The silly fools! Now they've killed him!" "Oh, it isn't possible!" "We shall see. But, whether he's dead or alive, it's death to Rose Andrée. How are we to trace her? And what chance have we of finding the place--some inaccessible retreat--where the poor thing is dying of misery and starvation?" The detectives and peasants had moved away, bearing Dalbrèque with them on an improvised stretcher. Rénine, who had at first followed them, in order to find out what was going to happen, changed his mind and was now standing with his eyes fixed on the ground. The fall of the bicycle had unfastened the parcel which Dalbrèque had tied to the handle-bar; and the newspaper had burst, revealing its contents, a tin saucepan, rusty, dented, battered and useless. "What's the meaning of this?" he muttered. "What was the idea?..." He picked it up examined it. Then he gave a grin and a click of the tongue and chuckled, slowly: "Don't move an eyelash, my dear. Let all these people clear off. All this is no business of ours, is it? The troubles of police don't concern us. We are two motorists travelling for our pleasure and collecting old saucepans if we feel so inclined." He called his chauffeur: "Adolphe, take us to the Parc des Landes by a roundabout road." Half an hour later they reached the sunken track and began to scramble down it on foot beside the wooded slopes. The Seine, which was very low at this time of day, was lapping against a little jetty near which lay a worm-eaten, mouldering boat, full of puddles of water. Rénine stepped into the boat and at once began to bale out the puddles with his saucepan. He then drew the boat alongside of the jetty, helped Hortense in and used the one oar which he shipped in a gap in the stern to work her into midstream: "I believe I'm there!" he said, with a laugh. "The worst that can happen to us is to get our feet wet, for our craft leaks a trifle. But haven't we a saucepan? Oh, blessings on that useful utensil! Almost as soon as I set eyes upon it, I remembered that people use those articles to bale out the bottoms of leaky boats. Why, there was bound to be a boat in the Landes woods! How was it I never thought of that? But of course Dalbrèque made use of her to cross the Seine! And, as she made water, he brought a saucepan." "Then Rose Andrée ...?" asked Hortense. "Is a prisoner on the other bank, on the Jumièges peninsula. You see the famous abbey from here." They ran aground on a beach of big pebbles covered with slime. "And it can't be very far away," he added. "Dalbrèque did not spend the whole night running about." A tow-path followed the deserted bank. Another path led away from it. They chose the second and, passing between orchards enclosed by hedges, came to a landscape that seemed strangely familiar to them. Where had they seen that pool before, with the willows overhanging it? And where had they seen that abandoned hovel? Suddenly both of them stopped with one accord: "Oh!" said Hortense. "I can hardly believe my eyes!" Opposite them was the white gate of a large orchard, at the back of which, among groups of old, gnarled apple-trees, appeared a cottage with blue shutters, the cottage of the Happy Princess. "Of course!" cried Rénine. "And I ought to have known it, considering that the film showed both this cottage and the forest close by. And isn't everything happening exactly as in _The Happy Princess_? Isn't Dalbrèque dominated by the memory of it? The house, which is certainly the one in which Rose Andrée spent the summer, was empty. He has shut her up there." "But the house, you told me, was in the Seine-inférieure." "Well, so are we! To the left of the river, the Eure and the forest of Brotonne; to the right, the Seine-inférieure. But between them is the obstacle of the river, which is why I didn't connect the two. A hundred and fifty yards of water form a more effective division than dozens of miles." The gate was locked. They got through the hedge a little lower down and walked towards the house, which was screened on one side by an old wall shaggy with ivy and roofed with thatch. "It seems as if there was somebody there," said Hortense. "Didn't I hear the sound of a window?" "Listen." Some one struck a few chords on a piano. Then a voice arose, a woman's voice softly and solemnly singing a ballad that thrilled with restrained passion. The woman's whole soul seemed to breathe itself into the melodious notes. They walked on. The wall concealed them from view, but they saw a sitting-room furnished with bright wall-paper and a blue Roman carpet. The throbbing voice ceased. The piano ended with a last chord; and the singer rose and appeared framed in the window. "Rose Andrée!" whispered Hortense. "Well!" said Rénine, admitting his astonishment. "This is the last thing that I expected! Rose Andrée! Rose Andrée at liberty! And singing Massenet in the sitting room of her cottage!" "What does it all mean? Do you understand?" "Yes, but it has taken me long enough! But how could we have guessed ...?" Although they had never seen her except on the screen, they had not the least doubt that this was she. It was really Rose Andrée, or rather, the Happy Princess, whom they had admired a few days before, amidst the furniture of that very sitting-room or on the threshold of that very cottage. She was wearing the same dress; her hair was done in the same way; she had on the same bangles and necklaces as in _The Happy Princess_; and her lovely face, with its rosy cheeks and laughing eyes, bore the same look of joy and serenity. Some sound must have caught her ear, for she leant over towards a clump of shrubs beside the cottage and whispered into the silent garden: "Georges ... Georges ... Is that you, my darling?" Receiving no reply, she drew herself up and stood smiling at the happy thoughts that seemed to flood her being. But a door opened at the back of the room and an old peasant woman entered with a tray laden with bread, butter and milk: "Here, Rose, my pretty one, I've brought you your supper. Milk fresh from the cow...." And, putting down the tray, she continued: "Aren't you afraid, Rose, of the chill of the night air? Perhaps you're expecting your sweetheart?" "I haven't a sweetheart, my dear old Catherine." "What next!" said the old woman, laughing. "Only this morning there were footprints under the window that didn't look at all proper!" "A burglar's footprints perhaps, Catherine." "Well, I don't say they weren't, Rose dear, especially as in your calling you have a lot of people round you whom it's well to be careful of. For instance, your friend Dalbrèque, eh? Nice goings on his are! You saw the paper yesterday. A fellow who has robbed and murdered people and carried off a woman at Le Havre ...!" Hortense and Rénine would have much liked to know what Rose Andrée thought of the revelations, but she had turned her back to them and was sitting at her supper; and the window was now closed, so that they could neither hear her reply nor see the expression of her features. They waited for a moment. Hortense was listening with an anxious face. But Rénine began to laugh: "Very funny, really funny! And such an unexpected ending! And we who were hunting for her in some cave or damp cellar, a horrible tomb where the poor thing was dying of hunger! It's a fact, she knew the terrors of that first night of captivity; and I maintain that, on that first night, she was flung, half-dead, into the cave. Only, there you are: the next morning she was alive! One night was enough to tame the little rogue and to make Dalbrèque as handsome as Prince Charming in her eyes! For see the difference. On the films or in novels, the Happy Princesses resist or commit suicide. But in real life ... oh, woman, woman!" "Yes," said Hortense, "but the man she loves is almost certainly dead." "And a good thing too! It would be the best solution. What would be the outcome of this criminal love for a thief and murderer?" A few minutes passed. Then, amid the peaceful silence of the waning day, mingled with the first shadows of the twilight, they again heard the grating of the window, which was cautiously opened. Rose Andrée leant over the garden and waited, with her eyes turned to the wall, as though she saw something there. Presently, Rénine shook the ivy-branches. "Ah!" she said. "This time I know you're there! Yes, the ivy's moving. Georges, Georges darling, why do you keep me waiting? Catherine has gone. I am all alone...." She had knelt down and was distractedly stretching out her shapely arms covered with bangles which clashed with a metallic sound: "Georges!... Georges!..." Her every movement, the thrill of her voice, her whole being expressed desire and love. Hortense, deeply touched, could not help saying: "How the poor thing loves him! If she but knew...." "Ah!" cried the girl. "You've spoken. You're there, and you want me to come to you, don't you? Here I am, Georges!..." She climbed over the window-ledge and began to run, while Rénine went round the wall and advanced to meet her. She stopped short in front of him and stood choking at the sight of this man and woman whom she did not know and who were stepping out of the very shadow from which her beloved appeared to her each night. Rénine bowed, gave his name and introduced his companion: "Madame Hortense Daniel, a pupil and friend of your mother's." Still motionless with stupefaction, her features drawn, she stammered: "You know who I am?... And you were there just now?... You heard what I was saying ...?" Rénine, without hesitating or pausing in his speech, said: "You are Rose Andrée, the Happy Princess. We saw you on the films the other evening; and circumstances led us to set out in search of you ... to Le Havre, where you were abducted on the day when you were to have left for America, and to the forest of Brotonne, where you were imprisoned." She protested eagerly, with a forced laugh: "What is all this? I have not been to Le Havre. I came straight here. Abducted? Imprisoned? What nonsense!" "Yes, imprisoned, in the same cave as the Happy Princess; and you broke off some branches to the right of the cave." "But how absurd! Who would have abducted me? I have no enemy." "There is a man in love with you: the one whom you were expecting just now." "Yes, my lover," she said, proudly. "Have I not the right to receive whom I like?" "You have the right; you are a free agent. But the man who comes to see you every evening is wanted by the police. His name is Georges Dalbrèque. He killed Bourguet the jeweller." The accusation made her start with indignation and she exclaimed: "It's a lie! An infamous fabrication of the newspapers! Georges was in Paris on the night of the murder. He can prove it." "He stole a motor car and forty thousand francs in notes." She retorted vehemently: "The motor-car was taken back by his friends and the notes will be restored. He never touched them. My leaving for America had made him lose his head." "Very well. I am quite willing to believe everything that you say. But the police may show less faith in these statements and less indulgence." She became suddenly uneasy and faltered: "The police.... There's nothing to fear from them.... They won't know...." "Where to find him? I succeeded, at all events. He's working as a woodcutter, in the forest of Brotonne." "Yes, but ... you ... that was an accident ... whereas the police...." The words left her lips with the greatest difficulty. Her voice was trembling. And suddenly she rushed at Rénine, stammering: "He is arrested?... I am sure of it!... And you have come to tell me.... Arrested! Wounded! Dead perhaps?... Oh, please, please!..." She had no strength left. All her pride, all the certainty of her great love gave way to an immense despair and she sobbed out. "No, he's not dead, is he? No, I feel that he's not dead. Oh, sir, how unjust it all is! He's the gentlest man, the best that ever lived. He has changed my whole life. Everything is different since I began to love him. And I love him so! I love him! I want to go to him. Take me to him. I want them to arrest me too. I love him.... I could not live without him...." An impulse of sympathy made Hortense put her arms around the girl's neck and say warmly: "Yes, come. He is not dead, I am sure, only wounded; and Prince Rénine will save him. You will, won't you, Rénine?... Come. Make up a story for your servant: say that you're going somewhere by train and that she is not to tell anybody. Be quick. Put on a wrap. We will save him, I swear we will." Rose Andrée went indoors and returned almost at once, disguised beyond recognition in a long cloak and a veil that shrouded her face; and they all took the road back to Routot. At the inn, Rose Andrée passed as a friend whom they had been to fetch in the neighbourhood and were taking to Paris with them. Rénine ran out to make enquiries and came back to the two women. "It's all right. Dalbrèque is alive. They have put him to bed in a private room at the mayor's offices. He has a broken leg and a rather high temperature; but all the same they expect to move him to Rouen to-morrow and they have telephoned there for a motor-car." "And then?" asked Rose Andrée, anxiously. Rénine smiled: "Why, then we shall leave at daybreak. We shall take up our positions in a sunken road, rifle in hand, attack the motor-coach and carry off Georges!" "Oh, don't laugh!" she said, plaintively. "I am so unhappy!" But the adventure seemed to amuse Rénine; and, when he was alone with Hortense, he exclaimed: "You see what comes of preferring dishonour to death! But hang it all, who could have expected this? It isn't a bit the way in which things happen in the pictures! Once the man of the woods had carried off his victim and considering that for three weeks there was no one to defend her, how could we imagine--we who had been proceeding all along under the influence of the pictures--that in the space of a few hours the victim would become a princess in love? Confound that Georges! I now understand the sly, humorous look which I surprised on his mobile features! He remembered, Georges did, and he didn't care a hang for me! Oh, he tricked me nicely! And you, my dear, he tricked you too! And it was all the influence of the film. They show us, at the cinema, a brute beast, a sort of long-haired, ape-faced savage. What can a man like that be in real life? A brute, inevitably, don't you agree? Well, he's nothing of the kind; he's a Don Juan! The humbug!" "You will save him, won't you?" said Hortense, in a beseeching tone. "Are you very anxious that I should?" "Very." "In that case, promise to give me your hand to kiss." "You can have both hands, Rénine, and gladly." The night was uneventful. Rénine had given orders for the two ladies to be waked at an early hour. When they came down, the motor was leaving the yard and pulling up in front of the inn. It was raining; and Adolphe, the chauffeur, had fixed up the long, low hood and packed the luggage inside. Rénine called for his bill. They all three took a cup of coffee. But, just as they were leaving the room, one of the inspector's men came rushing in: "Have you seen him?" he asked. "Isn't he here?" The inspector himself arrived at a run, greatly excited: "The prisoner has escaped! He ran back through the inn! He can't be far away!" A dozen rustics appeared like a whirlwind. They ransacked the lofts, the stables, the sheds. They scattered over the neighbourhood. But the search led to no discovery. "Oh, hang it all!" said Rénine, who had taken his part in the hunt. "How can it have happened?" "How do I know?" spluttered the inspector in despair. "I left my three men watching in the next room. I found them this morning fast asleep, stupefied by some narcotic which had been mixed with their wine! And the Dalbrèque bird had flown!" "Which way?" "Through the window. There were evidently accomplices, with ropes and a ladder. And, as Dalbrèque had a broken leg, they carried him off on the stretcher itself." "They left no traces?" "No traces of footsteps, true. The rain has messed everything up. But they went through the yard, because the stretcher's there." "You'll find him, Mr. Inspector, there's no doubt of that. In any case, you may be sure that you won't have any trouble over the affair. I shall be in Paris this evening and shall go straight to the prefecture, where I have influential friends." Rénine went back to the two women in the coffee-room and Hortense at once said: "It was you who carried him off, wasn't it? Please put Rose Andrée's mind at rest. She is so terrified!" He gave Rose Andrée his arm and led her to the car. She was staggering and very pale; and she said, in a faint voice: "Are we going? And he: is he safe? Won't they catch him again?" Looking deep into her eyes, he said: "Swear to me, Rose Andrée, that in two months, when he is well and when I have proved his innocence, swear that you will go away with him to America." "I swear." "And that, once there, you will marry him." "I swear." He spoke a few words in her ear. "Ah!" she said. "May Heaven bless you for it!" Hortense took her seat in front, with Rénine, who sat at the wheel. The inspector, hat in hand, fussed around the car until it moved off. They drove through the forest, crossed the Seine at La Mailleraie and struck into the Havre-Rouen road. "Take off your glove and give me your hand to kiss," Rénine ordered. "You promised that you would." "Oh!" said Hortense. "But it was to be when Dalbrèque was saved." "He is saved." "Not yet. The police are after him. They may catch him again. He will not be really saved until he is with Rose Andrée." "He is with Rose Andrée," he declared. "What do you mean?" "Turn round." She did so. In the shadow of the hood, right at the back, behind the chauffeur, Rose Andrée was kneeling beside a man lying on the seat. "Oh," stammered Hortense, "it's incredible! Then it was you who hid him last night? And he was there, in front of the inn, when the inspector was seeing us off?" "Lord, yes! He was there, under the cushions and rugs!" "It's incredible!" she repeated, utterly bewildered. "It's incredible! How were you able to manage it all?" "I wanted to kiss your hand," he said. She removed her glove, as he bade her, and raised her hand to his lips. The car was speeding between the peaceful Seine and the white cliffs that border it. They sat silent for a long while. Then he said: "I had a talk with Dalbrèque last night. He's a fine fellow and is ready to do anything for Rose Andrée. He's right. A man must do anything for the woman he loves. He must devote himself to her, offer her all that is beautiful in this world: joy and happiness ... and, if she should be bored, stirring adventures to distract her, to excite her and to make her smile ... or even weep." Hortense shivered; and her eyes were not quite free from tears. For the first time he was alluding to the sentimental adventure that bound them by a tie which as yet was frail, but which became stronger and more enduring with each of the ventures on which they entered together, pursuing them feverishly and anxiously to their close. Already she felt powerless and uneasy with this extraordinary man, who subjected events to his will and seemed to play with the destinies of those whom he fought or protected. He filled her with dread and at the same time he attracted her. She thought of him sometimes as her master, sometimes as an enemy against whom she must defend herself, but oftenest as a perturbing friend, full of charm and fascination.... V THÉRÈSE AND GERMAINE The weather was so mild that autumn that, on the 12th of October, in the morning, several families still lingering in their villas at Étretat had gone down to the beach. The sea, lying between the cliffs and the clouds on the horizon, might have suggested a mountain-lake slumbering in the hollow of the enclosing rocks, were it not for that crispness in the air and those pale, soft and indefinite colours in the sky which give a special charm to certain days in Normandy. "It's delicious," murmured Hortense. But the next moment she added: "All the same, we did not come here to enjoy the spectacle of nature or to wonder whether that huge stone Needle on our left was really at one time the home of Arsène Lupin." "We came here," said Prince Rénine, "because of the conversation which I overheard, a fortnight ago, in a dining-car, between a man and a woman." "A conversation of which I was unable to catch a single word." "If those two people could have guessed for an instant that it was possible to hear a single word of what they were saying, they would not have spoken, for their conversation was one of extraordinary gravity and importance. But I have very sharp ears; and though I could not follow every sentence, I insist that we may be certain of two things. First, that man and woman, who are brother and sister, have an appointment at a quarter to twelve this morning, the 12th of October, at the spot known as the Trois Mathildes, with a third person, who is married and who wishes at all costs to recover his or her liberty. Secondly, this appointment, at which they will come to a final agreement, is to be followed this evening by a walk along the cliffs, when the third person will bring with him or her the man or woman, I can't definitely say which, whom they want to get rid of. That is the gist of the whole thing. Now, as I know a spot called the Trois Mathildes some way above Étretat and as this is not an everyday name, we came down yesterday to thwart the plan of these objectionable persons." "What plan?" asked Hortense. "For, after all, it's only your assumption that there's to be a victim and that the victim is to be flung off the top of the cliffs. You yourself told me that you heard no allusion to a possible murder." "That is so. But I heard some very plain words relating to the marriage of the brother or the sister with the wife or the husband of the third person, which implies the need for a crime." They were sitting on the terrace of the casino, facing the stairs which run down to the beach. They therefore overlooked the few privately-owned cabins on the shingle, where a party of four men were playing bridge, while a group of ladies sat talking and knitting. A short distance away and nearer to the sea was another cabin, standing by itself and closed. Half-a-dozen bare-legged children were paddling in the water. "No," said Hortense, "all this autumnal sweetness and charm fails to attract me. I have so much faith in all your theories that I can't help thinking, in spite of everything, of this dreadful problem. Which of those people yonder is threatened? Death has already selected its victim. Who is it? Is it that young, fair-haired woman, rocking herself and laughing? Is it that tall man over there, smoking his cigar? And which of them has the thought of murder hidden in his heart? All the people we see are quietly enjoying themselves. Yet death is prowling among them." "Capital!" said Rénine. "You too are becoming enthusiastic. What did I tell you? The whole of life's an adventure; and nothing but adventure is worth while. At the first breath of coming events, there you are, quivering in every nerve. You share in all the tragedies stirring around you; and the feeling of mystery awakens in the depths of your being. See, how closely you are observing that couple who have just arrived. You never can tell: that may be the gentleman who proposes to do away with his wife? Or perhaps the lady contemplates making away with her husband?" "The d'Ormevals? Never! A perfectly happy couple! Yesterday, at the hotel, I had a long talk with the wife. And you yourself...." "Oh, I played a round of golf with Jacques d'Ormeval, who rather fancies himself as an athlete, and I played at dolls with their two charming little girls!" The d'Ormevals came up and exchanged a few words with them. Madame d'Ormeval said that her two daughters had gone back to Paris that morning with their governess. Her husband, a great tall fellow with a yellow beard, carrying his blazer over his arm and puffing out his chest under a cellular shirt, complained of the heat: "Have you the key of the cabin, Thérèse?" he asked his wife, when they had left Rénine and Hortense and stopped at the top of the stairs, a few yards away. "Here it is," said the wife. "Are you going to read your papers?" "Yes. Unless we go for a stroll?..." "I had rather wait till the afternoon: do you mind? I have a lot of letters to write this morning." "Very well. We'll go on the cliff." Hortense and Rénine exchanged a glance of surprise. Was this suggestion accidental? Or had they before them, contrary to their expectations, the very couple of whom they were in search? Hortense tried to laugh: "My heart is thumping," she said. "Nevertheless, I absolutely refuse to believe in anything so improbable. 'My husband and I have never had the slightest quarrel,' she said to me. No, it's quite clear that those two get on admirably." "We shall see presently, at the Trois Mathildes, if one of them comes to meet the brother and sister." M. d'Ormeval had gone down the stairs, while his wife stood leaning on the balustrade of the terrace. She had a beautiful, slender, supple figure. Her clear-cut profile was emphasized by a rather too prominent chin when at rest; and, when it was not smiling, the face gave an expression of sadness and suffering. "Have you lost something, Jacques?" she called out to her husband, who was stooping over the shingle. "Yes, the key," he said. "It slipped out of my hand." She went down to him and began to look also. For two or three minutes, as they sheered off to the right and remained close to the bottom of the under-cliff, they were invisible to Hortense and Rénine. Their voices were covered by the noise of a dispute which had arisen among the bridge-players. They reappeared almost simultaneously. Madame d'Ormeval slowly climbed a few steps of the stairs and then stopped and turned her face towards the sea. Her husband had thrown his blazer over his shoulders and was making for the isolated cabin. As he passed the bridge-players, they asked him for a decision, pointing to their cards spread out upon the table. But, with a wave of the hand, he refused to give an opinion and walked on, covered the thirty yards which divided them from the cabin, opened the door and went in. Thérèse d'Ormeval came back to the terrace and remained for ten minutes sitting on a bench. Then she came out through the casino. Hortense, on leaning forward, saw her entering one of the chalets annexed to the Hôtel Hauville and, a moment later, caught sight of her again on the balcony. "Eleven o'clock," said Rénine. "Whoever it is, he or she, or one of the card-players, or one of their wives, it won't be long before some one goes to the appointed place." Nevertheless, twenty minutes passed and twenty-five; and no one stirred. "Perhaps Madame d'Ormeval has gone." Hortense suggested, anxiously. "She is no longer on her balcony." "If she is at the Trois Mathildes," said Rénine, "we will go and catch her there." He was rising to his feet, when a fresh discussion broke out among the bridge-players and one of them exclaimed: "Let's put it to d'Ormeval." "Very well," said his adversary. "I'll accept his decision ... if he consents to act as umpire. He was rather huffy just now." They called out: "D'Ormeval! D'Ormeval!" They then saw that d'Ormeval must have shut the door behind him, which kept him in the half dark, the cabin being one of the sort that has no window. "He's asleep," cried one. "Let's wake him up." All four went to the cabin, began by calling to him and, on receiving no answer, thumped on the door: "Hi! D'Ormeval! Are you asleep?" On the terrace Serge Rénine suddenly leapt to his feet with so uneasy an air that Hortense was astonished. He muttered: "If only it's not too late!" And, when Hortense asked him what he meant, he tore down the steps and started running to the cabin. He reached it just as the bridge-players were trying to break in the door: "Stop!" he ordered. "Things must be done in the regular fashion." "What things?" they asked. He examined the Venetian shutters at the top of each of the folding-doors and, on finding that one of the upper slats was partly broken, hung on as best he could to the roof of the cabin and cast a glance inside. Then he said to the four men: "I was right in thinking that, if M. d'Ormeval did not reply, he must have been prevented by some serious cause. There is every reason to believe that M. d'Ormeval is wounded ... or dead." "Dead!" they cried. "What do you mean? He has only just left us." Rénine took out his knife, prized open the lock and pulled back the two doors. There were shouts of dismay. M. d'Ormeval was lying flat on his face, clutching his jacket and his newspaper in his hands. Blood was flowing from his back and staining his shirt. "Oh!" said some one. "He has killed himself!" "How can he have killed himself?" said Rénine. "The wound is right in the middle of the back, at a place which the hand can't reach. And, besides, there's not a knife in the cabin." The others protested: "If so, he has been murdered. But that's impossible! There has been nobody here. We should have seen, if there had been. Nobody could have passed us without our seeing...." The other men, all the ladies and the children paddling in the sea had come running up. Rénine allowed no one to enter the cabin, except a doctor who was present. But the doctor could only say that M. d'Ormeval was dead, stabbed with a dagger. At that moment, the mayor and the policeman arrived, together with some people of the village. After the usual enquiries, they carried away the body. A few persons went on ahead to break the news to Thérèse d'Ormeval, who was once more to be seen on her balcony. * * * * * And so the tragedy had taken place without any clue to explain how a man, protected by a closed door with an uninjured lock, could have been murdered in the space of a few minutes and in front of twenty witnesses, one might almost say, twenty spectators. No one had entered the cabin. No one had come out of it. As for the dagger with which M. d'Ormeval had been stabbed between the shoulders, it could not be traced. And all this would have suggested the idea of a trick of sleight-of-hand performed by a clever conjuror, had it not concerned a terrible murder, committed under the most mysterious conditions. Hortense was unable to follow, as Rénine would have liked, the small party who were making for Madame d'Ormeval; she was paralysed with excitement and incapable of moving. It was the first time that her adventures with Rénine had taken her into the very heart of the action and that, instead of noting the consequences of a murder, or assisting in the pursuit of the criminals, she found herself confronted with the murder itself. It left her trembling all over; and she stammered: "How horrible!... The poor fellow!... Ah, Rénine, you couldn't save him this time!... And that's what upsets me more than anything, that we could and should have saved him, since we knew of the plot...." Rénine made her sniff at a bottle of salts; and when she had quite recovered her composure, he said, while observing her attentively: "So you think that there is some connection between the murder and the plot which we were trying to frustrate?" "Certainly," said she, astonished at the question. "Then, as that plot was hatched by a husband against his wife or by a wife against her husband, you admit that Madame d'Ormeval ...?" "Oh, no, impossible!" she said. "To begin with, Madame d'Ormeval did not leave her rooms ... and then I shall never believe that pretty woman capable.... No, no, of course there was something else...." "What else?" "I don't know.... You may have misunderstood what the brother and sister were saying to each other.... You see, the murder has been committed under quite different conditions ... at another hour and another place...." "And therefore," concluded Rénine, "the two cases are not in any way related?" "Oh," she said, "there's no making it out! It's all so strange!" Rénine became a little satirical: "My pupil is doing me no credit to-day," he said. "Why, here is a perfectly simple story, unfolded before your eyes. You have seen it reeled off like a scene in the cinema; and it all remains as obscure to you as though you were hearing of an affair that happened in a cave a hundred miles away!" Hortense was confounded: "What are you saying? Do you mean that you have understood it? What clues have you to go by?" Rénine looked at his watch: "I have not understood everything," he said. "The murder itself, the mere brutal murder, yes. But the essential thing, that is to say, the psychology of the crime: I've no clue to that. Only, it is twelve o'clock. The brother and sister, seeing no one come to the appointment at the Trois Mathildes, will go down to the beach. Don't you think that we shall learn something then of the accomplice whom I accuse them of having and of the connection between the two cases?" They reached the esplanade in front of the Hauville chalets, with the capstans by which the fishermen haul up their boats to the beach. A number of inquisitive persons were standing outside the door of one of the chalets. Two coastguards, posted at the door, prevented them from entering. The mayor shouldered his way eagerly through the crowd. He was back from the post-office, where he had been telephoning to Le Havre, to the office of the procurator-general, and had been told that the public prosecutor and an examining-magistrate would come on to Étretat in the course of the afternoon. "That leaves us plenty of time for lunch," said Rénine. "The tragedy will not be enacted before two or three o'clock. And I have an idea that it will be sensational." They hurried nevertheless. Hortense, overwrought by fatigue and her desire to know what was happening, continually questioned Rénine, who replied evasively, with his eyes turned to the esplanade, which they could see through the windows of the coffee-room. "Are you watching for those two?" asked Hortense. "Yes, the brother and sister." "Are you sure that they will venture?..." "Look out! Here they come!" He went out quickly. Where the main street opened on the sea-front, a lady and gentleman were advancing with hesitating steps, as though unfamiliar with the place. The brother was a puny little man, with a sallow complexion. He was wearing a motoring-cap. The sister too was short, but rather stout, and was wrapped in a large cloak. She struck them as a woman of a certain age, but still good-looking under the thin veil that covered her face. They saw the groups of bystanders and drew nearer. Their gait betrayed uneasiness and hesitation. The sister asked a question of a seaman. At the first words of his answer, which no doubt conveyed the news of d'Ormeval's death, she uttered a cry and tried to force her way through the crowd. The brother, learning in his turn what had happened, made great play with his elbows and shouted to the coast-guards: "I'm a friend of d'Ormeval's!... Here's my card! Frédéric Astaing.... My sister, Germaine Astaing, knows Madame d'Ormeval intimately!... They were expecting us.... We had an appointment!..." They were allowed to pass. Rénine, who had slipped behind them, followed them in without a word, accompanied by Hortense. The d'Ormevals had four bedrooms and a sitting-room on the second floor. The sister rushed into one of the rooms and threw herself on her knees beside the bed on which the corpse lay stretched. Thérèse d'Ormeval was in the sitting-room and was sobbing in the midst of a small company of silent persons. The brother sat down beside her, eagerly seized her hands and said, in a trembling voice: "My poor friend!... My poor friend!..." Rénine and Hortense gazed at the pair of them: and Hortense whispered: "And she's supposed to have killed him for that? Impossible!" "Nevertheless," observed Rénine, "they are acquaintances; and we know that Astaing and his sister were also acquainted with a third person who was their accomplice. So that...." "It's impossible!" Hortense repeated. And, in spite of all presumption, she felt so much attracted by Thérèse that, when Frédéric Astaing stood up, she proceeded straightway to sit down beside her and consoled her in a gentle voice. The unhappy woman's tears distressed her profoundly. Rénine, on the other hand, applied himself from the outset to watching the brother and sister, as though this were the only thing that mattered, and did not take his eyes off Frédéric Astaing, who, with an air of indifference, began to make a minute inspection of the premises, examining the sitting-room, going into all the bedrooms, mingling with the various groups of persons present and asking questions about the manner in which the murder had been committed. Twice his sister came up and spoke to him. Then he went back to Madame d'Ormeval and again sat down beside her, full of earnest sympathy. Lastly, in the lobby, he had a long conversation with his sister, after which they parted, like people who have come to a perfect understanding. Frédéric then left. These manoeuvers had lasted quite thirty or forty minutes. It was at this moment that the motor-car containing the examining-magistrate and the public prosecutor pulled up outside the chalets. Rénine, who did not expect them until later, said to Hortense: "We must be quick. On no account leave Madame d'Ormeval." Word was sent up to the persons whose evidence might be of any service that they were to go to the beach, where the magistrate was beginning a preliminary investigation. He would call on Madame d'Ormeval afterwards. Accordingly, all who were present left the chalet. No one remained behind except the two guards and Germaine Astaing. Germaine knelt down for the last time beside the dead man and, bending low, with her face in her hands, prayed for a long time. Then she rose and was opening the door on the landing, when Rénine came forward: "I should like a few words with you, madame." She seemed surprised and replied: "What is it, monsieur? I am listening." "Not here." "Where then, monsieur?" "Next door, in the sitting-room." "No," she said, sharply. "Why not? Though you did not even shake hands with her, I presume that Madame d'Ormeval is your friend?" He gave her no time to reflect, drew her into the next room, closed the door and, at once pouncing upon Madame d'Ormeval, who was trying to go out and return to her own room, said: "No, madame, listen, I implore you. Madame Astaing's presence need not drive you away. We have very serious matters to discuss, without losing a minute." The two women, standing face to face, were looking at each other with the same expression of implacable hatred, in which might be read the same confusion of spirit and the same restrained anger. Hortense, who believed them to be friends and who might, up to a certain point, have believed them to be accomplices, foresaw with terror the hostile encounter which she felt to be inevitable. She compelled Madame d'Ormeval to resume her seat, while Rénine took up his position in the middle of the room and spoke in resolute tones: "Chance, which has placed me in possession of part of the truth, will enable me to save you both, if you are willing to assist me with a frank explanation that will give me the particulars which I still need. Each of you knows the danger in which she stands, because each of you is conscious in her heart of the evil for which she is responsible. But you are carried away by hatred; and it is for me to see clearly and to act. The examining-magistrate will be here in half-an-hour. By that time, you must have come to an agreement." They both started, as though offended by such a word. "Yes, an agreement," he repeated, in a more imperious tone. "Whether you like it or not, you will come to an agreement. You are not the only ones to be considered. There are your two little daughters, Madame d'Ormeval. Since circumstances have set me in their path, I am intervening in their defence and for their safety. A blunder, a word too much; and they are ruined. That must not happen." At the mention of her children, Madame d'Ormeval broke down and sobbed. Germaine Astaing shrugged her shoulders and made a movement towards the door. Rénine once more blocked the way: "Where are you going?" "I have been summoned by the examining-magistrate." "No, you have not." "Yes, I have. Just as all those have been who have any evidence to give." "You were not on the spot. You know nothing of what happened. Nobody knows anything of the murder." "I know who committed it." "That's impossible." "It was Thérèse d'Ormeval." The accusation was hurled forth in an outburst of rage and with a fiercely threatening gesture. "You wretched creature!" exclaimed madame d'Ormeval, rushing at her. "Go! Leave the room! Oh, what a wretch the woman is!" Hortense was trying to restrain her, but Rénine whispered: "Let them be. It's what I wanted ... to pitch them one against the other and so to let in the day-light." Madame Astaing had made a convulsive effort to ward off the insult with a jest; and she sniggered: "A wretched creature? Why? Because I have accused you?" "Why? For every reason! You're a wretched creature! You hear what I say, Germaine: you're a wretch!" Thérèse d'Ormeval was repeating the insult as though it afforded her some relief. Her anger was abating. Very likely also she no longer had the strength to keep up the struggle; and it was Madame Astaing who returned to the attack, with her fists clenched and her face distorted and suddenly aged by fully twenty years: "You! You dare to insult me, you! You after the murder you have committed! You dare to lift up your head when the man whom you killed is lying in there on his death-bed! Ah, if one of us is a wretched creature, it's you, Thérèse, and you know it! You have killed your husband! You have killed your husband!" She leapt forward, in the excitement of the terrible words which she was uttering; and her finger-nails were almost touching her friend's face. "Oh, don't tell me you didn't kill him!" she cried. "Don't say that: I won't let you. Don't say it. The dagger is there, in your bag. My brother felt it, while he was talking to you; and his hand came out with stains of blood upon it: your husband's blood, Thérèse. And then, even if I had not discovered anything, do you think that I should not have guessed, in the first few minutes? Why, I knew the truth at once, Thérèse! When a sailor down there answered, 'M. d'Ormeval? He has been murdered,' I said to myself then and there, 'It's she, it's Thérèse, she killed him.'" Thérèse did not reply. She had abandoned her attitude of protest. Hortense, who was watching her with anguish, thought that she could perceive in her the despondency of those who know themselves to be lost. Her cheeks had fallen in and she wore such an expression of despair that Hortense, moved to compassion, implored her to defend herself: "Please, please, explain things. When the murder was committed, you were here, on the balcony.... But then the dagger ... how did you come to have it ...? How do you explain it?..." "Explanations!" sneered Germaine Astaing. "How could she possibly explain? What do outward appearances matter? What does it matter what any one saw or did not see? The proof is the thing that tells.... The dagger is there, in your bag, Thérèse: that's a fact.... Yes, yes, it was you who did it! You killed him! You killed him in the end!... Ah, how often I've told my brother, 'She will kill him yet!' Frédéric used to try to defend you. He always had a weakness for you. But in his innermost heart he foresaw what would happen.... And now the horrible thing has been done. A stab in the back! Coward! Coward!... And you would have me say nothing? Why, I didn't hesitate a moment! Nor did Frédéric. We looked for proofs at once.... And I've denounced you of my own free will, perfectly well aware of what I was doing.... And it's over, Thérèse. You're done for. Nothing can save you now. The dagger is in that bag which you are clutching in your hand. The magistrate is coming; and the dagger will be found, stained with the blood of your husband. So will your pocket-book. They're both there. And they will be found...." Her rage had incensed her so vehemently that she was unable to continue and stood with her hand outstretched and her chin twitching with nervous tremors. Rénine gently took hold of Madame d'Ormeval's bag. She clung to it, but he insisted and said: "Please allow me, madame. Your friend Germaine is right. The examining-magistrate will be here presently; and the fact that the dagger and the pocket-book are in your possession will lead to your immediate arrest. This must not happen. Please allow me." His insinuating voice diminished Thérèse d'Ormeval's resistance. She released her fingers, one by one. He took the bag, opened it, produced a little dagger with an ebony handle and a grey leather pocket-book and quietly slipped the two into the inside pocket of his jacket. Germaine Astaing gazed at him in amazement: "You're mad, monsieur! What right have you ...?" "These things must not be left lying about. I sha'n't worry now. The magistrate will never look for them in my pocket." "But I shall denounce you to the police," she exclaimed, indignantly. "They shall be told!" "No, no," he said, laughing, "you won't say anything! The police have nothing to do with this. The quarrel between you must be settled in private. What an idea, to go dragging the police into every incident of one's life!" Madame Astaing was choking with fury: "But you have no right to talk like this, monsieur! Who are you, after all? A friend of that woman's?" "Since you have been attacking her, yes." "But I'm only attacking her because she's guilty. For you can't deny it: she has killed her husband." "I don't deny it," said Rénine, calmly. "We are all agreed on that point. Jacques d'Ormeval was killed by his wife. But, I repeat, the police must not know the truth." "They shall know it through me, monsieur, I swear they shall. That woman must be punished: she has committed murder." Rénine went up to her and, touching her on the shoulder: "You asked me just now by what right I was interfering. And you yourself, madame?" "I was a friend of Jacques d'Ormeval." "Only a friend?" She was a little taken aback, but at once pulled herself together and replied: "I was his friend and it is my duty to avenge his death." "Nevertheless, you will remain silent, as he did." "He did not know, when he died." "That's where you are wrong. He could have accused his wife, if he had wished. He had ample time to accuse her; and he said nothing." "Why?" "Because of his children." Madame Astaing was not appeased; and her attitude displayed the same longing for revenge and the same detestation. But she was influenced by Rénine in spite of herself. In the small, closed room, where there was such a clash of hatred, he was gradually becoming the master; and Germaine Astaing understood that it was against him that she had to struggle, while Madame d'Ormeval felt all the comfort of that unexpected support which was offering itself on the brink of the abyss: "Thank you, monsieur," she said. "As you have seen all this so clearly, you also know that it was for my children's sake that I did not give myself up. But for that ... I am so tired ...!" And so the scene was changing and things assuming a different aspect. Thanks to a few words let fall in the midst of the dispute, the culprit was lifting her head and taking heart, whereas her accuser was hesitating and seemed to be uneasy. And it also came about that the accuser dared not say anything further and that the culprit was nearing the moment at which the need is felt of breaking silence and of speaking, quite naturally, words that are at once a confession and a relief. "The time, I think, has come," said Rénine to Thérèse, with the same unvarying gentleness, "when you can and ought to explain yourself." She was again weeping, lying huddled in a chair. She too revealed a face aged and ravaged by sorrow; and, in a very low voice, with no display of anger, she spoke, in short, broken sentences: "She has been his mistress for the last four years.... I can't tell you how I suffered.... She herself told me of it ... out of sheer wickedness ... Her loathing for me was even greater than her love for Jacques ... and every day I had some fresh injury to bear ... She would ring me up to tell me of her appointments with my husband ... she hoped to make me suffer so much I should end by killing myself.... I did think of it sometimes, but I held out, for the children's sake ... Jacques was weakening. She wanted him to get a divorce ... and little by little he began to consent ... dominated by her and by her brother, who is slyer than she is, but quite as dangerous ... I felt all this ... Jacques was becoming harsh to me.... He had not the courage to leave me, but I was the obstacle and he bore me a grudge.... Heavens, the tortures I suffered!..." "You should have given him his liberty," cried Germaine Astaing. "A woman doesn't kill her husband for wanting a divorce." Thérèse shook her head and answered: "I did not kill him because he wanted a divorce. If he had really wanted it, he would have left me; and what could I have done? But your plans had changed, Germaine; divorce was not enough for you; and it was something else that you would have obtained from him, another, much more serious thing which you and your brother had insisted on ... and to which he had consented ... out of cowardice ... in spite of himself...." "What do you mean?" spluttered Germaine. "What other thing?" "My death." "You lie!" cried Madame Astaing. Thérèse did not raise her voice. She made not a movement of aversion or indignation and simply repeated: "My death, Germaine. I have read your latest letters, six letters from you which he was foolish enough to leave about in his pocket-book and which I read last night, six letters in which the terrible word is not set down, but in which it appears between every line. I trembled as I read it! That Jacques should come to this!... Nevertheless the idea of stabbing him did not occur to me for a second. A woman like myself, Germaine, does not readily commit murder.... If I lost my head, it was after that ... and it was your fault...." She turned her eyes to Rénine as if to ask him if there was no danger in her speaking and revealing the truth. "Don't be afraid," he said. "I will be answerable for everything." She drew her hand across her forehead. The horrible scene was being reenacted within her and was torturing her. Germaine Astaing did not move, but stood with folded arms and anxious eyes, while Hortense Daniel sat distractedly awaiting the confession of the crime and the explanation of the unfathomable mystery. "It was after that and it was through your fault Germaine ... I had put back the pocket-book in the drawer where it was hidden; and I said nothing to Jacques this morning ... I did not want to tell him what I knew.... It was too horrible.... All the same, I had to act quickly; your letters announced your secret arrival to-day.... I thought at first of running away, of taking the train.... I had mechanically picked up that dagger, to defend myself.... But when Jacques and I went down to the beach, I was resigned.... Yes, I had accepted death: 'I will die,' I thought, 'and put an end to all this nightmare!'... Only, for the children's sake, I was anxious that my death should look like an accident and that Jacques should have no part in it. That was why your plan of a walk on the cliff suited me.... A fall from the top of a cliff seems quite natural ... Jacques therefore left me to go to his cabin, from which he was to join you later at the Trois Mathildes. On the way, below the terrace, he dropped the key of the cabin. I went down and began to look for it with him ... And it happened then ... through your fault ... yes, Germaine, through your fault ... Jacques' pocket-book had slipped from his jacket, without his noticing it, and, together with the pocket-book, a photograph which I recognized at once: a photograph, taken this year, of myself and my two children. I picked it up ... and I saw.... You know what I saw, Germaine. Instead of my face, the face in the photograph was _yours_!... You had put in your likeness, Germaine, and blotted me out! It was your face! One of your arms was round my elder daughter's neck; and the younger was sitting on your knees.... It was you, Germaine, the wife of my husband, the future mother of my children, you, who were going to bring them up ... you, you! ... Then I lost my head. I had the dagger ... Jacques was stooping ... I stabbed him...." Every word of her confession was strictly true. Those who listened to her felt this profoundly; and nothing could have given Hortense and Rénine a keener impression of tragedy. She had fallen back into her chair, utterly exhausted. Nevertheless, she went on speaking unintelligible words; and it was only gradually by leaning over her, that they were able to make out: "I thought that there would be an outcry and that I should be arrested. But no. It happened in such a way and under such conditions that no one had seen anything. Further, Jacques had drawn himself up at the same time as myself; and he actually did not fall. No, he did not fall! I had stabbed him; and he remained standing! I saw him from the terrace, to which I had returned. He had hung his jacket over his shoulders, evidently to hide his wound, and he moved away without staggering ... or staggering so little that I alone was able to perceive it. He even spoke to some friends who were playing cards. Then he went to his cabin and disappeared.... In a few moments, I came back indoors. I was persuaded that all of this was only a bad dream ... that I had not killed him ... or that at the worst the wound was a slight one. Jacques would come out again. I was certain of it.... I watched from my balcony.... If I had thought for a moment that he needed assistance, I should have flown to him.... But truly I didn't know ... I didn't guess.... People speak of presentiments: there are no such things. I was perfectly calm, just as one is after a nightmare of which the memory is fading away.... No, I swear to you, I knew nothing ... until the moment..." She interrupted herself, stifled by sobs. Rénine finished her sentence for her, "Until the moment when they came and told you, I suppose?" Thérèse stammered: "Yes. It was not till then that I was conscious of what I had done ... and I felt that I was going mad and that I should cry out to all those people, 'Why, it was I who did it! Don't search! Here is the dagger ... I am the culprit!' Yes, I was going to say that, when suddenly I caught sight of my poor Jacques.... They were carrying him along.... His face was very peaceful, very gentle.... And, in his presence, I understood my duty, as he had understood his.... He had kept silent, for the sake of the children. I would be silent too. We were both guilty of the murder of which he was the victim; and we must both do all we could to prevent the crime from recoiling upon them.... He had seen this clearly in his dying agony. He had had the amazing courage to keep his feet, to answer the people who spoke to him and to lock himself up to die. He had done this, wiping out all his faults with a single action, and in so doing had granted me his forgiveness, because he was not accusing me ... and was ordering me to hold my peace ... and to defend myself ... against everybody ... especially against you, Germaine." She uttered these last words more firmly. At first wholly overwhelmed by the unconscious act which she had committed in killing her husband, she had recovered her strength a little in thinking of what she had done and in defending herself with such energy. Faced by the intriguing woman whose hatred had driven both of them to death and crime, she clenched her fists, ready for the struggle, all quivering with resolution. Germaine Astaing did not flinch. She had listened without a word, with a relentless expression which grew harder and harder as Thérèse's confessions became precise. No emotion seemed to soften her and no remorse to penetrate her being. At most, towards the end, her thin lips shaped themselves into a faint smile. She was holding her prey in her clutches. Slowly, with her eyes raised to a mirror, she adjusted her hat and powdered her face. Then she walked to the door. Thérèse darted forward: "Where are you going?" "Where I choose." "To see the examining-magistrate?" "Very likely." "You sha'n't pass!" "As you please. I'll wait for him here." "And you'll tell him what?" "Why, all that you've said, of course, all that you've been silly enough to say. How could he doubt the story? You have explained it all to me so fully." Thérèse took her by the shoulders: "Yes, but I'll explain other things to him at the same time, Germaine, things that concern you. If I'm ruined, so shall you be." "You can't touch me." "I can expose you, show your letters." "What letters?" "Those in which my death was decided on." "Lies, Thérèse! You know that famous plot exists only in your imagination. Neither Jacques nor I wished for your death." "You did, at any rate. Your letters condemn you." "Lies! They were the letters of a friend to a friend." "Letters of a mistress to her paramour." "Prove it." "They are there, in Jacques' pocket-book." "No, they're not." "What's that you say?" "I say that those letters belonged to me. I've taken them back, or rather my brother has." "You've stolen them, you wretch! And you shall give them back again," cried Thérèse, shaking her. "I haven't them. My brother kept them. He has gone." Thérèse staggered and stretched out her hands to Rénine with an expression of despair. Rénine said: "What she says is true. I watched the brother's proceedings while he was feeling in your bag. He took out the pocket-book, looked through it with his sister, came and put it back again and went off with the letters." Rénine paused and added, "Or, at least, with five of them." The two women moved closer to him. What did he intend to convey? If Frédéric Astaing had taken away only five letters, what had become of the sixth? "I suppose," said Rénine, "that, when the pocket-book fell on the shingle, that sixth letter slipped out at the same time as the photograph and that M. d'Ormeval must have picked it up, for I found it in the pocket of his blazer, which had been hung up near the bed. Here it is. It's signed Germaine Astaing and it is quite enough to prove the writer's intentions and the murderous counsels which she was pressing upon her lover." Madame Astaing had turned grey in the face and was so much disconcerted that she did not try to defend herself. Rénine continued, addressing his remarks to her: "To my mind, madame, you are responsible for all that happened. Penniless, no doubt, and at the end of your resources, you tried to profit by the passion with which you inspired M. d'Ormeval in order to make him marry you, in spite of all the obstacles, and to lay your hands upon his fortune. I have proofs of this greed for money and these abominable calculations and can supply them if need be. A few minutes after I had felt in the pocket of that jacket, you did the same. I had removed the sixth letter, but had left a slip of paper which you looked for eagerly and which also must have dropped out of the pocket-book. It was an uncrossed cheque for a hundred thousand francs, drawn by M. d'Ormeval in your brother's name ... just a little wedding-present ... what we might call pin-money. Acting on your instructions, your brother dashed off by motor to Le Havre to reach the bank before four o'clock. I may as well tell you that he will not have cashed the cheque, for I had a telephone-message sent to the bank to announce the murder of M. d'Ormeval, which stops all payments. The upshot of all this is that the police, if you persist in your schemes of revenge, will have in their hands all the proofs that are wanted against you and your brother. I might add, as an edifying piece of evidence, the story of the conversation which I overheard between your brother and yourself in a dining-car on the railway between Brest and Paris, a fortnight ago. But I feel sure that you will not drive me to adopt these extreme measures and that we understand each other. Isn't that so?" Natures like Madame Astaing's, which are violent and headstrong so long as a fight is possible and while a gleam of hope remains, are easily swayed in defeat. Germaine was too intelligent not to grasp the fact that the least attempt at resistance would be shattered by such an adversary as this. She was in his hands. She could but yield. She therefore did not indulge in any play-acting, nor in any demonstration such as threats, outbursts of fury or hysterics. She bowed: "We are agreed," she said. "What are your terms?" "Go away. If ever you are called upon for your evidence, say that you know nothing." She walked away. At the door, she hesitated and then, between her teeth, said: "The cheque." Rénine looked at Madame d'Ormeval, who declared: "Let her keep it. I would not touch that money." * * * * * When Rénine had given Thérèse d'Ormeval precise instructions as to how she was to behave at the enquiry and to answer the questions put to her, he left the chalet, accompanied by Hortense Daniel. On the beach below, the magistrate and the public prosecutor were continuing their investigations, taking measurements, examining the witnesses and generally laying their heads together. "When I think," said Hortense, "that you have the dagger and M. d'Ormeval's pocket-book on you!" "And it strikes you as awfully dangerous, I suppose?" he said, laughing. "It strikes _me_ as awfully comic." "Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?" "That they may suspect something?" "Lord, they won't suspect a thing! We shall tell those good people what we saw and our evidence will only increase their perplexity, for we saw nothing at all. For prudence sake we will stay a day or two, to see which way the wind is blowing. But it's quite settled: they will never be able to make head or tail of the matter." "Nevertheless, _you_ guessed the secret and from the first. Why?" "Because, instead of seeking difficulties where none exist, as people generally do, I always put the question as it should be put; and the solution comes quite naturally. A man goes to his cabin and locks himself in. Half an hour later, he is found inside, dead. No one has gone in. What has happened? To my mind there is only one answer. There is no need to think about it. As the murder was not committed in the cabin, it must have been committed beforehand and the man was already mortally wounded when he entered his cabin. And forthwith the truth in this particular case appeared to me. Madame d'Ormeval, who was to have been killed this evening, forestalled her murderers and while her husband was stooping to the ground, in a moment of frenzy stabbed him in the back. There was nothing left to do but look for the reasons that prompted her action. When I knew them, I took her part unreservedly. That's the whole story." The day was beginning to wane. The blue of the sky was becoming darker and the sea, even more peaceful than before. "What are you thinking of?" asked Rénine, after a moment. "I am thinking," she said, "that if I too were the victim of some machination, I should trust you whatever happened, trust you through and against all. I know, as certainly as I know that I exist, that you would save me, whatever the obstacles might be. There is no limit to the power of your will." He said, very softly: "There is no limit to my wish to please you." VI THE LADY WITH THE HATCHET One of the most incomprehensible incidents that preceded the great war was certainly the one which was known as the episode of the lady with the hatchet. The solution of the mystery was unknown and would never have been known, had not circumstances in the cruellest fashion obliged Prince Rénine--or should I say, Arsène Lupin?--to take up the matter and had I not been able to-day to tell the true story from the details supplied by him. Let me recite the facts. In a space of eighteen months, five women disappeared, five women of different stations in life, all between twenty and thirty years of age and living in Paris or the Paris district. I will give their names: Madame Ladoue, the wife of a doctor; Mlle. Ardant, the daughter of a banker; Mlle. Covereau, a washer-woman of Courbevoie; Mlle. Honorine Vernisset, a dressmaker; and Madame Grollinger, an artist. These five women disappeared without the possibility of discovering a single particular to explain why they had left their homes, why they did not return to them, who had enticed them away, and where and how they were detained. Each of these women, a week after her departure, was found somewhere or other in the western outskirts of Paris; and each time it was a dead body that was found, the dead body of a woman who had been killed by a blow on the head from a hatchet. And each time, not far from the woman, who was firmly bound, her face covered with blood and her body emaciated by lack of food, the marks of carriage-wheels proved that the corpse had been driven to the spot. The five murders were so much alike that there was only a single investigation, embracing all the five enquiries and, for that matter, leading to no result. A woman disappeared; a week later, to a day, her body was discovered; and that was all. The bonds that fastened her were similar in each case; so were the tracks left by the wheels; so were the blows of the hatchet, all of which were struck vertically at the top and right in the middle of the forehead. The motive of the crime? The five women had been completely stripped of their jewels, purses and other objects of value. But the robberies might well have been attributed to marauders or any passersby, since the bodies were lying in deserted spots. Were the authorities to believe in the execution of a plan of revenge or of a plan intended to do away with the series of persons mutually connected, persons, for instance, likely to benefit by a future inheritance? Here again the same obscurity prevailed. Theories were built up, only to be demolished forthwith by an examination of the facts. Trails were followed and at once abandoned. And suddenly there was a sensation. A woman engaged in sweeping the roads picked up on the pavement a little note-book which she brought to the local police-station. The leaves of this note-book were all blank, excepting one, on which was written a list of the murdered women, with their names set down in order of date and accompanied by three figures: Ladoue, 132; Vernisset, 118; and so on. Certainly no importance would have been attached to these entries, which anybody might have written, since every one was acquainted with the sinister list. But, instead of five names, it included six! Yes, below the words "Grollinger, 128," there appeared "Williamson, 114." Did this indicate a sixth murder? The obviously English origin of the name limited the field of the investigations, which did not in fact take long. It was ascertained that, a fortnight ago, a Miss Hermione Williamson, a governess in a family at Auteuil, had left her place to go back to England and that, since then, her sisters, though she had written to tell them that she was coming over, had heard no more of her. A fresh enquiry was instituted. A postman found the body in the Meudon woods. Miss Williamson's skull was split down the middle. I need not describe the public excitement at this stage nor the shudder of horror which passed through the crowd when it read this list, written without a doubt in the murderer's own hand. What could be more frightful than such a record, kept up to date like a careful tradesman's ledger: "On such a day, I killed so-and-so; on such a day so-and-so!" And the sum total was six dead bodies. Against all expectation, the experts in handwriting had no difficulty in agreeing and unanimously declared that the writing was "that of a woman, an educated woman, possessing artistic tastes, imagination and an extremely sensitive nature." The "lady with the hatchet," as the journalists christened her, was decidedly no ordinary person; and scores of newspaper-articles made a special study of her case, exposing her mental condition and losing themselves in far-fetched explanations. Nevertheless it was the writer of one of these articles, a young journalist whose chance discovery made him the centre of public attention, who supplied the one element of truth and shed upon the darkness the only ray of light that was to penetrate it. In casting about for the meaning of the figures which followed the six names, he had come to ask himself whether those figures did not simply represent the number of the days separating one crime from the next. All that he had to do was to check the dates. He at once found that his theory was correct. Mlle. Vernisset had been carried off one hundred and thirty-two days after Madame Ladoue; Mlle. Covereau one hundred and eighteen days after Honorine Vernisset; and so on. There was therefore no room for doubt; and the police had no choice but to accept a solution which so precisely fitted the circumstances: the figures corresponded with the intervals. There was no mistake in the records of the lady with the hatchet. But then one deduction became inevitable. Miss Williamson, the latest victim, had been carried off on the 26th of June last, and her name was followed by the figures 114: was it not to be presumed that a fresh crime would be committed a hundred and fourteen days later, that is to say, on the 18th of October? Was it not probable that the horrible business would be repeated in accordance with the murderer's secret intentions? Were they not bound to pursue to its logical conclusion the argument which ascribed to the figures--to all the figures, to the last as well as to the others--their value as eventual dates? Now it was precisely this deduction which was drawn and was being weighed and discussed during the few days that preceded the 18th of October, when logic demanded the performance of yet another act of the abominable tragedy. And it was only natural that, on the morning of that day, Prince Rénine and Hortense, when making an appointment by telephone for the evening, should allude to the newspaper-articles which they had both been reading: "Look out!" said Rénine, laughing. "If you meet the lady with the hatchet, take the other side of the road!" "And, if the good lady carries me off, what am I to do?" "Strew your path with little white pebbles and say, until the very moment when the hatchet flashes in the air, 'I have nothing to fear; _he_ will save me.' _He_ is myself ... and I kiss your hands. Till this evening, my dear." That afternoon, Rénine had an appointment with Rose Andrée and Dalbrèque to arrange for their departure for the States. [Footnote: See _The Tell-tale Film_.] Before four and seven o'clock, he bought the different editions of the evening papers. None of them reported an abduction. At nine o'clock he went to the Gymnase, where he had taken a private box. At half-past nine, as Hortense had not arrived, he rang her up, though without thought of anxiety. The maid replied that Madame Daniel had not come in yet. Seized with a sudden fear, Rénine hurried to the furnished flat which Hortense was occupying for the time being, near the Parc Monceau, and questioned the maid, whom he had engaged for her and who was completely devoted to him. The woman said that her mistress had gone out at two o'clock, with a stamped letter in her hand, saying that she was going to the post and that she would come back to dress. This was the last that had been seen of her. "To whom was the letter addressed?" "To you, sir. I saw the writing on the envelope: Prince Serge Rénine." He waited until midnight, but in vain. Hortense did not return; nor did she return next day. "Not a word to any one," said Rénine to the maid. "Say that your mistress is in the country and that you are going to join her." For his own part, he had not a doubt: Hortense's disappearance was explained by the very fact of the date, the 18th of October. She was the seventh victim of the lady with the hatchet. * * * * * "The abduction," said Rénine to himself, "precedes the blow of the hatchet by a week. I have, therefore, at the present moment, seven full days before me. Let us say six, to avoid any surprise. This is Saturday: Hortense must be set free by mid-day on Friday; and, to make sure of this, I must know her hiding-place by nine o'clock on Thursday evening at latest." Rénine wrote, "THURSDAY EVENING, NINE O'CLOCK," in big letters, on a card which he nailed above the mantelpiece in his study. Then at midday on Saturday, the day after the disappearance, he locked himself into the study, after telling his man not to disturb him except for meals and letters. He spent four days there, almost without moving. He had immediately sent for a set of all the leading newspapers which had spoken in detail of the first six crimes. When he had read and reread them, he closed the shutters, drew the curtains and lay down on the sofa in the dark, with the door bolted, thinking. By Tuesday evening he was no further advanced than on the Saturday. The darkness was as dense as ever. He had not discovered the smallest clue for his guidance, nor could he see the slightest reason to hope. At times, notwithstanding his immense power of self-control and his unlimited confidence in the resources at his disposal, at times he would quake with anguish. Would he arrive in time? There was no reason why he should see more clearly during the last few days than during those which had already elapsed. And this meant that Hortense Daniel would inevitably be murdered. The thought tortured him. He was attached to Hortense by a much stronger and deeper feeling than the appearance of the relations between them would have led an onlooker to believe. The curiosity at the beginning, the first desire, the impulse to protect Hortense, to distract her, to inspire her with a relish for existence: all this had simply turned to love. Neither of them was aware of it, because they barely saw each other save at critical times when they were occupied with the adventures of others and not with their own. But, at the first onslaught of danger, Rénine realized the place which Hortense had taken in his life and he was in despair at knowing her to be a prisoner and a martyr and at being unable to save her. He spent a feverish, agitated night, turning the case over and over from every point of view. The Wednesday morning was also a terrible time for him. He was losing ground. Giving up his hermit-like seclusion, he threw open the windows and paced to and fro through his rooms, ran out into the street and came in again, as though fleeing before the thought that obsessed him: "Hortense is suffering.... Hortense is in the depths.... She sees the hatchet.... She is calling to me.... She is entreating me.... And I can do nothing...." It was at five o'clock in the afternoon that, on examining the list of the six names, he received that little inward shock which is a sort of signal of the truth that is being sought for. A light shot through his mind. It was not, to be sure, that brilliant light in which every detail is made plain, but it was enough to tell him in which direction to move. His plan of campaign was formed at once. He sent Adolphe, his chauffeur, to the principal newspapers, with a few lines which were to appear in type among the next morning's advertisements. Adolphe was also told to go to the laundry at Courbevoie, where Mlle. Covereau, the second of the six victims, had been employed. On the Thursday, Rénine did not stir out of doors. In the afternoon, he received several letters in reply to his advertisement. Then two telegrams arrived. Lastly, at three o'clock, there came a pneumatic letter, bearing the Trocadéro postmark, which seemed to be what he was expecting. He turned up a directory, noted an address--"M. de Lourtier-Vaneau, retired colonial governor, 47 _bis_, Avenue Kléber"--and ran down to his car: "Adolphe, 47 _bis_, Avenue Kléber." * * * * * He was shown into a large study furnished with magnificent book-cases containing old volumes in costly bindings. M. de Lourtier-Vaneau was a man still in the prime of life, wearing a slightly grizzled beard and, by his affable manners and genuine distinction, commanding confidence and liking. "M. de Lourtier," said Rénine, "I have ventured to call on your excellency because I read in last year's newspapers that you used to know one of the victims of the lady with the hatchet, Honorine Vernisset." "Why, of course we knew her!" cried M. de Lourtier. "My wife used to employ her as a dressmaker by the day. Poor girl!" "M. de Lourtier, a lady of my acquaintance has disappeared as the other six victims disappeared." "What!" exclaimed M. de Lourtier, with a start. "But I have followed the newspapers carefully. There was nothing on the 18th of October." "Yes, a woman of whom I am very fond, Madame Hortense Daniel, was abducted on the 17th of October." "And this is the 22nd!" "Yes; and the murder will be committed on the 24th." "Horrible! Horrible! It must be prevented at all costs...." "And I shall perhaps succeed in preventing it, with your excellency's assistance." "But have you been to the police?" "No. We are faced by mysteries which are, so to speak, absolute and compact, which offer no gap through which the keenest eyes can see and which it is useless to hope to clear up by ordinary methods, such as inspection of the scenes of the crimes, police enquiries, searching for finger-prints and so on. As none of those proceedings served any good purpose in the previous cases, it would be waste of time to resort to them in a seventh, similar case. An enemy who displays such skill and subtlety would not leave behind her any of those clumsy traces which are the first things that a professional detective seizes upon." "Then what have you done?" "Before taking any action, I have reflected. I gave four days to thinking the matter over." M. de Lourtier-Vaneau examined his visitor closely and, with a touch of irony, asked: "And the result of your meditations ...?" "To begin with," said Rénine, refusing to be put out of countenance, "I have submitted all these cases to a comprehensive survey, which hitherto no one else had done. This enabled me to discover their general meaning, to put aside all the tangle of embarrassing theories and, since no one was able to agree as to the motives of all this filthy business, to attribute it to the only class of persons capable of it." "That is to say?" "Lunatics, your excellency." M. de Lourtier-Vaneau started: "Lunatics? What an idea!" "M. de Lourtier, the woman known as the lady with the hatchet is a madwoman." "But she would be locked up!" "We don't know that she's not. We don't know that she is not one of those half-mad people, apparently harmless, who are watched so slightly that they have full scope to indulge their little manias, their wild-beast instincts. Nothing could be more treacherous than these creatures. Nothing could be more crafty, more patient, more persistent, more dangerous and at the same time more absurd and more logical, more slovenly and more methodical. All these epithets, M. de Lourtier, may be applied to the doings of the lady with the hatchet. The obsession of an idea and the continual repetition of an act are characteristics of the maniac. I do not yet know the idea by which the lady with the hatchet is obsessed but I do know the act that results from it; and it is always the same. The victim is bound with precisely similar ropes. She is killed after the same number of days. She is struck by an identical blow, with the same instrument, in the same place, the middle of the forehead, producing an absolutely vertical wound. An ordinary murderer displays some variety. His trembling hand swerves aside and strikes awry. The lady with the hatchet does not tremble. It is as though she had taken measurements; and the edge of her weapon does not swerve by a hair's breadth. Need I give you any further proofs or examine all the other details with you? Surely not. You now possess the key to the riddle; and you know as I do that only a lunatic can behave in this way, stupidly, savagely, mechanically, like a striking clock or the blade of the guillotine...." M. de Lourtier-Vaneau nodded his head: "Yes, that is so. One can see the whole affair from that angle ... and I am beginning to believe that this is how one ought to see it. But, if we admit that this madwoman has the sort of mathematical logic which governed the murders of the six victims, I see no connection between the victims themselves. She struck at random. Why this victim rather than that?" "Ah," said Rénine. "Your excellency is asking me a question which I asked myself from the first moment, the question which sums up the whole problem and which cost me so much trouble to solve! Why Hortense Daniel rather than another? Among two millions of women who might have been selected, why Hortense? Why little Vernisset? Why Miss Williamson? If the affair is such as I conceived it, as a whole, that is to say, based upon the blind and fantastic logic of a madwoman, a choice was inevitably exercised. Now in what did that choice consist? What was the quality, or the defect, or the sign needed to induce the lady with the hatchet to strike? In a word, if she chose--and she must have chosen--what directed her choice?" "Have you found the answer?" Rénine paused and replied: "Yes, your excellency, I have. And I could have found it at the very outset, since all that I had to do was to make a careful examination of the list of victims. But these flashes of truth are never kindled save in a brain overstimulated by effort and reflection. I stared at the list twenty times over, before that little detail took a definite shape." "I don't follow you," said M. de Lourtier-Vaneau. "M. de Lourtier, it may be noted that, if a number of persons are brought together in any transaction, or crime, or public scandal or what not, they are almost invariably described in the same way. On this occasion, the newspapers never mentioned anything more than their surnames in speaking of Madame Ladoue, Mlle. Ardent or Mlle. Covereau. On the other hand, Mlle. Vernisset and Miss Williamson were always described by their Christian names as well: Honorine and Hermione. If the same thing had been done in the case of all the six victims, there would have been no mystery." "Why not?" "Because we should at once have realized the relation existing between the six unfortunate women, as I myself suddenly realized it on comparing those two Christian names with that of Hortense Daniel. You understand now, don't you? You see the three Christian names before your eyes...." M. de Lourtier-Vaneau seemed to be perturbed. Turning a little pale, he said: "What do you mean? What do you mean?" "I mean," continued Rénine, in a clear voice, sounding each syllable separately, "I mean that you see before your eyes three Christian names which all three begin with the same initial and which all three, by a remarkable coincidence, consist of the same number of letters, as you may prove. If you enquire at the Courbevoie laundry, where Mlle. Covereau used to work, you will find that her name was Hilairie. Here again we have the same initial and the same number of letters. There is no need to seek any farther. We are sure, are we not, that the Christian names of all the victims offer the same peculiarities? And this gives us, with absolute certainty, the key to the problem which was set us. It explains the madwoman's choice. We now know the connection between the unfortunate victims. There can be no mistake about it. It's that and nothing else. And how this method of choosing confirms my theory! What proof of madness! Why kill these women rather than any others? Because their names begin with an H and consist of eight letters! You understand me, M. de Lourtier, do you not? The number of letters is eight. The initial letter is the eighth letter of the alphabet; and the word _huit_, eight, begins with an H. Always the letter H. _And the implement used to commit the crime was a hatchet_. Is your excellency prepared to tell me that the lady with the hatchet is not a madwoman?" Rénine interrupted himself and went up to M. de Lourtier-Vaneau: "What's the matter, your excellency? Are you unwell?" "No, no," said M. de Lourtier, with the perspiration streaming down his forehead. "No ... but all this story is so upsetting! Only think, I knew one of the victims! And then...." Rénine took a water-bottle and tumbler from a small table, filled the glass and handed it to M. de Lourtier, who sipped a few mouthfuls from it and then, pulling himself together, continued, in a voice which he strove to make firmer than it had been: "Very well. We'll admit your supposition. Even so, it is necessary that it should lead to tangible results. What have you done?" "This morning I published in all the newspapers an advertisement worded as follows: 'Excellent cook seeks situation. Write before 5 P.M. to Herminie, Boulevard Haussmann, etc.' You continue to follow me, don't you, M. de Lourtier? Christian names beginning with an H and consisting of eight letters are extremely rare and are all rather out of date: Herminie, Hilairie, Hermione. Well, these Christian names, for reasons which I do not understand, are essential to the madwoman. She cannot do without them. To find women bearing one of these Christian names and for this purpose only she summons up all her remaining powers of reason, discernment, reflection and intelligence. She hunts about. She asks questions. She lies in wait. She reads newspapers which she hardly understands, but in which certain details, certain capital letters catch her eye. And consequently I did not doubt for a second that this name of Herminie, printed in large type, would attract her attention and that she would be caught to-day in the trap of my advertisement." "Did she write?" asked M. de Lourtier-Vaneau, anxiously. "Several ladies," Rénine continued, "wrote the letters which are usual in such cases, to offer a home to the so-called Herminie. But I received an express letter which struck me as interesting." "From whom?" "Read it, M. de Lourtier." M. de Lourtier-Vaneau snatched the sheet from Rénine's hands and cast a glance at the signature. His first movement was one of surprise, as though he had expected something different. Then he gave a long, loud laugh of something like joy and relief. "Why do you laugh, M. de Lourtier? You seem pleased." "Pleased, no. But this letter is signed by my wife." "And you were afraid of finding something else?" "Oh no! But since it's my wife...." He did not finish his sentence and said to Rénine: "Come this way." He led him through a passage to a little drawing-room where a fair-haired lady, with a happy and tender expression on her comely face, was sitting in the midst of three children and helping them with their lessons. She rose. M. de Lourtier briefly presented his visitor and asked his wife: "Suzanne, is this express message from you?" "To Mlle. Herminie, Boulevard Haussmann? Yes," she said, "I sent it. As you know, our parlour-maid's leaving and I'm looking out for a new one." Rénine interrupted her: "Excuse me, madame. Just one question: where did you get the woman's address?" She flushed. Her husband insisted: "Tell us, Suzanne. Who gave you the address?" "I was rung up." "By whom?" She hesitated and then said: "Your old nurse." "Félicienne?" "Yes." M. de Lourtier cut short the conversation and, without permitting Rénine to ask any more questions, took him back to the study: "You see, monsieur, that pneumatic letter came from a quite natural source. Félicienne, my old nurse, who lives not far from Paris on an allowance which I make her, read your advertisement and told Madame de Lourtier of it. For, after all," he added laughing, "I don't suppose that you suspect my wife of being the lady with the hatchet." "No." "Then the incident is closed ... at least on my side. I have done what I could, I have listened to your arguments and I am very sorry that I can be of no more use to you...." He drank another glass of water and sat down. His face was distorted. Rénine looked at him for a few seconds, as a man will look at a failing adversary who has only to receive the knock-out blow, and, sitting down beside him, suddenly gripped his arm: "Your excellency, if you do not speak, Hortense Daniel will be the seventh victim." "I have nothing to say, monsieur! What do you think I know?" "The truth! My explanations have made it plain to you. Your distress, your terror are positive proofs." "But, after all, monsieur, if I knew, why should I be silent?" "For fear of scandal. There is in your life, so a profound intuition assures me, something that you are constrained to hide. The truth about this monstrous tragedy, which suddenly flashed upon you, this truth, if it were known, would spell dishonour to you, disgrace ... and you are shrinking from your duty." M. de Lourtier did not reply. Rénine leant over him and, looking him in the eyes, whispered: "There will be no scandal. I shall be the only person in the world to know what has happened. And I am as much interested as yourself in not attracting attention, because I love Hortense Daniel and do not wish her name to be mixed up in your horrible story." They remained face to face during a long interval. Rénine's expression was harsh and unyielding. M. de Lourtier felt that nothing would bend him if the necessary words remained unspoken; but he could not bring himself to utter them: "You are mistaken," he said. "You think you have seen things that don't exist." Rénine received a sudden and terrifying conviction that, if this man took refuge in a stolid silence, there was no hope for Hortense Daniel; and he was so much infuriated by the thought that the key to the riddle lay there, within reach of his hand, that he clutched M. de Lourtier by the throat and forced him backwards: "I'll have no more lies! A woman's life is at stake! Speak ... and speak at once! If not ...!" M. de Lourtier had no strength left in him. All resistance was impossible. It was not that Rénine's attack alarmed him, or that he was yielding to this act of violence, but he felt crushed by that indomitable will, which seemed to admit no obstacle, and he stammered: "You are right. It is my duty to tell everything, whatever comes of it." "Nothing will come of it, I pledge my word, on condition that you save Hortense Daniel. A moment's hesitation may undo us all. Speak. No details, but the actual facts." "Madame de Lourtier is not my wife. The only woman who has the right to bear my name is one whom I married when I was a young colonial official. She was a rather eccentric woman, of feeble mentality and incredibly subject to impulses that amounted to monomania. We had two children, twins, whom she worshipped and in whose company she would no doubt have recovered her mental balance and moral health, when, by a stupid accident--a passing carriage--they were killed before her eyes. The poor thing went mad ... with the silent, secretive madness which you imagined. Some time afterwards, when I was appointed to an Algerian station, I brought her to France and put her in the charge of a worthy creature who had nursed me and brought me up. Two years later, I made the acquaintance of the woman who was to become the joy of my life. You saw her just now. She is the mother of my children and she passes as my wife. Are we to sacrifice her? Is our whole existence to be shipwrecked in horror and must our name be coupled with this tragedy of madness and blood?" Rénine thought for a moment and asked: "What is the other one's name?" "Hermance." "Hermance! Still that initial ... still those eight letters!" "That was what made me realize everything just now," said M. de Lourtier. "When you compared the different names, I at once reflected that my unhappy wife was called Hermance and that she was mad ... and all the proofs leapt to my mind." "But, though we understand the selection of the victims, how are we to explain the murders? What are the symptoms of her madness? Does she suffer at all?" "She does not suffer very much at present. But she has suffered in the past, the most terrible suffering that you can imagine: since the moment when her two children were run over before her eyes, night and day she had the horrible spectacle of their death before her eyes, without a moment's interruption, for she never slept for a single second. Think of the torture of it! To see her children dying through all the hours of the long day and all the hours of the interminable night!" "Nevertheless," Rénine objected, "it is not to drive away that picture that she commits murder?" "Yes, possibly," said M. de Lourtier, thoughtfully, "to drive it away by sleep." "I don't understand." "You don't understand, because we are talking of a madwoman ... and because all that happens in that disordered brain is necessarily incoherent and abnormal?" "Obviously. But, all the same, is your supposition based on facts that justify it?" "Yes, on facts which I had, in a way, overlooked but which to-day assume their true significance. The first of these facts dates a few years back, to a morning when my old nurse for the first time found Hermance fast asleep. Now she was holding her hands clutched around a puppy which she had strangled. And the same thing was repeated on three other occasions." "And she slept?" "Yes, each time she slept a sleep which lasted for several nights." "And what conclusion did you draw?" "I concluded that the relaxation of the nerves provoked by taking life exhausted her and predisposed her for sleep." Rénine shuddered: "That's it! There's not a doubt of it! The taking life, the effort of killing makes her sleep. And she began with women what had served her so well with animals. All her madness has become concentrated on that one point: she kills them to rob them of their sleep! She wanted sleep; and she steals the sleep of others! That's it, isn't it? For the past two years, she has been sleeping?" "For the past two years, she has been sleeping," stammered M. de Lourtier. Rénine gripped him by the shoulder: "And it never occurred to you that her madness might go farther, that she would stop at nothing to win the blessing of sleep! Let us make haste, monsieur! All this is horrible!" They were both making for the door, when M. de Lourtier hesitated. The telephone-bell was ringing. "It's from there," he said. "From there?" "Yes, my old nurse gives me the news at the same time every day." He unhooked the receivers and handed one to Rénine, who whispered in his ear the questions which he was to put. "Is that you, Félicienne? How is she?" "Not so bad, sir." "Is she sleeping well?" "Not very well, lately. Last night, indeed, she never closed her eyes. So she's very gloomy just now." "What is she doing at the moment?" "She is in her room." "Go to her, Félicienne, and don't leave her." "I can't. She's locked herself in." "You must, Félicienne. Break open the door. I'm coming straight on.... Hullo! Hullo!... Oh, damnation, they've cut us off!" Without a word, the two men left the flat and ran down to the avenue. Rénine hustled M. de Lourtier into the car: "What address?" "Ville d'Avray." "Of course! In the very center of her operations ... like a spider in the middle of her web! Oh, the shame of it!" He was profoundly agitated. He saw the whole adventure in its monstrous reality. "Yes, she kills them to steal their sleep, as she used to kill the animals. It is the same obsession, but complicated by a whole array of utterly incomprehensible practices and superstitions. She evidently fancies that the similarity of the Christian names to her own is indispensable and that she will not sleep unless her victim is an Hortense or an Honorine. It's a madwoman's argument; its logic escapes us and we know nothing of its origin; but we can't get away from it. She has to hunt and has to find. And she finds and carries off her prey beforehand and watches over it for the appointed number of days, until the moment when, crazily, through the hole which she digs with a hatchet in the middle of the skull, she absorbs the sleep which stupefies her and grants her oblivion for a given period. And here again we see absurdity and madness. Why does she fix that period at so many days? Why should one victim ensure her a hundred and twenty days of sleep and another a hundred and twenty-five? What insanity! The calculation is mysterious and of course mad; but the fact remains that, at the end of a hundred or a hundred and twenty-five days, as the case may be, a fresh victim is sacrificed; and there have been six already and the seventh is awaiting her turn. Ah, monsieur, what a terrible responsibility for you! Such a monster as that! She should never have been allowed out of sight!" M. de Lourtier-Vaneau made no protest. His air of dejection, his pallor, his trembling hands, all proved his remorse and his despair: "She deceived me," he murmured. "She was outwardly so quiet, so docile! And, after all, she's in a lunatic asylum." "Then how can she ...?" "The asylum," explained M. de Lourtier, "is made up of a number of separate buildings scattered over extensive grounds. The sort of cottage in which Hermance lives stands quite apart. There is first a room occupied by Félicienne, then Hermance's bedroom and two separate rooms, one of which has its windows overlooking the open country. I suppose it is there that she locks up her victims." "But the carriage that conveys the dead bodies?" "The stables of the asylum are quite close to the cottage. There's a horse and carriage there for station work. Hermance no doubt gets up at night, harnesses the horse and slips the body through the window." "And the nurse who watches her?" "Félicienne is very old and rather deaf." "But by day she sees her mistress moving to and fro, doing this and that. Must we not admit a certain complicity?" "Never! Félicienne herself has been deceived by Hermance's hypocrisy." "All the same, it was she who telephoned to Madame de Lourtier first, about that advertisement...." "Very naturally. Hermance, who talks now and then, who argues, who buries herself in the newspapers, which she does not understand, as you were saying just now, but reads through them attentively, must have seen the advertisement and, having heard that we were looking for a servant, must have asked Félicienne to ring me up." "Yes ... yes ... that is what I felt," said Rénine, slowly. "She marks down her victims.... With Hortense dead, she would have known, once she had used up her allowance of sleep, where to find an eighth victim.... But how did she entice the unfortunate women? How did she entice Hortense?" The car was rushing along, but not fast enough to please Rénine, who rated the chauffeur: "Push her along, Adolphe, can't you?... We're losing time, my man." Suddenly the fear of arriving too late began to torture him. The logic of the insane is subject to sudden changes of mood, to any perilous idea that may enter the mind. The madwoman might easily mistake the date and hasten the catastrophe, like a clock out of order which strikes an hour too soon. On the other hand, as her sleep was once more disturbed, might she not be tempted to take action without waiting for the appointed moment? Was this not the reason why she had locked herself into her room? Heavens, what agonies her prisoner must be suffering! What shudders of terror at the executioner's least movement! "Faster, Adolphe, or I'll take the wheel myself! Faster, hang it." At last they reached Ville d'Avray. There was a steep, sloping road on the right and walls interrupted by a long railing. "Drive round the grounds, Adolphe. We mustn't give warning of our presence, must we, M. de Lourtier? Where is the cottage?" "Just opposite," said M. de Lourtier-Vaneau. They got out a little farther on. Rénine began to run along a bank at the side of an ill-kept sunken road. It was almost dark. M. de Lourtier said: "Here, this building standing a little way back.... Look at that window on the ground-floor. It belongs to one of the separate rooms ... and that is obviously how she slips out." "But the window seems to be barred." "Yes; and that is why no one suspected anything. But she must have found some way to get through." The ground-floor was built over deep cellars. Rénine quickly clambered up, finding a foothold on a projecting ledge of stone. Sure enough, one of the bars was missing. He pressed his face to the window-pane and looked in. The room was dark inside. Nevertheless he was able to distinguish at the back a woman seated beside another woman, who was lying on a mattress. The woman seated was holding her forehead in her hands and gazing at the woman who was lying down. "It's she," whispered M. de Lourtier, who had also climbed the wall. "The other one is bound." Rénine took from his pocket a glazier's diamond and cut out one of the panes without making enough noise to arouse the madwoman's attention. He next slid his hand to the window-fastening and turned it softly, while with his left hand he levelled a revolver. "You're not going to fire, surely!" M. de Lourtier-Vaneau entreated. "If I must, I shall." Rénine pushed open the window gently. But there was an obstacle of which he was not aware, a chair which toppled over and fell. He leapt into the room and threw away his revolver in order to seize the madwoman. But she did not wait for him. She rushed to the door, opened it and fled, with a hoarse cry. M. de Lourtier made as though to run after her. "What's the use?" said Rénine, kneeling down, "Let's save the victim first." He was instantly reassured: Hortense was alive. The first thing that he did was to cut the cords and remove the gag that was stifling her. Attracted by the noise, the old nurse had hastened to the room with a lamp, which Rénine took from her, casting its light on Hortense. He was astounded: though livid and exhausted, with emaciated features and eyes blazing with fever, Hortense was trying to smile. She whispered: "I was expecting you ... I did not despair for a moment ... I was sure of you...." She fainted. An hour later, after much useless searching around the cottage, they found the madwoman locked into a large cupboard in the loft. She had hanged herself. * * * * * Hortense refused to stay another night. Besides, it was better that the cottage should be empty when the old nurse announced the madwoman's suicide. Rénine gave Félicienne minute directions as to what she should do and say; and then, assisted by the chauffeur and M. de Lourtier, carried Hortense to the car and brought her home. She was soon convalescent. Two days later, Rénine carefully questioned her and asked her how she had come to know the madwoman. "It was very simple," she said. "My husband, who is not quite sane, as I have told you, is being looked after at Ville d'Avray; and I sometimes go to see him, without telling anybody, I admit. That was how I came to speak to that poor madwoman and how, the other day, she made signs that she wanted me to visit her. We were alone. I went into the cottage. She threw herself upon me and overpowered me before I had time to cry for help. I thought it was a jest; and so it was, wasn't it: a madwoman's jest? She was quite gentle with me.... All the same, she let me starve. But I was so sure of you!" "And weren't you frightened?" "Of starving? No. Besides, she gave me some food, now and then, when the fancy took her.... And then I was sure of you!" "Yes, but there was something else: that other peril...." "What other peril?" she asked, ingenuously. Rénine gave a start. He suddenly understood--it seemed strange at first, though it was quite natural--that Hortense had not for a moment suspected and did not yet suspect the terrible danger which she had run. Her mind had not connected with her own adventure the murders committed by the lady with the hatchet. He thought that it would always be time enough to tell her the truth. For that matter, a few days later her husband, who had been locked up for years, died in the asylum at Ville d'Avray, and Hortense, who had been recommended by her doctor a short period of rest and solitude, went to stay with a relation living near the village of Bassicourt, in the centre of France. VII FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW _To Prince Serge Rénine, Boulevard Haussmann, Paris_ LA RONCIÈRE NEAR BASSICOURT, 14 NOVEMBER. "MY DEAR FRIEND,-- "You must be thinking me very ungrateful. I have been here three weeks; and you have had not one letter from me! Not a word of thanks! And yet I ended by realizing from what terrible death you saved me and understanding the secret of that terrible business! But indeed, indeed I couldn't help it! I was in such a state of prostration after it all! I needed rest and solitude so badly! Was I to stay in Paris? Was I to continue my expeditions with you? No, no, no! I had had enough adventures! Other people's are very interesting, I admit. But when one is one's self the victim and barely escapes with one's life?... Oh, my dear friend, how horrible it was! Shall I ever forget it?... "Here, at la Roncière, I enjoy the greatest peace. My old spinster cousin Ermelin pets and coddles me like an invalid. I am getting back my colour and am very well, physically ... so much so, in fact, that I no longer ever think of interesting myself in other people's business. Never again! For instance (I am only telling you this because you are incorrigible, as inquisitive as any old charwoman, and always ready to busy yourself with things that don't concern you), yesterday I was present at a rather curious meeting. Antoinette had taken me to the inn at Bassicourt, where we were having tea in the public room, among the peasants (it was market-day), when the arrival of three people, two men and a woman, caused a sudden pause in the conversation. "One of the men was a fat farmer in a long blouse, with a jovial, red face, framed in white whiskers. The other was younger, was dressed in corduroy and had lean, yellow, cross-grained features. Each of them carried a gun slung over his shoulder. Between them was a short, slender young woman, in a brown cloak and a fur cap, whose rather thin and extremely pale face was surprisingly delicate and distinguished-looking. "'Father, son and daughter-in-law,' whispered my cousin. "'What! Can that charming creature be the wife of that clod-hopper?' "'And the daughter-in-law of Baron de Gorne.' "'Is the old fellow over there a baron?' "'Yes, descended from a very ancient, noble family which used to own the château in the old days. He has always lived like a peasant: a great hunter, a great drinker, a great litigant, always at law with somebody, now very nearly ruined. His son Mathias was more ambitious and less attached to the soil and studied for the bar. Then he went to America. Next, the lack of money brought him back to the village, whereupon he fell in love with a young girl in the nearest town. The poor girl consented, no one knows why, to marry him; and for five years past she has been leading the life of a hermit, or rather of a prisoner, in a little manor-house close by, the Manoir-au-Puits, the Well Manor.' "'With the father and the son?' I asked. "'No, the father lives at the far end of the village, on a lonely farm.' "'And is Master Mathias jealous?' "'A perfect tiger!' "'Without reason?' "'Without reason, for Natalie de Gorne is the straightest woman in the world and it is not her fault if a handsome young man has been hanging around the manor-house for the past few months. However, the de Gornes can't get over it.' "'What, the father neither?' "'The handsome young man is the last descendant of the people who bought the château long ago. This explains old de Gorne's hatred. Jérôme Vignal--I know him and am very fond of him--is a good-looking fellow and very well off; and he has sworn to run off with Natalie de Gorne. It's the old man who says so, whenever he has had a drop too much. There, listen!' "The old chap was sitting among a group of men who were amusing themselves by making him drink and plying him with questions. He was already a little bit 'on' and was holding forth with a tone of indignation and a mocking smile which formed the most comic contrast: "'He's wasting his time, I tell you, the coxcomb! It's no manner of use his poaching round our way and making sheep's-eyes at the wench.... The coverts are watched! If he comes too near, it means a bullet, eh, Mathias?' "He gripped his daughter-in-law's hand: "'And then the little wench knows how to defend herself too,' he chuckled. 'Eh, you don't want any admirers, do you Natalie?' "The young wife blushed, in her confusion at being addressed in these terms, while her husband growled: "'You'd do better to hold your tongue, father. There are things one doesn't talk about in public.' "'Things that affect one's honour are best settled in public,' retorted the old one. 'Where I'm concerned, the honour of the de Gornes comes before everything; and that fine spark, with his Paris airs, sha'n't....' "He stopped short. Before him stood a man who had just come in and who seemed to be waiting for him to finish his sentence. The newcomer was a tall, powerfully-built young fellow, in riding-kit, with a hunting-crop in his hand. His strong and rather stern face was lighted up by a pair of fine eyes in which shone an ironical smile. "'Jérôme Vignal,' whispered my cousin. "The young man seemed not at all embarrassed. On seeing Natalie, he made a low bow; and, when Mathias de Gorne took a step forward, he eyed him from head to foot, as though to say: "'Well, what about it?' "And his attitude was so haughty and contemptuous that the de Gornes unslung their guns and took them in both hands, like sportsmen about to shoot. The son's expression was very fierce. "Jérôme was quite unmoved by the threat. After a few seconds, turning to the inn-keeper, he remarked: "'Oh, I say! I came to see old Vasseur. But his shop is shut. Would you mind giving him the holster of my revolver? It wants a stitch or two.' "He handed the holster to the inn-keeper and added, laughing: "'I'm keeping the revolver, in case I need it. You never can tell!' "Then, still very calmly, he took a cigarette from a silver case, lit it and walked out. We saw him through the window vaulting on his horse and riding off at a slow trot. "Old de Gorne tossed off a glass of brandy, swearing most horribly. "His son clapped his hand to the old man's mouth and forced him to sit down. Natalie de Gorne was weeping beside them.... "That's my story, dear friend. As you see, it's not tremendously interesting and does not deserve your attention. There's no mystery in it and no part for you to play. Indeed, I particularly insist that you should not seek a pretext for any untimely interference. Of course, I should be glad to see the poor thing protected: she appears to be a perfect martyr. But, as I said before, let us leave other people to get out of their own troubles and go no farther with our little experiments...." * * * * * Rénine finished reading the letter, read it over again and ended by saying: "That's it. Everything's right as right can be. She doesn't want to continue our little experiments, because this would make the seventh and because she's afraid of the eighth, which under the terms of our agreement has a very particular significance. She doesn't want to ... and she does want to ... without seeming to want to." * * * * * He rubbed his hands. The letter was an invaluable witness to the influence which he had gradually, gently and patiently gained over Hortense Daniel. It betrayed a rather complex feeling, composed of admiration, unbounded confidence, uneasiness at times, fear and almost terror, but also love: he was convinced of that. His companion in adventures which she shared with a good fellowship that excluded any awkwardness between them, she had suddenly taken fright; and a sort of modesty, mingled with a certain coquetry; was impelling her to hold back. That very evening, Sunday, Rénine took the train. And, at break of day, after covering by diligence, on a road white with snow, the five miles between the little town of Pompignat, where he alighted, and the village of Bassicourt, he learnt that his journey might prove of some use: three shots had been heard during the night in the direction of the Manoir-au-Puits. "Three shots, sergeant. I heard them as plainly as I see you standing before me," said a peasant whom the gendarmes were questioning in the parlour of the inn which Rénine had entered. "So did I," said the waiter. "Three shots. It may have been twelve o'clock at night. The snow, which had been falling since nine, had stopped ... and the shots sounded across the fields, one after the other: bang, bang, bang." Five more peasants gave their evidence. The sergeant and his men had heard nothing, because the police-station backed on the fields. But a farm-labourer and a woman arrived, who said that they were in Mathias de Gorne's service, that they had been away for two days because of the intervening Sunday and that they had come straight from the manor-house, where they were unable to obtain admission: "The gate of the grounds is locked, sergeant," said the man. "It's the first time I've known this to happen. M. Mathias comes out to open it himself, every morning at the stroke of six, winter and summer. Well, it's past eight now. I called and shouted. Nobody answered. So we came on here." "You might have enquired at old M. de Gorne's," said the sergeant. "He lives on the high-road." "On my word, so I might! I never thought of that." "We'd better go there now," the sergeant decided. Two of his men went with him, as well as the peasants and a locksmith whose services were called into requisition. Rénine joined the party. Soon, at the end of the village, they reached old de Gorne's farmyard, which Rénine recognized by Hortense's description of its position. The old fellow was harnessing his horse and trap. When they told him what had happened, he burst out laughing: "Three shots? Bang, bang, bang? Why, my dear sergeant, there are only two barrels to Mathias' gun!" "What about the locked gate?" "It means that the lad's asleep, that's all. Last night, he came and cracked a bottle with me ... perhaps two ... or even three; and he'll be sleeping it off, I expect ... he and Natalie." He climbed on to the box of his trap--an old cart with a patched tilt--and cracked his whip: "Good-bye, gentlemen all. Those three shots of yours won't stop me from going to market at Pompignat, as I do every Monday. I've a couple of calves under the tilt; and they're just fit for the butcher. Good-day to you!" The others walked on. Rénine went up to the sergeant and gave him his name: "I'm a friend of Mlle. Ermelin, of La Roncière; and, as it's too early to call on her yet, I shall be glad if you'll allow me to go round by the manor with you. Mlle. Ermelin knows Madame de Gorne; and it will be a satisfaction to me to relieve her mind, for there's nothing wrong at the manor-house, I hope?" "If there is," replied the sergeant, "we shall read all about it as plainly as on a map, because of the snow." He was a likable young man and seemed smart and intelligent. From the very first he had shown great acuteness in observing the tracks which Mathias had left behind him, the evening before, on returning home, tracks which soon became confused with the footprints made in going and coming by the farm-labourer and the woman. Meanwhile they came to the walls of a property of which the locksmith readily opened the gate. From here onward, a single trail appeared upon the spotless snow, that of Mathias; and it was easy to perceive that the son must have shared largely in the father's libations, as the line of footprints described sudden curves which made it swerve right up to the trees of the avenue. Two hundred yards farther stood the dilapidated two-storeyed building of the Manoir-au-Puits. The principal door was open. "Let's go in," said the sergeant. And, the moment he had crossed the threshold, he muttered: "Oho! Old de Gorne made a mistake in not coming. They've been fighting in here." The big room was in disorder. Two shattered chairs, the overturned table and much broken glass and china bore witness to the violence of the struggle. The tall clock, lying on the ground, had stopped at twenty past eleven. With the farm-girl showing them the way, they ran up to the first floor. Neither Mathias nor his wife was there. But the door of their bedroom had been broken down with a hammer which they discovered under the bed. Rénine and the sergeant went downstairs again. The living-room had a passage communicating with the kitchen, which lay at the back of the house and opened on a small yard fenced off from the orchard. At the end of this enclosure was a well near which one was bound to pass. Now, from the door of the kitchen to the well, the snow, which was not very thick, had been pressed down to this side and that, as though a body had been dragged over it. And all around the well were tangled traces of trampling feet, showing that the struggle must have been resumed at this spot. The sergeant again discovered Mathias' footprints, together with others which were shapelier and lighter. These latter went straight into the orchard, by themselves. And, thirty yards on, near the footprints, a revolver was picked up and recognized by one of the peasants as resembling that which Jérôme Vignal had produced in the inn two days before. The sergeant examined the cylinder. Three of the seven bullets had been fired. And so the tragedy was little by little reconstructed in its main outlines; and the sergeant, who had ordered everybody to stand aside and not to step on the site of the footprints, came back to the well, leant over, put a few questions to the farm-girl and, going up to Rénine, whispered: "It all seems fairly clear to me." Rénine took his arm: "Let's speak out plainly, sergeant. I understand the business pretty well, for, as I told you, I know Mlle. Ermelin, who is a friend of Jérôme Vignal's and also knows Madame de Gorne. Do you suppose ...?" "I don't want to suppose anything. I simply declare that some one came there last night...." "By which way? The only tracks of a person coming towards the manor are those of M. de Gorne." "That's because the other person arrived before the snowfall, that is to say, before nine o'clock." "Then he must have hidden in a corner of the living-room and waited for the return of M. de Gorne, who came after the snow?" "Just so. As soon as Mathias came in, the man went for him. There was a fight. Mathias made his escape through the kitchen. The man ran after him to the well and fired three revolver-shots." "And where's the body?" "Down the well." Rénine protested: "Oh, I say! Aren't you taking a lot for granted?" "Why, sir, the snow's there, to tell the story; and the snow plainly says that, after the struggle, after the three shots, one man alone walked away and left the farm, one man only, and his footprints are not those of Mathias de Gorne. Then where can Mathias de Gorne be?" "But the well ... can be dragged?" "No. The well is practically bottomless. It is known all over the district and gives its name to the manor." "So you really believe ...?" "I repeat what I said. Before the snowfall, a single arrival, Mathias, and a single departure, the stranger." "And Madame de Gorne? Was she too killed and thrown down the well like her husband?" "No, carried off." "Carried off?" "Remember that her bedroom was broken down with a hammer." "Come, come, sergeant! You yourself declare that there was only one departure, the stranger's." "Stoop down. Look at the man's footprints. See how they sink into the snow, until they actually touch the ground. Those are the footprints of a man, laden with a heavy burden. The stranger was carrying Madame de Gorne on his shoulder." "Then there's an outlet this way?" "Yes, a little door of which Mathias de Gorne always had the key on him. The man must have taken it from him." "A way out into the open fields?" "Yes, a road which joins the departmental highway three quarters of a mile from here.... And do you know where?" "Where?" "At the corner of the château." "Jérôme Vignal's château?" "By Jove, this is beginning to look serious! If the trail leads to the château and stops there, we shall know where we stand." The trail did continue to the château, as they were able to perceive after following it across the undulating fields, on which the snow lay heaped in places. The approach to the main gates had been swept, but they saw that another trail, formed by the two wheels of a vehicle, was running in the opposite direction to the village. The sergeant rang the bell. The porter, who had also been sweeping the drive, came to the gates, with a broom in his hand. In answer to a question, the man said that M. Vignal had gone away that morning before anyone else was up and that he himself had harnessed the horse to the trap. "In that case," said Rénine, when they had moved away, "all we have to do is to follow the tracks of the wheels." "That will be no use," said the sergeant. "They have taken the railway." "At Pompignat station, where I came from? But they would have passed through the village." "They have gone just the other way, because it leads to the town, where the express trains stop. The procurator-general has an office in the town. I'll telephone; and, as there's no train before eleven o'clock, all that they need do is to keep a watch at the station." "I think you're doing the right thing, sergeant," said Rénine, "and I congratulate you on the way in which you have carried out your investigation." They parted. Rénine went back to the inn in the village and sent a note to Hortense Daniel by hand: "MY VERY DEAR FRIEND, "I seemed to gather from your letter that, touched as always by anything that concerns the heart, you were anxious to protect the love-affair of Jérôme and Natalie. Now there is every reason to suppose that these two, without consulting their fair protectress, have run away, after throwing Mathias de Gorne down a well. "Forgive me for not coming to see you. The whole thing is extremely obscure; and, if I were with you, I should not have the detachment of mind which is needed to think the case over." It was then half-past ten. Rénine went for a walk into the country, with his hands clasped behind his back and without vouchsafing a glance at the exquisite spectacle of the white meadows. He came back for lunch, still absorbed in his thoughts and indifferent to the talk of the customers of the inn, who on all sides were discussing recent events. He went up to his room and had been asleep some time when he was awakened by a tapping at the door. He got up and opened it: "Is it you?... Is it you?" he whispered. Hortense and he stood gazing at each other for some seconds in silence, holding each other's hands, as though nothing, no irrelevant thought and no utterance, must be allowed to interfere with the joy of their meeting. Then he asked: "Was I right in coming?" "Yes," she said, gently, "I expected you." "Perhaps it would have been better if you had sent for me sooner, instead of waiting.... Events did not wait, you see, and I don't quite know what's to become of Jérôme Vignal and Natalie de Gorne." "What, haven't you heard?" she said, quickly. "They've been arrested. They were going to travel by the express." "Arrested? No." Rénine objected. "People are not arrested like that. They have to be questioned first." "That's what's being done now. The authorities are making a search." "Where?" "At the château. And, as they are innocent.... For they are innocent, aren't they? You don't admit that they are guilty, any more than I do?" He replied: "I admit nothing, I can admit nothing, my dear. Nevertheless, I am bound to say that everything is against them ... except one fact, which is that everything is too much against them. It is not normal for so many proofs to be heaped up one on top of the other and for the man who commits a murder to tell his story so frankly. Apart from this, there's nothing but mystery and discrepancy." "Well?" "Well, I am greatly puzzled." "But you have a plan?" "None at all, so far. Ah, if I could see him, Jérôme Vignal, and her, Natalie de Gorne, and hear them and know what they are saying in their own defence! But you can understand that I sha'n't be permitted either to ask them any questions or to be present at their examination. Besides, it must be finished by this time." "It's finished at the château," she said, "but it's going to be continued at the manor-house." "Are they taking them to the manor-house?" he asked eagerly. "Yes ... at least, judging by what was said to the chauffeur of one of the procurator's two cars." "Oh, in that case," exclaimed Rénine, "the thing's done! The manor-house! Why, we shall be in the front row of the stalls! We shall see and hear everything; and, as a word, a tone of the voice, a quiver of the eyelids will be enough to give me the tiny clue I need, we may entertain some hope. Come along." He took her by the direct route which he had followed that morning, leading to the gate which the locksmith had opened. The gendarmes on duty at the manor-house had made a passage through the snow, beside the line of footprints and around the house. Chance enabled Rénine and Hortense to approach unseen and through a side-window to enter a corridor near a back-staircase. A few steps up was a little chamber which received its only light through a sort of bull's-eye, from the large room on the ground-floor. Rénine, during the morning visit, had noticed the bull's-eye, which was covered on the inside with a piece of cloth. He removed the cloth and cut out one of the panes. A few minutes later, a sound of voices rose from the other side of the house, no doubt near the well. The sound grew more distinct. A number of people flocked into the house. Some of them went up stairs to the first floor, while the sergeant arrived with a young man of whom Rénine and Hortense were able to distinguish only the tall figure: "Jérôme Vignal," said she. "Yes," said Rénine. "They are examining Madame de Gorne first, upstairs, in her bedroom." A quarter of an hour passed. Then the persons on the first floor came downstairs and went in. They were the procurator's deputy, his clerk, a commissary of police and two detectives. Madame de Gorne was shown in and the deputy asked Jérôme Vignal to step forward. Jérôme Vignal's face was certainly that of the strong man whom Hortense had depicted in her letter. He displayed no uneasiness, but rather decision and a resolute will. Natalie, who was short and very slight, with a feverish light in her eyes, nevertheless produced the same impression of quiet confidence. The deputy, who was examining the disordered furniture and the traces of the struggle, invited her to sit down and said to Jérôme: "Monsieur, I have not asked you many questions so far. This is a summary enquiry which I am conducting in your presence and which will be continued later by the examining-magistrate; and I wished above all to explain to you the very serious reasons for which I asked you to interrupt your journey and to come back here with Madame de Gorne. You are now in a position to refute the truly distressing charges that are hanging over you. I therefore ask you to tell me the exact truth." "Mr. Deputy," replied Jérôme, "the charges in question trouble me very little. The truth for which you are asking will defeat all the lies which chance has accumulated against me. It is this." He reflected for an instant and then, in clear, frank tones, said: "I love Madame de Gorne. The first time I met her, I conceived the greatest sympathy and admiration for her. But my affection has always been directed by the sole thought of her happiness. I love her, but I respect her even more. Madame de Gorne must have told you and I tell you again that she and I exchanged our first few words last night." He continued, in a lower voice: "I respect her the more inasmuch as she is exceedingly unhappy. All the world knows that every minute of her life was a martyrdom. Her husband persecuted her with ferocious hatred and frantic jealousy. Ask the servants. They will tell you of the long suffering of Natalie de Gorne, of the blows which she received and the insults which she had to endure. I tried to stop this torture by restoring to the rights of appeal which the merest stranger may claim when unhappiness and injustice pass a certain limit. I went three times to old de Gorne and begged him to interfere; but I found in him an almost equal hatred towards his daughter-in-law, the hatred which many people feel for anything beautiful and noble. At last I resolved on direct action and last night I took a step with regard to Mathias de Gorne which was ... a little unusual, I admit, but which seemed likely to succeed, considering the man's character. I swear, Mr. Deputy, that I had no other intention than to talk to Mathias de Gorne. Knowing certain particulars of his life which enabled me to bring effective pressure to bear upon him, I wished to make use of this advantage in order to achieve my purpose. If things turned out differently, I am not wholly to blame.... So I went there a little before nine o'clock. The servants, I knew, were out. He opened the door himself. He was alone." "Monsieur," said the deputy, interrupting him, "you are saying something--as Madame de Gorne, for that matter, did just now--which is manifestly opposed to the truth. Mathias de Gorne did not come home last night until eleven o'clock. We have two definite proofs of this: his father's evidence and the prints of his feet in the snow, which fell from a quarter past nine o'clock to eleven." "Mr. Deputy," Jérôme Vignal declared, without heeding the bad effect which his obstinacy was producing, "I am relating things as they were and not as they may be interpreted. But to continue. That clock marked ten minutes to nine when I entered this room. M. de Gorne, believing that he was about to be attacked, had taken down his gun. I placed my revolver on the table, out of reach of my hand, and sat down: 'I want to speak to you, monsieur,' I said. 'Please listen to me.' He did not stir and did not utter a single syllable. So I spoke. And straightway, crudely, without any previous explanations which might have softened the bluntness of my proposal, I spoke the few words which I had prepared beforehand: 'I have spent some months, monsieur,' I said, 'in making careful enquiries into your financial position. You have mortgaged every foot of your land. You have signed bills which will shortly be falling due and which it will be absolutely impossible for you to honour. You have nothing to hope for from your father, whose own affairs are in a very bad condition. So you are ruined. I have come to save you.'... He watched me, still without speaking, and sat down, which I took to mean that my suggestion was not entirely displeasing. Then I took a sheaf of bank-notes from my pocket, placed it before him and continued: 'Here is sixty thousand francs, monsieur. I will buy the Manoir-au-Puits, its lands and dependencies and take over the mortgages. The sum named is exactly twice what they are worth.'... I saw his eyes glittering. He asked my conditions. 'Only one,' I said, 'that you go to America.'... Mr. Deputy, we sat discussing for two hours. It was not that my offer roused his indignation--I should not have risked it if I had not known with whom I was dealing--but he wanted more and haggled greedily, though he refrained from mentioning the name of Madame de Gorne, to whom I myself had not once alluded. We might have been two men engaged in a dispute and seeking an agreement on common ground, whereas it was the happiness and the whole destiny of a woman that were at stake. At last, weary of the discussion, I accepted a compromise and we came to terms, which I resolved to make definite then and there. Two letters were exchanged between us: one in which he made the Manoir-au-Puits over to me for the sum which I had paid him; and one, which he pocketed immediately, by which I was to send him as much more in America on the day on which the decree of divorce was pronounced.... So the affair was settled. I am sure that at that moment he was accepting in good faith. He looked upon me less as an enemy and a rival than as a man who was doing him a service. He even went so far as to give me the key of the little door which opens on the fields, so that I might go home by the short cut. Unfortunately, while I was picking up my cap and greatcoat, I made the mistake of leaving on the table the letter of sale which he had signed. In a moment, Mathias de Gorne had seen the advantage which he could take of my slip: he could keep his property, keep his wife ... and keep the money. Quick as lightning, he tucked away the paper, hit me over the head with the butt-end of his gun, threw the gun on the floor and seized me by the throat with both hands. He had reckoned without his host. I was the stronger of the two; and after a sharp but short struggle, I mastered him and tied him up with a cord which I found lying in a corner ... Mr. Deputy, if my enemy's resolve was sudden, mine was no less so. Since, when all was said, he had accepted the bargain, I would force him to keep it, at least in so far as I was interested. A very few steps brought me to the first floor ... I had not a doubt that Madame de Gorne was there and had heard the sound of our discussion. Switching on the light of my pocket-torch, I looked into three bedrooms. The fourth was locked. I knocked at the door. There was no reply. But this was one of the moments in which a man allows no obstacle to stand in his way. I had seen a hammer in one of the rooms. I picked it up and smashed in the door.... Yes, Natalie was lying there, on the floor, in a dead faint. I took her in my arms, carried her downstairs and went through the kitchen. On seeing the snow outside, I at once realized that my footprints would be easily traced. But what did it matter? Was there any reason why I should put Mathias de Gorne off the scent? Not at all. With the sixty thousand francs in his possession, as well as the paper in which I undertook to pay him a like sum on the day of his divorce, to say nothing of his house and land, he would go away, leaving Natalie de Gorne to me. Nothing was changed between us, except one thing: instead of awaiting his good pleasure, I had at once seized the precious pledge which I coveted. What I feared, therefore, was not so much any subsequent attack on the part of Mathias de Gorne, but rather the indignant reproaches of his wife. What would she say when she realized that she was a prisoner in my hands?... The reasons why I escaped reproach Madame de Gorne has, I believe, had the frankness to tell you. Love calls forth love. That night, in my house, broken by emotion, she confessed her feeling for me. She loved me as I loved her. Our destinies were henceforth mingled. She and I set out at five o'clock this morning ... not foreseeing for an instant that we were amenable to the law." Jérôme Vignal's story was finished. He had told it straight off the reel, like a story learnt by heart and incapable of revision in any detail. There was a brief pause, during which Hortense whispered: "It all sounds quite possible and, in any case, very logical." "There are the objections to come," said Rénine. "Wait till you hear them. They are very serious. There's one in particular...." The deputy-procurator stated it at once: "And what became of M. de Gorne in all this?" "Mathias de Gorne?" asked Jérôme. "Yes. You have related, with an accent of great sincerity, a series of facts which I am quite willing to admit. Unfortunately, you have forgotten a point of the first importance: what became of Mathias de Gorne? You tied him up here, in this room. Well, this morning he was gone." "Of course, Mr. Deputy, Mathias de Gorne accepted the bargain in the end and went away." "By what road?" "No doubt by the road that leads to his father's house." "Where are his footprints? The expanse of snow is an impartial witness. After your fight with him, we see you, on the snow, moving away. Why don't we see him? He came and did not go away again. Where is he? There is not a trace of him ... or rather...." The deputy lowered his voice: "Or rather, yes, there are some traces on the way to the well and around the well ... traces which prove that the last struggle of all took place there.... And after that there is nothing ... not a thing...." Jérôme shrugged his shoulders: "You have already mentioned this, Mr. Deputy, and it implies a charge of homicide against me. I have nothing to say to it." "Have you anything to say to the fact that your revolver was picked up within fifteen yards of the well?" "No." "Or to the strange coincidence between the three shots heard in the night and the three cartridges missing from your revolver?" "No, Mr. Deputy, there was not, as you believe, a last struggle by the well, because I left M. de Gorne tied up, in this room, and because I also left my revolver here. On the other hand, if shots were heard, they were not fired by me." "A casual coincidence, therefore?" "That's a matter for the police to explain. My only duty is to tell the truth and you are not entitled to ask more of me." "And if that truth conflicts with the facts observed?" "It means that the facts are wrong, Mr. Deputy." "As you please. But, until the day when the police are able to make them agree with your statements, you will understand that I am obliged to keep you under arrest." "And Madame de Gorne?" asked Jérôme, greatly distressed. The deputy did not reply. He exchanged a few words with the commissary of police and then, beckoning to a detective, ordered him to bring up one of the two motor-cars. Then he turned to Natalie: "Madame, you have heard M. Vignal's evidence. It agrees word for word with your own. M. Vignal declares in particular that you had fainted when he carried you away. But did you remain unconscious all the way?" It seemed as though Jérôme's composure had increased Madame de Gorne's assurance. She replied: "I did not come to, monsieur, until I was at the château." "It's most extraordinary. Didn't you hear the three shots which were heard by almost every one in the village?" "I did not." "And did you see nothing of what happened beside the well?" "Nothing did happen. M. Vignal has told you so." "Then what has become of your husband?" "I don't know." "Come, madame, you really must assist the officers of the law and at least tell us what you think. Do you believe that there may have been an accident and that possibly M. de Gorne, who had been to see his father and had more to drink than usual, lost his balance and fell into the well?" "When my husband came back from seeing his father, he was not in the least intoxicated." "His father, however, has stated that he was. His father and he had drunk two or three bottles of wine." "His father is not telling the truth." "But the snow tells the truth, madame," said the deputy, irritably. "And the line of his footprints wavers from side to side." "My husband came in at half-past-eight, monsieur, before the snow had begun to fall." The deputy struck the table with his fist: "But, really, madame, you're going right against the evidence!... That sheet of snow cannot speak false!... I may accept your denial of matters that cannot be verified. But these footprints in the snow ... in the snow...." He controlled himself. The motor-car drew up outside the windows. Forming a sudden resolve, he said to Natalie: "You will be good enough to hold yourself at the disposal of the authorities, madame, and to remain here, in the manor-house...." And he made a sign to the sergeant to remove Jérôme Vignal in the car. The game was lost for the two lovers. Barely united, they had to separate and to fight, far away from each other, against the most grievous accusations. Jérôme took a step towards Natalie. They exchanged a long, sorrowful look. Then he bowed to her and walked to the door, in the wake of the sergeant of gendarmes. "Halt!" cried a voice. "Sergeant, right about ... turn!... Jérôme Vignal, stay where you are!" The ruffled deputy raised his head, as did the other people present. The voice came from the ceiling. The bulls-eye window had opened and Rénine, leaning through it, was waving his arms: "I wish to be heard!... I have several remarks to make ... especially in respect of the zigzag footprints!... It all lies in that!... Mathias had not been drinking!..." He had turned round and put his two legs through the opening, saying to Hortense, who tried to prevent him: "Don't move.... No one will disturb you." And, releasing his hold, he dropped into the room. The deputy appeared dumfounded: "But, really, monsieur, who are you? Where do you come from?" Rénine brushed the dust from his clothes and replied: "Excuse me, Mr. Deputy. I ought to have come the same way as everybody else. But I was in a hurry. Besides, if I had come in by the door instead of falling from the ceiling, my words would not have made the same impression." The infuriated deputy advanced to meet him: "Who are you?" "Prince Rénine. I was with the sergeant this morning when he was pursuing his investigations, wasn't I, sergeant? Since then I have been hunting about for information. That's why, wishing to be present at the hearing, I found a corner in a little private room...." "You were there? You had the audacity?..." "One must needs be audacious, when the truth's at stake. If I had not been there, I should not have discovered just the one little clue which I missed. I should not have known that Mathias de Gorne was not the least bit drunk. Now that's the key to the riddle. When we know that, we know the solution." The deputy found himself in a rather ridiculous position. Since he had failed to take the necessary precautions to ensure the secrecy of his enquiry, it was difficult for him to take any steps against this interloper. He growled: "Let's have done with this. What are you asking?" "A few minutes of your kind attention." "And with what object?" "To establish the innocence of M. Vignal and Madame de Gorne." He was wearing that calm air, that sort of indifferent look which was peculiar to him in moments of actions when the crisis of the drama depended solely upon himself. Hortense felt a thrill pass through her and at once became full of confidence: "They're saved," she thought, with sudden emotion. "I asked him to protect that young creature; and he is saving her from prison and despair." Jérôme and Natalie must have experienced the same impression of sudden hope, for they had drawn nearer to each other, as though this stranger, descended from the clouds, had already given them the right to clasp hands. The deputy shrugged his shoulders: "The prosecution will have every means, when the time comes, of establishing their innocence for itself. You will be called." "It would be better to establish it here and now. Any delay might lead to grievous consequences." "I happen to be in a hurry." "Two or three minutes will do." "Two or three minutes to explain a case like this!" "No longer, I assure you." "Are you as certain of it as all that?" "I am now. I have been thinking hard since this morning." The deputy realized that this was one of those gentry who stick to you like a leech and that there was nothing for it but to submit. In a rather bantering tone, he asked: "Does your thinking enable you to tell us the exact spot where M. Mathias de Gorne is at this moment?" Rénine took out his watch and answered: "In Paris, Mr. Deputy." "In Paris? Alive then?" "Alive and, what is more, in the pink of health." "I am delighted to hear it. But then what's the meaning of the footprints around the well and the presence of that revolver and those three shots?" "Simply camouflage." "Oh, really? Camouflage contrived by whom?" "By Mathias de Gorne himself." "That's curious! And with what object?" "With the object of passing himself off for dead and of arranging subsequent matters in such a way that M. Vignal was bound to be accused of the death, the murder." "An ingenious theory," the deputy agreed, still in a satirical tone. "What do you think of it, M. Vignal?" "It is a theory which flashed through my own mind. Mr. Deputy," replied Jérôme. "It is quite likely that, after our struggle and after I had gone, Mathias de Gorne conceived a new plan by which, this time, his hatred would be fully gratified. He both loved and detested his wife. He held me in the greatest loathing. This must be his revenge." "His revenge would cost him dear, considering that, according to your statement, Mathias de Gorne was to receive a second sum of sixty thousand francs from you." "He would receive that sum in another quarter, Mr. Deputy. My examination of the financial position of the de Gorne family revealed to me the fact that the father and son had taken out a life-insurance policy in each other's favour. With the son dead, or passing for dead, the father would receive the insurance-money and indemnify his son." "You mean to say," asked the deputy, with a smile, "that in all this camouflage, as you call it, M. de Gorne the elder would act as his son's accomplice?" Rénine took up the challenge: "Just so, Mr. Deputy. The father and son are accomplices. "Then we shall find the son at the father's?" "You would have found him there last night." "What became of him?" "He took the train at Pompignat." "That's a mere supposition." "No, a certainty." "A moral certainty, perhaps, but you'll admit there's not the slightest proof." The deputy did not wait for a reply. He considered that he had displayed an excessive goodwill and that patience has its limits and he put an end to the interview: "Not the slightest proof," he repeated, taking up his hat. "And, above all, ... above all, there's nothing in what you've said that can contradict in the very least the evidence of that relentless witness, the snow. To go to his father, Mathias de Gorne must have left this house. Which way did he go?" "Hang it all, M. Vignal told you: by the road which leads from here to his father's!" "There are no tracks in the snow." "Yes, there are." "But they show him coming here and not going away from here." "It's the same thing." "What?" "Of course it is. There's more than one way of walking. One doesn't always go ahead by following one's nose." "In what other way can one go ahead?" "By walking backwards, Mr. Deputy." These few words, spoken very simply, but in a clear tone which gave full value to every syllable, produced a profound silence. Those present at once grasped their extreme significance and, by adapting it to the actual happenings, perceived in a flash the impenetrable truth, which suddenly appeared to be the most natural thing in the world. Rénine continued his argument. Stepping backwards in the direction of the window, he said: "If I want to get to that window, I can of course walk straight up to it; but I can just as easily turn my back to it and walk that way. In either case I reach my goal." And he at once proceeded in a vigorous tone: "Here's the gist of it all. At half-past eight, before the snow fell, M. de Gorne comes home from his father's house. M. Vignal arrives twenty minutes later. There is a long discussion and a struggle, taking up three hours in all. It is then, after M. Vignal has carried off Madame de Gorne and made his escape, that Mathias de Gorne, foaming at the mouth, wild with rage, but suddenly seeing his chance of taking the most terrible revenge, hits upon the ingenious idea of using against his enemy the very snowfall upon whose evidence you are now relying. He therefore plans his own murder, or rather the appearance of his murder and of his fall to the bottom of the well and makes off backwards, step by step, thus recording his arrival instead of his departure on the white page." The deputy sneered no longer. This eccentric intruder suddenly appeared to him in the light of a person worthy of attention, whom it would not do to make fun of. He asked: "And how could he have left his father's house?" "In a trap, quite simply." "Who drove it?" "The father. This morning the sergeant and I saw the trap and spoke to the father, who was going to market as usual. The son was hidden under the tilt. He took the train at Pompignat and is in Paris by now." Rénine's explanation, as promised, had taken hardly five minutes. He had based it solely on logic and the probabilities of the case. And yet not a jot was left of the distressing mystery in which they were floundering. The darkness was dispelled. The whole truth appeared. Madame de Gorne wept for joy and Jérôme Vignal thanked the good genius who was changing the course of events with a stroke of his magic wand. "Shall we examine those footprints together, Mr. Deputy?" asked Rénine. "Do you mind? The mistake which the sergeant and I made this morning was to investigate only the footprints left by the alleged murderer and to neglect Mathias de Gorne's. Why indeed should they have attracted our attention? Yet it was precisely there that the crux of the whole affair was to be found." They stepped into the orchard and went to the well. It did not need a long examination to observe that many of the footprints were awkward, hesitating, too deeply sunk at the heel and toe and differing from one another in the angle at which the feet were turned. "This clumsiness was unavoidable," said Rénine. "Mathias de Gorne would have needed a regular apprenticeship before his backward progress could have equalled his ordinary gait; and both his father and he must have been aware of this, at least as regards the zigzags which you see here since old de Gorne went out of his way to tell the sergeant that his son had had too much drink." And he added "Indeed it was the detection of this falsehood that suddenly enlightened me. When Madame de Gorne stated that her husband was not drunk, I thought of the footprints and guessed the truth." The deputy frankly accepted his part in the matter and began to laugh: "There's nothing left for it but to send detectives after the bogus corpse." "On what grounds, Mr. Deputy?" asked Rénine. "Mathias de Gorne has committed no offence against the law. There's nothing criminal in trampling the soil around a well, in shifting the position of a revolver that doesn't belong to you, in firing three shots or in walking backwards to one's father's house. What can we ask of him? The sixty thousand francs? I presume that this is not M. Vignal's intention and that he does not mean to bring a charge against him?" "Certainly not," said Jérôme. "Well, what then? The insurance-policy in favour of the survivor? But there would be no misdemeanour unless the father claimed payment. And I should be greatly surprised if he did.... Hullo, here the old chap is! You'll soon know all about it." Old de Gorne was coming along, gesticulating as he walked. His easy-going features were screwed up to express sorrow and anger. "Where's my son?" he cried. "It seems the brute's killed him!... My poor Mathias dead! Oh, that scoundrel of a Vignal!" And he shook his fist at Jérôme. The deputy said, bluntly: "A word with you, M. de Gorne. Do you intend to claim your rights under a certain insurance-policy?" "Well, what do _you_ think?" said the old man, off his guard. "The fact is ... your son's not dead. People are even saying that you were a partner in his little schemes and that you stuffed him under the tilt of your trap and drove him to the station." The old fellow spat on the ground, stretched out his hand as though he were going to take a solemn oath, stood for an instant without moving and then, suddenly, changing his mind and his tactics with ingenuous cynicism, he relaxed his features, assumed a conciliatory attitude and burst out laughing: "That blackguard Mathias! So he tried to pass himself off as dead? What a rascal! And he reckoned on me to collect the insurance-money and send it to him? As if I should be capable of such a low, dirty trick!... You don't know me, my boy!" And, without waiting for more, shaking with merriment like a jolly old fellow amused by a funny story, he took his departure, not forgetting, however, to set his great hob-nail boots on each of the compromising footprints which his son had left behind him. * * * * * Later, when Rénine went back to the manor to let Hortense out, he found that she had disappeared. He called and asked for her at her cousin Ermelin's. Hortense sent down word asking him to excuse her: she was feeling a little tired and was lying down. "Capital!" thought Rénine. "Capital! She avoids me, therefore she loves me. The end is not far off." VIII AT THE SIGN OF MERCURY _To Madame Daniel, La Roncière, near Bassicourt._ "PARIS 30 NOVEMBER "My Dearest Friend,-- "There has been no letter from you for a fortnight; so I don't expect now to receive one for that troublesome date of the 5th of December, which we fixed as the last day of our partnership. I rather wish it would come, because you will then be released from a contract which no longer seems to give you pleasure. To me the seven battles which we fought and won together were a time of endless delight and enthusiasm. I was living beside you. I was conscious of all the good which that more active and stirring existence was doing you. My happiness was so great that I dared not speak of it to you or let you see anything of my secret feelings except my desire to please you and my passionate devotion. To-day you have had enough of your brother in arms. Your will shall be law. "But, though I bow to your decree, may I remind you what it was that I always believed our final adventure would be? May I repeat your words, not one of which I have forgotten? "'I demand,' you said, 'that you shall restore to me a small, antique clasp, made of a cornelian set in a filigree mount. It came to me from my mother; and every one knew that it used to bring her happiness and me too. Since the day when it vanished from my jewel-case, I have had nothing but unhappiness. Restore it to me, my good genius.' "And, when I asked you when the clasp had disappeared, you answered, with a laugh: "'Seven years ago ... or eight ... or nine: I don't know exactly.... I don't know when ... I don't know how ... I know nothing about it....' "You were challenging me, were you not, and you set me that condition because it was one which I could not fulfil? Nevertheless, I promised and I should like to keep my promise. What I have tried to do, in order to place life before you in a more favourable light, would seem purposeless, if your confidence feels the lack of this talisman to which you attach so great a value. We must not laugh at these little superstitions. They are often the mainspring of our best actions. "Dear friend, if you had helped me, I should have achieved yet one more victory. Alone and hard pushed by the proximity of the date, I have failed, not however without placing things on such a footing that the undertaking if you care to follow it up, has the greatest chance of success. "And you will follow it up, won't you? We have entered into a mutual agreement which we are bound to honour. It behooves us, within a fixed time, to inscribe in the book of our common life eight good stories, to which we shall have brought energy, logic, perseverance, some subtlety and occasionally a little heroism. This is the eighth of them. It is for you to act so that it may be written in its proper place on the 5th of December, before the clock strikes eight in the evening. "And, on that day, you will act as I shall now tell you. "First of all--and above all, my dear, do not complain that my instructions are fanciful: each of them is an indispensable condition of success--first of all, cut in your cousin's garden three slender lengths of rush. Plait them together and bind up the two ends so as to make a rude switch, like a child's whip-lash. "When you get to Paris, buy a long necklace of jet beads, cut into facets, and shorten it so that it consists of seventy-five beads, of almost equal size. "Under your winter cloak, wear a blue woollen gown. On your head, a toque with red leaves on it. Round your neck, a feather boa. No gloves. No rings. "In the afternoon, take a cab along the left bank of the river to the church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. At four o'clock exactly, there will be, near the holy-water basin, just inside the church, an old woman dressed in black, saying her prayers on a silver rosary. She will offer you holy water. Give her your necklace. She will count the beads and hand it back to you. After this, you will walk behind her, you will cross an arm of the Seine and she will lead you, down a lonely street in the Ile Saint-Louis, to a house which you will enter by yourself. "On the ground-floor of this house, you will find a youngish man with a very pasty complexion. Take off your cloak and then say to him: "'I have come to fetch my clasp.' "Do not be astonished by his agitation or dismay. Keep calm in his presence. If he questions you, if he wants to know your reason for applying to him or what impels you to make that request, give him no explanation. Your replies must be confined to these brief formulas: "'I have come to fetch what belongs to me. I don't know you, I don't know your name; but I am obliged to come to you like this. I must have my clasp returned to me. I must.' "I honestly believe that, if you have the firmness not to swerve from that attitude, whatever farce the man may play, you will be completely successful. But the contest must be a short one and the issue will depend solely on your confidence in yourself and your certainty of success. It will be a sort of match in which you must defeat your opponent in the first round. If you remain impassive, you will win. If you show hesitation or uneasiness, you can do nothing against him. He will escape you and regain the upper hand after a first moment of distress; and the game will be lost in a few minutes. There is no midway house between victory or ... defeat. "In the latter event, you would be obliged--I beg you to pardon me for saying so--again to accept my collaboration. I offer it you in advance, my dear, and without any conditions, while stating quite plainly that all that I have been able to do for you and all that I may yet do gives me no other right than that of thanking you and devoting myself more than ever to the woman who represents my joy, my whole life." * * * * * Hortense, after reading the letter, folded it up and put it away at the back of a drawer, saying, in a resolute voice: "I sha'n't go." To begin with, although she had formerly attached some slight importance to this trinket, which she had regarded as a mascot, she felt very little interest in it now that the period of her trials was apparently at an end. She could not forget that figure eight, which was the serial number of the next adventure. To launch herself upon it meant taking up the interrupted chain, going back to Rénine and giving him a pledge which, with his powers of suggestion, he would know how to turn to account. Two days before the 5th of December, she was still in the same frame of mind. So she was on the morning of the 4th; but suddenly, without even having to contend against preliminary subterfuges, she ran out into the garden, cut three lengths of rush, plaited them as she used to do in her childhood and at twelve o'clock had herself driven to the station. She was uplifted by an eager curiosity. She was unable to resist all the amusing and novel sensations which the adventure, proposed by Rénine, promised her. It was really too tempting. The jet necklace, the toque with the autumn leaves, the old woman with the silver rosary: how could she resist their mysterious appeal and how could she refuse this opportunity of showing Rénine what she was capable of doing? "And then, after all," she said to herself, laughing, "he's summoning me to Paris. Now eight o'clock is dangerous to me at a spot three hundred miles from Paris, in that old deserted Château de Halingre, but nowhere else. The only clock that can strike the threatening hour is down there, under lock and key, a prisoner!" She reached Paris that evening. On the morning of the 5th she went out and bought a jet necklace, which she reduced to seventy-five beads, put on a blue gown and a toque with red leaves and, at four o'clock precisely, entered the church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont. Her heart was throbbing violently. This time she was alone; and how acutely she now felt the strength of that support which, from unreflecting fear rather than any reasonable motive, she had thrust aside! She looked around her, almost hoping to see him. But there was no one there ... no one except an old lady in black, standing beside the holy water basin. Hortense went up to her. The old lady, who held a silver rosary in her hands, offered her holy water and then began to count the beads of the necklace which Hortense gave her. She whispered: "Seventy-five. That's right. Come." Without another word, she toddled along under the light of the street-lamps, crossed the Pont des Tournelles to the Ile Saint-Louis and went down an empty street leading to a cross-roads, where she stopped in front of an old house with wrought-iron balconies: "Go in," she said. And the old lady went away. * * * * * Hortense now saw a prosperous-looking shop which occupied almost the whole of the ground-floor and whose windows, blazing with electric light, displayed a huddled array of old furniture and antiquities. She stood there for a few seconds, gazing at it absently. A sign-board bore the words "The Mercury," together with the name of the owner of the shop, "Pancaldi." Higher up, on a projecting cornice which ran on a level with the first floor, a small niche sheltered a terra-cotta Mercury poised on one foot, with wings to his sandals and the caduceus in his hand, who, as Hortense noted, was leaning a little too far forward in the ardour of his flight and ought logically to have lost his balance and taken a header into the street. "Now!" she said, under her breath. She turned the handle of the door and walked in. Despite the ringing of the bells actuated by the opening door, no one came to meet her. The shop seemed to be empty. However, at the extreme end there was a room at the back of the shop and after that another, both crammed with furniture and knick-knacks, many of which looked very valuable. Hortense followed a narrow gangway which twisted and turned between two walls built up of cupboards, cabinets and console-tables, went up two steps and found herself in the last room of all. A man was sitting at a writing-desk and looking through some account-books. Without turning his head, he said: "I am at your service, madam.... Please look round you...." This room contained nothing but articles of a special character which gave it the appearance of some alchemist's laboratory in the middle ages: stuffed owls, skeletons, skulls, copper alembics, astrolabes and all around, hanging on the walls, amulets of every description, mainly hands of ivory or coral with two fingers pointing to ward off ill-luck. "Are you wanting anything in particular, madam?" asked M. Pancaldi, closing his desk and rising from his chair. "It's the man," thought Hortense. He had in fact an uncommonly pasty complexion. A little forked beard, flecked with grey, lengthened his face, which was surmounted by a bald, pallid forehead, beneath which gleamed a pair of small, prominent, restless, shifty eyes. Hortense, who had not removed her veil or cloak, replied: "I want a clasp." "They're in this show-case," he said, leading the way to the connecting room. Hortense glanced over the glass case and said: "No, no, ... I don't see what I'm looking for. I don't want just any clasp, but a clasp which I lost out of a jewel-case some years ago and which I have to look for here." She was astounded to see the commotion displayed on his features. His eyes became haggard. "Here?... I don't think you are in the least likely.... What sort of clasp is it?..." "A cornelian, mounted in gold filigree ... of the 1830 period." "I don't understand," he stammered. "Why do you come to me?" She now removed her veil and laid aside her cloak. He stepped back, as though terrified by the sight of her, and whispered: "The blue gown!... The toque!... And--can I believe my eyes?--the jet necklace!..." It was perhaps the whip-lash formed of three rushes that excited him most violently. He pointed his finger at it, began to stagger where he stood and ended by beating the air with his arms, like a drowning man, and fainting away in a chair. Hortense did not move. "Whatever farce he may play," Rénine had written, "have the courage to remain impassive." Perhaps he was not playing a farce. Nevertheless she forced herself to be calm and indifferent. This lasted for a minute or two, after which M. Pancaldi recovered from his swoon, wiped away the perspiration streaming down his forehead and, striving to control himself, resumed, in a trembling voice: "Why do you apply to me?" "Because the clasp is in your possession." "Who told you that?" he said, without denying the accusation. "How do you know?" "I know because it is so. Nobody has told me anything. I came here positive that I should find my clasp and with the immovable determination to take it away with me." "But do you know me? Do you know my name?" "I don't know you. I did not know your name before I read it over your shop. To me you are simply the man who is going to give me back what belongs to me." He was greatly agitated. He kept on walking to and fro in a small empty space surrounded by a circle of piled-up furniture, at which he hit out idiotically, at the risk of bringing it down. Hortense felt that she had the whip hand of him; and, profiting by his confusion, she said, suddenly, in a commanding and threatening tone: "Where is the thing? You must give it back to me. I insist upon it." Pancaldi gave way to a moment of despair. He folded his hands and mumbled a few words of entreaty. Then, defeated and suddenly resigned, he said, more distinctly: "You insist?..." "I do. You must give it to me." "Yes, yes, I must ... I agree." "Speak!" she ordered, more harshly still. "Speak, no, but write: I will write my secret.... And that will be the end of me." He turned to his desk and feverishly wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper, which he put into an envelope and sealed it: "See," he said, "here's my secret.... It was my whole life...." And, so saying, he suddenly pressed against his temple a revolver which he had produced from under a pile of papers and fired. With a quick movement, Hortense struck up his arm. The bullet struck the mirror of a cheval-glass. But Pancaldi collapsed and began to groan, as though he were wounded. Hortense made a great effort not to lose her composure: "Rénine warned me," she reflected. "The man's a play-actor. He has kept the envelope. He has kept his revolver, I won't be taken in by him." Nevertheless, she realized that, despite his apparent calmness, the attempt at suicide and the revolver-shot had completely unnerved her. All her energies were dispersed, like the sticks of a bundle whose string has been cut; and she had a painful impression that the man, who was grovelling at her feet, was in reality slowly getting the better of her. She sat down, exhausted. As Rénine had foretold, the duel had not lasted longer than a few minutes but it was she who had succumbed, thanks to her feminine nerves and at the very moment when she felt entitled to believe that she had won. The man Pancaldi was fully aware of this; and, without troubling to invent a transition, he ceased his jeremiads, leapt to his feet, cut a sort of agile caper before Hortense' eyes and cried, in a jeering tone: "Now we are going to have a little chat; but it would be a nuisance to be at the mercy of the first passing customer, wouldn't it?" He ran to the street-door, opened it and pulled down the iron shutter which closed the shop. Then, still hopping and skipping, he came back to Hortense: "Oof! I really thought I was done for! One more effort, madam, and you would have pulled it off. But then I'm such a simple chap! It seemed to me that you had come from the back of beyond, as an emissary of Providence, to call me to account; and, like a fool, I was about to give the thing back.... Ah, Mlle. Hortense--let me call you so: I used to know you by that name--Mlle. Hortense, what you lack, to use a vulgar expression, is gut." He sat down beside her and, with a malicious look, said, savagely: "The time has come to speak out. Who contrived this business? Not you; eh? It's not in your style. Then who?... I have always been honest in my life, scrupulously honest ... except once ... in the matter of that clasp. And, whereas I thought the story was buried and forgotten, here it is suddenly raked up again. Why? That's what I want to know." Hortense was no longer even attempting to fight. He was bringing to bear upon her all his virile strength, all his spite, all his fears, all the threats expressed in his furious gestures and on his features, which were both ridiculous and evil: "Speak, I want to know. If I have a secret foe, let me defend myself against him! Who is he? Who sent you here? Who urged you to take action? Is it a rival incensed by my good luck, who wants in his turn to benefit by the clasp? Speak, can't you, damn it all ... or, I swear by Heaven, I'll make you!..." She had an idea that he was reaching out for his revolver and stepped back, holding her arms before her, in the hope of escaping. They thus struggled against each other; and Hortense, who was becoming more and more frightened, not so much of the attack as of her assailant's distorted face, was beginning to scream, when Pancaldi suddenly stood motionless, with his arms before him, his fingers outstretched and his eyes staring above Hortense's head: "Who's there? How did you get in?" he asked, in a stifled voice. Hortense did not even need to turn round to feel assured that Rénine was coming to her assistance and that it was his inexplicable appearance that was causing the dealer such dismay. As a matter of fact, a slender figure stole through a heap of easy chairs and sofas: and Rénine came forward with a tranquil step. "Who are you?" repeated Pancaldi. "Where do you come from?" "From up there," he said, very amiably, pointing to the ceiling. "From up there?" "Yes, from the first floor. I have been the tenant of the floor above this for the past three months. I heard a noise just now. Some one was calling out for help. So I came down." "But how did you get in here?" "By the staircase." "What staircase?" "The iron staircase, at the end of the shop. The man who owned it before you had a flat on my floor and used to go up and down by that hidden staircase. You had the door shut off. I opened it." "But by what right, sir? It amounts to breaking in." "Breaking in is allowed, when there's a fellow-creature to be rescued." "Once more, who are you?" "Prince Rénine ... and a friend of this lady's," said Rénine, bending over Hortense and kissing her hand. Pancaldi seemed to be choking, and mumbled: "Oh, I understand!... You instigated the plot ... it was you who sent the lady...." "It was, M. Pancaldi, it was!" "And what are your intentions?" "My intentions are irreproachable. No violence. Simply a little interview. When that is over, you will hand over what I in my turn have come to fetch." "What?" "The clasp." "That, never!" shouted the dealer. "Don't say no. It's a foregone conclusion." "No power on earth, sir, can compel me to do such a thing!" "Shall we send for your wife? Madame Pancaldi will perhaps realize the position better than you do." The idea of no longer being alone with this unexpected adversary seemed to appeal to Pancaldi. There was a bell on the table beside him. He struck it three times. "Capital!" exclaimed Rénine "You see, my dear, M. Pancaldi is becoming quite amiable. Not a trace left of the devil broken loose who was going for you just now. No, M. Pancaldi only has to find himself dealing with a man to recover his qualities of courtesy and kindness. A perfect sheep! Which does not mean that things will go quite of themselves. Far from it! There's no more obstinate animal than a sheep...." Right at the end of the shop, between the dealer's writing-desk and the winding staircase, a curtain was raised, admitting a woman who was holding a door open. She might have been thirty years of age. Very simply dressed, she looked, with the apron on her, more like a cook than like the mistress of a household. But she had an attractive face and a pleasing figure. Hortense, who had followed Rénine, was surprised to recognize her as a maid whom she had had in her service when a girl: "What! Is that you, Lucienne? Are you Madame Pancaldi?" The newcomer looked at her, recognized her also and seemed embarrassed. Rénine said to her: "Your husband and I need your assistance, Madame Pancaldi, to settle a rather complicated matter a matter in which you played an important part...." She came forward without a word, obviously ill at ease, asking her husband, who did not take his eyes off her: "What is it?... What do they want with me?... What is he referring to?" "It's about the clasp!" Pancaldi whispered, under his breath. These few words were enough to make Madame Pancaldi realize to the full the seriousness of her position. And she did not try to keep her countenance or to retort with futile protests. She sank into a chair, sighing: "Oh, that's it!... I understand.... Mlle. Hortense has found the track.... Oh, it's all up with us!" There was a moment's respite. The struggle between the adversaries had hardly begun, before the husband and wife adopted the attitude of defeated persons whose only hope lay in the victor's clemency. Staring motionless before her, Madame Pancaldi began to cry. Rénine bent over her and said: "Do you mind if we go over the case from the beginning? We shall then see things more clearly; and I am sure that our interview will lead to a perfectly natural solution.... This is how things happened: nine years ago, when you were lady's maid to Mlle. Hortense in the country, you made the acquaintance of M. Pancaldi, who soon became your lover. You were both of you Corsicans, in other words, you came from a country where superstitions are very strong and where questions of good and bad luck, the evil eye, and spells and charms exert a profound influence over the lives of one and all. Now it was said that your young mistress' clasp had always brought luck to its owners. That was why, in a weak moment prompted by M. Pancaldi, you stole the clasp. Six months afterwards, you became Madame Pancaldi.... That is your whole story, is it not, told in a few sentences? The whole story of two people who would have remained honest members of society, if they had been able to resist that casual temptation?... I need not tell you how you both succeeded in life and how, possessing the talisman, believing its powers and trusting in yourselves, you rose to the first rank of antiquarians. To-day, well-off, owning this shop, "The Mercury," you attribute the success of your undertakings to that clasp. To lose it would to your eyes spell bankruptcy and poverty. Your whole life has been centred upon it. It is your fetish. It is the little household god who watches over you and guides your steps. It is there, somewhere, hidden in this jungle; and no one of course would ever have suspected anything--for I repeat, you are decent people, but for this one lapse--if an accident had not led me to look into your affairs." Rénine paused and continued: "That was two months ago, two months of minute investigations, which presented no difficulty to me, because, having discovered your trail, I hired the flat overhead and was able to use that staircase ... but, all the same, two months wasted to a certain extent because I have not yet succeeded. And Heaven knows how I have ransacked this shop of yours! There is not a piece of furniture that I have left unsearched, not a plank in the floor that I have not inspected. All to no purpose. Yes, there was one thing, an incidental discovery. In a secret recess in your writing-table, Pancaldi, I turned up a little account-book in which you have set down your remorse, your uneasiness, your fear of punishment and your dread of God's wrath.... It was highly imprudent of you, Pancaldi! People don't write such confessions! And, above all, they don't leave them lying about! Be this as it may, I read them and I noted one passage, which struck me as particularly important and was of use to me in preparing my plan of campaign: 'Should she come to me, the woman whom I robbed, should she come to me as I saw her in her garden, while Lucienne was taking the clasp; should she appear to me wearing the blue gown and the toque of red leaves, with the jet necklace and the whip of three plaited rushes which she was carrying that day; should she appear to me thus and say: "I have come to claim my property," then I shall understand that her conduct is inspired from on high and that I must obey the decree of Providence.' That is what is written in your book, Pancaldi, and it explains the conduct of the lady whom you call Mlle. Hortense. Acting on my instructions and in accordance with the setting thought out by yourself, she came to you, from the back of beyond, to use your own expression. A little more self-possession on her part; and you know that she would have won the day. Unfortunately, you are a wonderful actor; your sham suicide put her out; and you understood that this was not a decree of Providence, but simply an offensive on the part of your former victim. I had no choice, therefore, but to intervene. Here I am.... And now let's finish the business. Pancaldi, that clasp!" "No," said the dealer, who seemed to recover all his energy at the very thought of restoring the clasp. "And you, Madame Pancaldi." "I don't know where it is," the wife declared. "Very well. Then let us come to deeds. Madame Pancaldi, you have a son of seven whom you love with all your heart. This is Thursday and, as on every Thursday, your little boy is to come home alone from his aunt's. Two of my friends are posted on the road by which he returns and, in the absence of instructions to the contrary, will kidnap him as he passes." Madame Pancaldi lost her head at once: "My son! Oh, please, please ... not that!... I swear that I know nothing. My husband would never consent to confide in me." Rénine continued: "Next point. This evening, I shall lodge an information with the public prosecutor. Evidence: the confessions in the account-book. Consequences: action by the police, search of the premises and the rest." Pancaldi was silent. The others had a feeling that all these threats did not affect him and that, protected by his fetish, he believed himself to be invulnerable. But his wife fell on her knees at Rénine's feet and stammered: "No, no ... I entreat you!... It would mean going to prison and I don't want to go!... And then my son!... Oh, I entreat you!..." Hortense, seized with compassion, took Rénine to one side: "Poor woman! Let me intercede for her." "Set your mind at rest," he said. "Nothing is going to happen to her son." "But your two friends?" "Sheer bluff." "Your application to the public prosecutor?" "A mere threat." "Then what are you trying to do?" "To frighten them out of their wits, in the hope of making them drop a remark, a word, which will tell us what we want to know. We've tried every other means. This is the last; and it is a method which, I find, nearly always succeeds. Remember our adventures." "But if the word which you expect to hear is not spoken?" "It must be spoken," said Rénine, in a low voice. "We must finish the matter. The hour is at hand." His eyes met hers; and she blushed crimson at the thought that the hour to which he was alluding was the eighth and that he had no other object than to finish the matter before that eighth hour struck. "So you see, on the one hand, what you are risking," he said to the Pancaldi pair. "The disappearance of your child ... and prison: prison for certain, since there is the book with its confessions. And now, on the other hand, here's my offer: twenty thousand francs if you hand over the clasp immediately, this minute. Remember, it isn't worth three louis." No reply. Madame Pancaldi was crying. Rénine resumed, pausing between each proposal: "I'll double my offer.... I'll treble it.... Hang it all, Pancaldi, you're unreasonable!... I suppose you want me to make it a round sum? All right: a hundred thousand francs." He held out his hand as if there was no doubt that they would give him the clasp. Madame Pancaldi was the first to yield and did so with a sudden outburst of rage against her husband: "Well, confess, can't you?... Speak up!... Where have you hidden it?... Look here, you aren't going to be obstinate, what? If you are, it means ruin ... and poverty.... And then there's our boy!... Speak out, do!" Hortense whispered: "Rénine, this is madness; the clasp has no value...." "Never fear," said Rénine, "he's not going to accept.... But look at him.... How excited he is! Exactly what I wanted.... Ah, this, you know, is really exciting!... To make people lose their heads! To rob them of all control over what they are thinking and saying!... And, in the midst of this confusion, in the storm that tosses them to and fro, to catch sight of the tiny spark which will flash forth somewhere or other!... Look at him! Look at the fellow! A hundred thousand francs for a valueless pebble ... if not, prison: it's enough to turn any man's head!" Pancaldi, in fact, was grey in the face; his lips were trembling and a drop of saliva was trickling from their corners. It was easy to guess the seething turmoil of his whole being, shaken by conflicting emotions, by the clash between greed and fear. Suddenly he burst out; and it was obvious that his words were pouring forth at random, without his knowing in the least what he was saying: "A hundred thousand francs! Two hundred thousand! Five hundred thousand! A million! A two fig for your millions! What's the use of millions? One loses them. They disappear.... They go.... There's only one thing that counts: luck. It's on your side or else against you. And luck has been on my side these last nine years. It has never betrayed me; and you expect me to betray it? Why? Out of fear? Prison? My son? Bosh!... No harm will come to me so long as I compel luck to work on my behalf. It's my servant, it's my friend. It clings to the clasp. How? How can I tell? It's the cornelian, no doubt.... There are magic stones, which hold happiness, as others hold fire, or sulphur, or gold...." Rénine kept his eyes fixed upon him, watching for the least word, the least modulation of the voice. The curiosity-dealer was now laughing, with a nervous laugh, while resuming the self-control of a man who feels sure of himself: and he walked up to Rénine with jerky movements that revealed an increasing resolution: "Millions? My dear sir, I wouldn't have them as a gift. The little bit of stone which I possess is worth much more than that. And the proof of it lies in all the pains which you are at to take it from me. Aha! Months devoted to looking for it, as you yourself confess! Months in which you turned everything topsy-turvy, while I, who suspected nothing, did not even defend myself! Why should I? The little thing defended itself all alone.... It does not want to be discovered and it sha'n't be.... It likes being here.... It presides over a good, honest business that satisfies it.... Pancaldi's luck! Why, it's known to all the neighbourhood, among all the dealers! I proclaim it from the house-tops: 'I'm a lucky man!' I even made so bold as to take the god of luck, Mercury, as my patron! He too protects me. See, I've got Mercuries all over my shop! Look up there, on that shelf, a whole row of statuettes, like the one over the front-door, proofs signed by a great sculptor who went smash and sold them to me.... Would you like one, my dear sir? It will bring you luck too. Take your pick! A present from Pancaldi, to make up to you for your defeat! Does that suit you?" He put a stool against the wall, under the shelf, took down a statuette and plumped it into Rénine's arms. And, laughing heartily, growing more and more excited as his enemy seemed to yield ground and to fall back before his spirited attack, he explained: "Well done! He accepts! And the fact that he accepts shows that we are all agreed! Madame Pancaldi, don't distress yourself. Your son's coming back and nobody's going to prison! Good-bye, Mlle. Hortense! Good-day, sir! Hope to see you again! If you want to speak to me at any time, just give three thumps on the ceiling. Good-bye ... don't forget your present ... and may Mercury be kind to you! Good-bye, my dear Prince! Good-bye, Mlle. Hortense!..." He hustled them to the iron staircase, gripped each of them by the arm in turn and pushed them up to the little door hidden at the top of the stairs. And the strange thing was that Rénine made no protest. He did not attempt to resist. He allowed himself to be led along like a naughty child that is taken up to bed. Less than five minutes had elapsed between the moment when he made his offer to Pancaldi and the moment when Pancaldi turned him out of the shop with a statuette in his arms. * * * * * The dining-room and drawing-room of the flat which Rénine had taken on the first floor looked out upon the street. The table in the dining-room was laid for two. "Forgive me, won't you?" said Rénine, as he opened the door of the drawing-room for Hortense. "I thought that, whatever happened, I should most likely see you this evening and that we might as well dine together. Don't refuse me this kindness, which will be the last favour granted in our last adventure." Hortense did not refuse him. The manner in which the battle had ended was so different from everything that she had seen hitherto that she felt disconcerted. At any rate, why should she refuse, seeing that the terms of the contract had not been fulfilled? Rénine left the room to give an order to his manservant. Two minutes later, he came back for Hortense. It was then a little past seven. There were flowers on the table; and the statue of Mercury, Pancaldi's present, stood overtopping them. "May the god of luck preside over our repast," said Rénine. He was full of animation and expressed his great delight at having her sitting opposite him: "Yes," he exclaimed, "I had to resort to powerful means and attract you by the bait of the most fabulous enterprises. You must confess that my letter was jolly smart! The three rushes, the blue gown; simply irresistible! And, when I had thrown in a few puzzles of my own invention, such as the seventy-five beads of the necklace and the old woman with the silver rosary, I knew that you were bound to succumb to the temptation. Don't be angry with me. I wanted to see you and I wanted it to be today. You have come and I thank you." He next told her how he had got on the track of the stolen trinket: "You hoped, didn't you, in laying down that condition, that I shouldn't be able to fulfil it? You made a mistake, my dear. The test, at least at the beginning, was easy enough, because it was based upon an undoubted fact: the talismanic character attributed to the clasp. I had only to hunt about and see whether among the people around you, among your servants, there was ever any one upon whom that character may have exercised some attraction. Now, on the list of persons which I succeeded in drawing up. I at once noticed the name of Mlle. Lucienne, as coming from Corsica. This was my starting-point. The rest was a mere concatenation of events." Hortense stared at him in amazement. How was it that he was accepting his defeat with such a careless air and even talking in a tone of triumph, whereas really he had been soundly beaten by Pancaldi and even made to look just a trifle ridiculous? She could not help letting him feel this; and the fashion in which she did so betrayed a certain disappointment, a certain humiliation: "Everything is a concatenation of events: very well. But the chain is broken, because, when all is said, though you know the thief, you did not succeed in laying hands upon the stolen clasp." The reproach was obvious. Rénine had not accustomed her to failure. And furthermore she was irritated to see how heedlessly he was accepting a blow which, after all, entailed the ruin of any hopes that he might have entertained. He did not reply. He had filled their two glasses with champagne and was slowly emptying his own, with his eyes fixed on the statuette of Mercury. He turned it about on its pedestal and examined it with the eye of a delighted connoisseur: "What a beautiful thing is a harmonious line! Colour does not uplift me so much as outline, proportion, symmetry and all the wonderful properties of form. Look at this little statue. Pancaldi's right: it's the work of a great artist. The legs are both slender and muscular; the whole figure gives an impression of buoyancy and speed. It is very well done. There's only one fault, a very slight one: perhaps you've not noticed it?" "Yes, I have," said Hortense. "It struck me the moment I saw the sign, outside. You mean, don't you, a certain lack of balance? The god is leaning over too far on the leg that carries him. He looks as though he were going to pitch forward." "That's very clever of you," said Rénine. "The fault is almost imperceptible and it needs a trained eye to see it. Really, however, as a matter of logic, the weight of the body ought to have its way and, in accordance with natural laws, the little god ought to take a header." After a pause he continued: "I noticed that flaw on the first day. How was it that I did not draw an inference at once? I was shocked because the artist had sinned against an aesthetic law, whereas I ought to have been shocked because he had overlooked a physical law. As though art and nature were not blended together! And as though the laws of gravity could be disturbed without some fundamental reason!" "What do you mean?" asked Hortense, puzzled by these reflections, which seemed so far removed from their secret thoughts. "What do you mean?" "Oh, nothing!" he said. "I am only surprised that I didn't understand sooner why Mercury did not plump forward, as he should have done." "And what is the reason?" "The reason? I imagine that Pancaldi, when pulling the statuette about to make it serve his purpose, must have disturbed its balance, but that this balance was restored by something which holds the little god back and which makes up for his really too dangerous posture." "Something, you say?" "Yes, a counterweight." Hortense gave a start. She too was beginning to see a little light. She murmured: "A counterweight?... Are you thinking that it might be ... in the pedestal?" "Why not?" "Is that possible? But, if so, how did Pancaldi come to give you this statuette?" "He never gave me _this_ one," Rénine declared. "I took this one myself." "But where? And when?" "Just now, while you were in the drawing-room. I got out of that window, which is just over the signboard and beside the niche containing the little god. And I exchanged the two, that is to say, I took the statue which was outside and put the one which Pancaldi gave me in its place." "But doesn't that one lean forward?" "No, no more than the others do, on the shelf in his shop. But Pancaldi is not an artist. A lack of equilibrium does not impress him; he will see nothing wrong; and he will continue to think himself favoured by luck, which is another way of saying that luck will continue to favour him. Meanwhile, here's the statuette, the one used for the sign. Am I to break the pedestal and take your clasp out of the leaden sheath, soldered to the back of the pedestal, which keeps Mercury steady?" "No, no, there's no need for that," Hortense hurriedly murmured. Rénine's intuition, his subtlety, the skill with which he had managed the whole business: to her, for the moment, all these things remained in the background. But she suddenly remembered that the eighth adventure was completed, that Rénine had surmounted every obstacle, that the test had turned to his advantage and that the extreme limit of time fixed for the last of the adventures was not yet reached. He had the cruelty to call attention to the fact: "A quarter to eight," he said. An oppressive silence fell between them. Both felt its discomfort to such a degree that they hesitated to make the least movement. In order to break it, Rénine jested: "That worthy M. Pancaldi, how good it was of him to tell me what I wished to know! I knew, however, that by exasperating him, I should end by picking up the missing clue in what he said. It was just as though one were to hand some one a flint and steel and suggest to him that he was to use it. In the end, the spark is obtained. In my case, what produced the spark was the unconscious but inevitable comparison which he drew between the cornelian clasp, the element of luck, and Mercury, the god of luck. That was enough. I understood that this association of ideas arose from his having actually associated the two factors of luck by embodying one in the other, or, to speak more plainly, by hiding the trinket in the statuette. And I at once remembered the Mercury outside the door and its defective poise...." Rénine suddenly interrupted himself. It seemed to him that all his remarks were falling on deaf ears. Hortense had put her hand to her forehead and, thus veiling her eyes, sat motionless and remote. She was indeed not listening. The end of this particular adventure and the manner in which Rénine had acted on this occasion no longer interested her. What she was thinking of was the complex series of adventures amid which she had been living for the past three months and the wonderful behaviour of the man who had offered her his devotion. She saw, as in a magic picture, the fabulous deeds performed by him, all the good that he had done, the lives saved, the sorrows assuaged, the order restored wherever his masterly will had been brought to bear. Nothing was impossible to him. What he undertook to do he did. Every aim that he set before him was attained in advance. And all this without excessive effort, with the calmness of one who knows his own strength and knows that nothing can resist it. Then what could she do against him? Why should she defend herself and how? If he demanded that she should yield, would he not know how to make her do so and would this last adventure be any more difficult for him than the others? Supposing that she ran away: did the wide world contain a retreat in which she would be safe from his pursuit? From the first moment of their first meeting, the end was certain, since Rénine had decreed that it should be so. However, she still cast about for weapons, for protection of some sort; and she said to herself that, though he had fulfilled the eight conditions and restored the cornelian clasp to her before the eighth hour had struck, she was nevertheless protected by the fact that this eighth hour was to strike on the clock of the Château de Halingre and not elsewhere. It was a formal compact. Rénine had said that day, gazing on the lips which he longed to kiss: "The old brass pendulum will start swinging again; and, when, on the fixed date, the clock once more strikes eight, then...." She looked up. He was not moving either, but sat solemnly, patiently waiting. She was on the point of saying, she was even preparing her words: "You know, our agreement says it must be the Halingre clock. All the other conditions have been fulfilled ... but not this one. So I am free, am I not? I am entitled not to keep my promise, which, moreover, I never made, but which in any case falls to the ground?... And I am perfectly free ... released from any scruple of conscience?..." She had not time to speak. At that precise moment, there was a click behind her, like that of a clock about to strike. A first stroke sounded, then a second, then a third. Hortense moaned. She had recognized the very sound of the old clock, the Halingre clock, which three months ago, by breaking in a supernatural manner the silence of the deserted château, had set both of them on the road of the eight adventures. She counted the strokes. The clock struck eight. "Ah!" she murmured, half swooning and hiding her face in her hands. "The clock ... the clock is here ... the one from over there ... I recognize its voice...." She said no more. She felt that Rénine had his eyes fixed upon her and this sapped all her energies. Besides, had she been able to recover them, she would have been no better off nor sought to offer him the least resistance, for the reason that she did not wish to resist. All the adventures were over, but one remained to be undertaken, the anticipation of which wiped out the memory of all the rest. It was the adventure of love, the most delightful, the most bewildering, the most adorable of all adventures. She accepted fate's decree, rejoicing in all that might come, because she was in love. She smiled in spite of herself, as she reflected that happiness was again to enter her life at the very moment when her well-beloved was bringing her the cornelian clasp. The clock struck the hour for the second time. Hortense raised her eyes to Rénine. She struggled a few seconds longer. But she was like a charmed bird, incapable of any movement of revolt; and at the eighth stroke she fell upon his breast and offered him her lips.... THE END