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 foregone 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 standpoint 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.