"What are you doing here? Tell me… What?.. Did I tell you to hide in the bushes and spy on me!"
"Spy on you!" muttered Wilson, "why, I didn't know it was you."
"But what are you doing here? You ought to be in bed."
"I was in bed."
"You ought to be asleep."
"I was asleep."
"Well, what brought you here?" asked Sholmes.
"Your letter."
"My letter? I don't understand."
"Yes, a messenger brought it to me at the hotel."
"From me? Are you crazy?"
"It is true – I swear it."
"Where is the letter?"
Wilson handed him a sheet of paper, which he read by the light of his lantern. It was as follows:
"Wilson, come at once to avenue Henri-Martin. The house is empty. Inspect the whole place and make an exact plan. Then return to hotel. – Herlock Sholmes."
"I was measuring the rooms," said Wilson, "when I saw a shadow in the garden. I had only one idea – "
"That was to seize the shadow… The idea was excellent… But remember this, Wilson, whenever you receive a letter from me, be sure it is my handwriting and not a forgery."
"Ah!" exclaimed Wilson, as the truth dawned on him, "then the letter wasn't from you?"
"No."
"Who sent it, then?"
"Arsène Lupin."
"Why? For what purpose?" asked Wilson.
"I don't know, and that's what worries me. I don't understand why he took the trouble to disturb you. Of course, if he had sent me on such a foolish errand I wouldn't be surprised; but what was his object in disturbing you?"
"I must hurry back to the hotel."
"So must I, Wilson."
They arrived at the gate. Wilson, who was ahead, took hold of it and pulled.
"Ah! you closed it?" he said.
"No, I left it partly open."
Sholmes tried the gate; then, alarmed, he examined the lock. An oath escaped him:
"Good God! it is locked! locked with a key!"
He shook the gate with all his strength; then, realizing the futility of his efforts, he dropped his arms, discouraged, and muttered, in a jerky manner:
"I can see it all now – it is Lupin. He fore-saw that I would leave the train at Creil, and he prepared this neat little trap for me in case I should commence my investigation this evening. Moreover, he was kind enough to send me a companion to share my captivity. All done to make me lose a day, and, perhaps, also, to teach me to mind my own business."
"Do you mean to say we are prisoners?"
"Exactly. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson are the prisoners of Arsène Lupin. It's a bad beginning; but he laughs best who laughs last."
Wilson seized Sholmes' arm, and exclaimed:
"Look!.. Look up there!.. A light…"
A light shone through one of the windows of the first floor. Both of them ran to the house, and each ascended by the stairs he had used on coming out a short time before, and they met again at the entrance to the lighted chamber. A small piece of a candle was burning in the center of the room. Beside it there was a basket containing a bottle, a roasted chicken, and a loaf of bread.
Sholmes was greatly amused, and laughed heartily.
"Wonderful! we are invited to supper. It is really an enchanted place, a genuine fairy-land. Come, Wilson, cheer up! this is not a funeral. It's all very funny."
"Are you quite sure it is so very funny?" asked Wilson, in a lugubrious tone.
"Am I sure?" exclaimed Sholmes, with a gaiety that was too boisterous to be natural, "why, to tell the truth, it's the funniest thing I ever saw. It's a jolly good comedy! What a master of sarcasm this Arsène Lupin is! He makes a fool of you with the utmost grace and delicacy. I wouldn't miss this feast for all the money in the Bank of England. Come, Wilson, you grieve me. You should display that nobility of character which rises superior to misfortune. I don't see that you have any cause for complaint, really, I don't."
After a time, by dint of good humor and sarcasm, he managed to restore Wilson to his normal mood, and make him swallow a morsel of chicken and a glass of wine. But when the candle went out and they prepared to spend the night there, with the bare floor for a mattress and the hard wall for a pillow, the harsh and ridiculous side of the situation was impressed upon them. That particular incident will not form a pleasant page in the memoirs of the famous detective.
Next morning Wilson awoke, stiff and cold. A slight noise attracted his attention: Herlock Sholmes was kneeling on the floor, critically examining some grains of sand and studying some chalk-marks, now almost effaced, which formed certain figures and numbers, which figures he entered in his notebook.
Accompanied by Wilson, who was deeply interested in the work, he examined each room, and found similar chalk-marks in two other apartments. He noticed, also, two circles on the oaken panels, an arrow on a wainscot, and four figures on four steps of the stairs. At the end of an hour Wilson said:
"The figures are correct, aren't they!"
"I don't know; but, at all events, they mean something," replied Sholmes, who had forgotten the discomforts of the night in the joy created by his new discoveries.
"It is quite obvious," said Wilson, "they represent the number of pieces in the floor."
"Ah!"
"Yes. And the two circles indicate that the panels are false, as you can readily ascertain, and the arrow points in the direction in which the panels move."
Herlock Sholmes looked at Wilson, in astonishment.
"Ah! my dear friend, how do you know all that? Your clairvoyance makes my poor ability in that direction look quite insignificant."
"Oh! it is very simple," said Wilson, inflated with pride; "I examined those marks last night, according to your instructions, or, rather, according to the instructions of Arsène Lupin, since he wrote the letter you sent to me."
At that moment Wilson faced a greater danger than he had during his struggle in the garden with Herlock Sholmes. The latter now felt a furious desire to strangle him. But, dominating his feelings, Sholmes made a grimace which was intended for a smile, and said:
"Quite so, Wilson, you have done well, and your work shows commendable progress. But, tell me, have you exercised your powers of observation and analysis on any other points? I might profit by your deductions."
"Oh! no, I went no farther."
"That's a pity. Your début was such a promising one. But, since that is all, we may as well go."
"Go! but how can we get out?"
"The way all honest people go out: through the gate."
"But it is locked."
"It will be opened."
"By whom?"
"Please call the two policemen who are strolling down the avenue."
"But – "
"But what?"
"It is very humiliating. What will be said when it becomes known that Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were the prisoners of Arsène Lupin?"
"Of course, I understand they will roar with laughter," replied Herlock Sholmes, in a dry voice and with frowning features, "but we can't set up housekeeping in this place."
"And you will not try to find another way out?"
"No."
"But the man who brought us the basket of provisions did not cross the garden, coming or going. There is some other way out. Let us look for it, and not bother with the police."
"Your argument is sound, but you forget that all the detectives in Paris have been trying to find it for the last six months, and that I searched the house from top to bottom while you were asleep. Ah! my dear Wilson, we have not been accustomed to pursue such game as Arsène Lupin. He leaves no trail behind him."
At eleven o'clock, Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were liberated, and conducted to the nearest police station, where the commissary, after subjecting them to a severe examination, released them with an affectation of good-will that was quite exasperating.
"I am very sorry, messieurs, that this unfortunate incident has occurred. You will have a very poor opinion of French hospitality. Mon Dieu! what a night you must have passed! Ah! that rascally Lupin is no respecter of persons."
They took a carriage to their hotel. At the office Wilson asked for the key of his room.
After some search the clerk replied, much astonished:
"But, monsieur, you have given up the room."
"I gave it up? When?"
"This morning, by the letter your friend brought here."
"What friend?"
"The gentleman who brought your letter… Ah! your card is still attached to the letter. Here they are."
Wilson looked at them. Certainly, it was one of his cards, and the letter was in his handwriting.
"Good Lord!" he muttered, "this is another of his tricks," and he added, aloud: "Where is my luggage?"
"Your friend took it."
"Ah!.. and you gave it to him?"
"Certainly; on the strength of your letter and card."
"Of course … of course."
They left the hotel and walked, slowly and thoughtfully, through the Champs-Elysées. The avenue was bright and cheerful beneath a clear autumn sun; the air was mild and pleasant.
At Rond-Point, Herlock Sholmes lighted his pipe. Then Wilson spoke:
"I can't understand you, Sholmes. You are so calm and unruffled. They play with you as a cat plays with a mouse, and yet you do not say a word."
Sholmes stopped, as he replied:
"Wilson, I was thinking of your card."
"Well!"
"The point is this: here is a man who, in view of a possible struggle with us, procures specimens of our handwriting, and who holds, in his possession, one or more of your cards. Now, have you considered how much precaution and skill those facts represent?"
"Well!"
"Well, Wilson, to overcome an enemy so well prepared and so thoroughly equipped requires the infinite shrewdness of … of a Herlock Sholmes. And yet, as you have seen, Wilson, I have lost the first round."
At six o 'clock the Echo de France published the following article in its evening edition:
"This morning Mon. Thenard, commissary of police in the sixteenth district, released Herlock Sholmes and his friend Wilson, both of whom had been locked in the house of the late Baron d'Hautrec, where they spent a very pleasant night – thanks to the thoughtful care and attention of Arsène Lupin."
"In addition to their other troubles, these gentlemen have been robbed of their valises, and, in consequence thereof, they have entered a formal complaint against Arsène Lupin."
"Arsène Lupin, satisfied that he has given them a mild reproof, hopes these gentlemen will not force him to resort to more stringent measures."
"Bah!" exclaimed Herlock Sholmes, crushing the paper in his hands, "that is only child's play! And that is the only criticism I have to make of Arsène Lupin: he plays to the gallery. There is that much of the fakir in him."
"Ah! Sholmes, you are a wonderful man! You have such a command over your temper. Nothing ever disturbs you."
"No, nothing disturbs me," replied Sholmes, in a voice that trembled from rage; "besides, what's the use of losing my temper?.. I am quite confident of the final result; I shall have the last word."
CHAPTER IV
LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS
However well-tempered a man's character may be – and Herlock Sholmes is one of those men over whom ill-fortune has little or no hold – there are circumstances wherein the most courageous combatant feels the necessity of marshaling his forces before risking the chances of a battle.
"I shall take a vacation to-day," said Sholmes.
"And what shall I do?" asked Wilson.
"You, Wilson – let me see! You can buy some underwear and linen to replenish our wardrobe, while I take a rest."
"Very well, Sholmes, I will watch while you sleep."
Wilson uttered these words with all the importance of a sentinel on guard at the outpost, and therefore exposed to the greatest danger. His chest was expanded; his muscles were tense. Assuming a shrewd look, he scrutinized, officially, the little room in which they had fixed their abode.
"Very well, Wilson, you can watch. I shall occupy myself in the preparation of a line of attack more appropriate to the methods of the enemy we are called upon to meet. Do you see, Wilson, we have been deceived in this fellow Lupin. My opinion is that we must commence at the very beginning of this affair."
"And even before that, if possible. But have we sufficient time?"
"Nine days, dear boy. That is five too many."
The Englishman spent the entire afternoon in smoking and sleeping. He did not enter upon his new plan of attack until the following day. Then he said:
"Wilson, I am ready. Let us attack the enemy."
"Lead on, Macduff!" exclaimed Wilson, full of martial ardor. "I wish to fight in the front rank. Oh! have no fear. I shall do credit to my King and country, for I am an Englishman."
In the first place, Sholmes had three long and important interviews: With Monsieur Detinan, whose rooms he examined with the greatest care and precision; with Suzanne Gerbois, whom he questioned in regard to the blonde Lady; and with Sister Auguste, who had retired to the convent of the Visitandines since the murder of Baron d'Hautrec.
At each of these interviews Wilson had remained outside; and each time he asked:
"Satisfactory?"
"Quite so."
"I was sure we were on the right track."
They paid a visit to the two houses adjoining that of the late Baron d'Hautrec in the avenue Henri-Martin; then they visited the rue Clapeyron, and, while he was examining the front of number 25, Sholmes said:
"All these houses must be connected by secret passages, but I can't find them."
For the first time in his life, Wilson doubted the omnipotence of his famous associate. Why did he now talk so much and accomplish so little?
"Why?" exclaimed Sholmes, in answer to Wilson's secret thought, "because, with this fellow Lupin, a person has to work in the dark, and, instead of deducting the truth from established facts, a man must extract it from his own brain, and afterward learn if it is supported by the facts in the case."
"But what about the secret passages?"
"They must exist. But even though I should discover them, and thus learn how Arsène Lupin made his entrance to the lawyer's house and how the blonde Lady escaped from the house of Baron d'Hautrec after the murder, what good would it do? How would it help me? Would it furnish me with a weapon of attack?"
"Let us attack him just the same," exclaimed Wilson, who had scarcely uttered these words when he jumped back with a cry of alarm. Something had fallen at their feet; it was a bag filled with sand which might have caused them serious injury if it had struck them.
Sholmes looked up. Some men were working on a scaffolding attached to the balcony at the fifth floor of the house. He said:
"We were lucky; one step more, and that heavy bag would have fallen on our heads. I wonder if – "
Moved by a sudden impulse, he rushed into the house, up the five flights of stairs, rang the bell, pushed his way into the apartment to the great surprise and alarm of the servant who came to the door, and made his way to the balcony in front of the house. But there was no one there.
"Where are the workmen who were here a moment ago?" he asked the servant.
"They have just gone."
"Which way did they go?"
"By the servants' stairs."
Sholmes leaned out of the window. He saw two men leaving the house, carrying bicycles. They mounted them and quickly disappeared around the corner.
"How long have they been working on this scaffolding!"
"Those men!.. only since this morning. It's their first day."
Sholmes returned to the street, and joined Wilson. Together they returned to the hotel, and thus the second day ended in a mournful silence.
On the following day their programme was almost similar. They sat together on a bench in the avenue Henri-Martin, much to Wilson's disgust, who did not find it amusing to spend long hours watching the house in which the tragedy had occurred.
"What do you expect, Sholmes! That Arsène Lupin will walk out of the house!"
"No."
"That the blonde Lady will make her appearance!"
"No."
"What then!"
"I am looking for something to occur; some slight incident that will furnish me with a clue to work on."
"And if it does not occur!"
"Then I must, myself, create the spark that will set fire to the powder."
A solitary incident – and that of a disagreeable nature – broke the monotony of the forenoon.
A gentleman was riding along the avenue when his horse suddenly turned aside in such a manner that it ran against the bench on which they were sitting, and struck Sholmes a slight blow on the shoulder.
"Ha!" exclaimed Sholmes, "a little more and I would have had a broken shoulder."
The gentleman struggled with his horse. The Englishman drew his revolver and pointed it; but Wilson seized his arm, and said:
"Don't be foolish! What are you going to do! Kill the man!"
"Leave me alone, Wilson! Let go!"
During the brief struggle between Sholmes and Wilson the stranger rode away.
"Now, you can shoot," said Wilson, triumphantly, when the horseman was at some distance.
"Wilson, you're an idiot! Don't you understand that the man is an accomplice of Arsène Lupin?"
Sholmes was trembling from rage. Wilson stammered pitifully:
"What!.. that man … an accomplice?"
"Yes, the same as the workmen who tried to drop the bag of sand on us yesterday."
"It can't be possible!"
"Possible or not, there was only one way to prove it."
"By killing the man?"
"No – by killing the horse. If you hadn't grabbed my arm, I should have captured one of Lupin's accomplices. Now, do you understand the folly of your act?"
Throughout the afternoon both men were morose. They did not speak a word to each other. At five o'clock they visited the rue Clapeyron, but were careful to keep at a safe distance from the houses. However, three young men who were passing through the street, arm in arm, singing, ran against Sholmes and Wilson and refused to let them pass. Sholmes, who was in an ill humor, contested the right of way with them. After a brief struggle, Sholmes resorted to his fists. He struck one of the men a hard blow on the chest, another a blow in the face, and thus subdued two of his adversaries. Thereupon the three of them took to their heels and disappeared.
"Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that does me good. I needed a little exercise."
But Wilson was leaning against the wall. Sholmes said:
"What's the matter, old chap? You're quite pale."
Wilson pointed to his left arm, which hung inert, and stammered:
"I don't know what it is. My arm pains me."
"Very much?.. Is it serious?"
"Yes, I am afraid so."
He tried to raise his arm, but it was helpless. Sholmes felt it, gently at first, then in a rougher way, "to see how badly it was hurt," he said. He concluded that Wilson was really hurt, so he led him to a neighboring pharmacy, where a closer examination revealed the fact that the arm was broken and that Wilson was a candidate for the hospital. In the meantime they bared his arm and applied some remedies to ease his suffering.
"Come, come, old chap, cheer up!" said Sholmes, who was holding Wilson's arm, "in five or six weeks you will be all right again. But I will pay them back … the rascals! Especially Lupin, for this is his work … no doubt of that. I swear to you if ever – "
He stopped suddenly, dropped the arm – which caused Wilson such an access of pain that he almost fainted – and, striking his forehead, Sholmes said:
"Wilson, I have an idea. You know, I have one occasionally."
He stood for a moment, silent, with staring eyes, and then muttered, in short, sharp phrases:
"Yes, that's it … that will explain all … right at my feet … and I didn't see it … ah, parbleu! I should have thought of it before… Wilson, I shall have good news for you."
Abruptly leaving his old friend, Sholmes ran into the street and went directly to the house known as number 25. On one of the stones, to the right of the door, he read this inscription: "Destange, architect, 1875."
There was a similar inscription on the house numbered 23.
Of course, there was nothing unusual in that. But what might be read on the houses in the avenue Henri-Martin?
A carriage was passing. He engaged it and directed the driver to take him to No. 134 avenue Henri-Martin. He was roused to a high pitch of excitement. He stood up in the carriage and urged the horse to greater speed. He offered extra pourboires to the driver. Quicker! Quicker!
How great was his anxiety as they turned from the rue de la Pompe! Had he caught a glimpse of the truth at last?
On one of the stones of the late Baron's house he read the words: "Destange, architect, 1874." And a similar inscription appeared on the two adjoining houses.
The reaction was such that he settled down in the seat of the carriage, trembling from joy. At last, a tiny ray of light had penetrated the dark shadows which encompassed these mysterious crimes! In the vast sombre forest wherein a thousand pathways crossed and re-crossed, he had discovered the first clue to the track followed by the enemy!
He entered a branch postoffice and obtained telephonic connection with the château de Crozon. The Countess answered the telephone call.
"Hello!.. Is that you, madame?"
"Monsieur Sholmes, isn't it? Everything going all right?"
"Quite well, but I wish to ask you one question… Hello!"
"Yes, I hear you."
"Tell me, when was the château de Crozon built?"
"It was destroyed by fire and rebuilt about thirty years ago."
"Who built it, and in what year?"
"There is an inscription on the front of the house which reads: 'Lucien Destange, architect, 1877.'"
"Thank you, madame, that is all. Good-bye."
He went away, murmuring: "Destange … Lucien Destange … that name has a familiar sound."
He noticed a public reading-room, entered, consulted a dictionary of modern biography, and copied the following information: "Lucien Destange, born 1840, Grand-Prix de Rome, officer of the Legion of Honor, author of several valuable books on architecture, etc…"
Then he returned to the pharmacy and found that Wilson had been taken to the hospital. There Sholmes found him with his arm in splints, and shivering with fever.
"Victory! Victory!" cried Sholmes. "I hold one end of the thread."
"Of what thread?"
"The one that leads to victory. I shall now be walking on solid ground, where there will be footprints, clues…"
"Cigarette ashes?" asked Wilson, whose curiosity had overcome his pain.
"And many other things! Just think, Wilson, I have found the mysterious link which unites the different adventures in which the blonde Lady played a part. Why did Lupin select those three houses for the scenes of his exploits?"
"Yes, why?"
"Because those three houses were built by the same architect. That was an easy problem, eh? Of course … but who would have thought of it?"
"No one but you."
"And who, except I, knows that the same architect, by the use of analogous plans, has rendered it possible for a person to execute three distinct acts which, though miraculous in appearance, are, in reality, quite simple and easy?"
"That was a stroke of good luck."
"And it was time, dear boy, as I was becoming very impatient. You know, this is our fourth day."
"Out of ten."
"Oh! after this – "
Sholmes was excited, delighted, and gayer than usual.
"And when I think that these rascals might have attacked me in the street and broken my arm just as they did yours! Isn't that so, Wilson?"
Wilson simply shivered at the horrible thought. Sholmes continued:
"We must profit by the lesson. I can see, Wilson, that we were wrong to try and fight Lupin in the open, and leave ourselves exposed to his attacks."
"I can see it, and feel it, too, in my broken arm," said Wilson.
"You have one consolation, Wilson; that is, that I escaped. Now, I must be doubly cautious. In an open fight he will defeat me; but if I can work in the dark, unseen by him, I have the advantage, no matter how strong his forces may be."
"Ganimard might be of some assistance."
"Never! On the day that I can truly say: Arsène Lupin is there; I show you the quarry, and how to catch it; I shall go and see Ganimard at one of the two addresses that he gave me – his residence in the rue Pergolese, or at the Suisse tavern in the Place du Châtelet. But, until that time, I shall work alone."
He approached the bed, placed his hand on Wilson's shoulder – on the sore one, of course – and said to him:
"Take care of yourself, old fellow. Henceforth your rôle will be to keep two or three of Arsène Lupin's men busy watching here in vain for my return to enquire about your health. It is a secret mission for you, eh!"
"Yes, and I shall do my best to fulfil it conscientiously. Then you do not expect to come here any more?"
"What for?" asked Sholmes.
"I don't know … of course… I am getting on as well as possible. But, Herlock, do me a last service: give me a drink."
"A drink?"
"Yes, I am dying of thirst; and with my fever – "
"To be sure – directly – "
He made a pretense of getting some water, perceived a package of tobacco, lighted his pipe, and then, as if he had not heard his friend's request, he went away, whilst Wilson uttered a mute prayer for the inaccessible water.
"Monsieur Destange!"
The servant eyed from head to foot the person to whom he had opened the door of the house – the magnificent house that stood at the corner of the Place Malesherbes and the rue Montchanin – and at the sight of the man with gray hairs, badly shaved, dressed in a shabby black coat, with a body as ill-formed and ungracious as his face, he replied with the disdain which he thought the occasion warranted:
"Monsieur Destange may or may not be at home. That depends. Has monsieur a card?"
Monsieur did not have a card, but he had a letter of introduction and, after the servant had taken the letter to Mon. Destange, he was conducted into the presence of that gentleman who was sitting in a large circular room or rotunda which occupied one of the wings of the house. It was a library, and contained a profusion of books and architectural drawings. When the stranger entered, the architect said to him:
"You are Monsieur Stickmann?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"My secretary tells me that he is ill, and has sent you to continue the general catalogue of the books which he commenced under my direction, and, more particularly, the catalogue of German books. Are you familiar with that kind of work?"
"Yes, monsieur, quite so," he replied, with a strong German accent.
Under those circumstances the bargain was soon concluded, and Mon. Destange commenced work with his new secretary.
Herlock Sholmes had gained access to the house.
In order to escape the vigilance of Arsène Lupin and gain admittance to the house occupied by Lucien Destange and his daughter Clotilde, the famous detective had been compelled to resort to a number of stratagems, and, under a variety of names, to ingratiate himself into the good graces and confidence of a number of persons – in short, to live, during forty-eight hours, a most complicated life. During that time he had acquired the following information: Mon. Destange, having retired from active business on account of his failing health, now lived amongst the many books he had accumulated on the subject of architecture. He derived infinite pleasure in viewing and handling those dusty old volumes.
His daughter Clotilde was considered eccentric. She passed her time in another part of the house, and never went out.
"Of course," Sholmes said to himself, as he wrote in a register the titles of the books which Mon. Destange dictated to him, "all that is vague and incomplete, but it is quite a long step in advance. I shall surely solve one of these absorbing problems: Is Mon. Destange associated with Arsène Lupin? Does he continue to see him? Are the papers relating to the construction of the three houses still in existence? Will those papers not furnish me with the location of other houses of similar construction which Arsène Lupin and his associates will plunder in the future?
"Monsieur Destange, an accomplice of Arsène Lupin! That venerable man, an officer of the Legion of Honor, working in league with a burglar – such an idea was absurd! Besides, if we concede that such a complicity exists, how could Mon. Destange, thirty years ago, have possibly foreseen the thefts of Arsène Lupin, who was then an infant?"
No matter! The Englishman was implacable. With his marvellous scent, and that instinct which never fails him, he felt that he was in the heart of some strange mystery. Ever since he first entered the house, he had been under the influence of that impression, and yet he could not define the grounds on which he based his suspicions.
Up to the morning of the second day he had not made any significant discovery. At two o'clock of that day he saw Clotilde Destange for the first time; she came to the library in search of a book. She was about thirty years of age, a brunette, slow and silent in her movements, with features imbued with that expression of indifference which is characteristic of people who live a secluded life. She exchanged a few words with her father, and then retired, without even looking at Sholmes.
The afternoon dragged along monotonously. At five o'clock Mon. Destange announced his intention to go out. Sholmes was alone on the circular gallery that was constructed about ten feet above the floor of the rotunda. It was almost dark. He was on the point of going out, when he heard a slight sound and, at the same time, experienced the feeling that there was someone in the room. Several minutes passed before he saw or heard anything more. Then he shuddered; a shadowy form emerged from the gloom, quite close to him, upon the balcony. It seemed incredible. How long had this mysterious visitor been there? Whence did he come?
The strange man descended the steps and went directly to a large oaken cupboard. Sholmes was a keen observer of the man's movements. He watched him searching amongst the papers with which the cupboard was filled. What was he looking for?
Then the door opened and Mlle. Destange entered, speaking to someone who was following her:
"So you have decided not to go out, father?.. Then I will make a light … one second … do not move…"
The strange man closed the cupboard and hid in the embrasure of a large window, drawing the curtains together. Did Mlle. Destange not see him? Did she not hear him? Calmly she turned on the electric lights; she and her father sat down close to each other. She opened a book she had brought with her, and commenced to read. After the lapse of a few minutes she said: