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Arsène Lupin versus Herlock Sholmes

<h2>CHAPTER III. HERLOCK SHOLMES OPENS HOSTILITIES.</h2> “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. <hr /> 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. <hr /> 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. <hr /> 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 foresaw 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.” <hr /> 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.” <hr /> 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.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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