There was a pause and some argument. Whoever had opened the wicket appeared to be asking for explanations. But suddenly two of the men bore heavily on the folding-door, which gave way before their thrust and let the whole gang through.
There was a loud noise as the door slammed to. Captain Belval at once studied his surroundings.
The Rue Raynouard is an old country-road which at one time used to wind among the houses and gardens of the village of Passy, on the side of the hills bathed by the Seine. In certain places, which unfortunately are becoming more and more rare, it has retained a provincial aspect. It is skirted by old properties. Old houses stand hidden amidst the trees: that in which Balzac lived has been piously preserved. It was in this street that the mysterious garden lay where Arsène Lupin discovered a farmer-general’s diamonds hidden in a crack of an old sundial.1
The car was still standing outside the house into which the five men had forced their way; and this prevented Patrice Belval from coming nearer. It was built in continuation of a wall and seemed to be one of the private mansions dating back to the First Empire. It had a very long front with two rows of round windows, protected by gratings on the ground-floor and solid shutters on the story above. There was another building farther down, forming a separate wing.
“There’s nothing to be done on this side,” said the captain. “It’s as impregnable as a feudal stronghold. Let’s look elsewhere.”
From the Rue Raynouard, narrow lanes, which used to divide the old properties, make their way down to the river. One of them skirted the wall that preceded the house. Belval turned down it with Ya-Bon. It was constructed of ugly pointed pebbles, was broken into steps and faintly lighted by the gleam of a street-lamp.
“Lend me a hand, Ya-Bon. The wall is too high. But perhaps with the aid of the lamppost …”
Assisted by the negro, he hoisted himself to the lamp and was stretching out one of his hands when he noticed that all this part of the wall bristled with broken glass, which made it absolutely impossible to grasp. He slid down again.
“Upon my word, Ya-Bon,” he said, angrily, “you might have warned me! Another second and you would have made me cut my hands to pieces. What are you thinking of? In fact, I can’t imagine what made you so anxious to come with me at all costs.”
There was a turn in the lane, hiding the light, so that they were now in utter darkness, and Captain Belval had to grope his way along. He felt the negro’s hand come down upon his shoulder.
“What do you want, Ya-Bon?”
The hand pushed him against the wall. At this spot there was a door in an embrasure.
“Well, yes,” he said, “that’s a door. Do you think I didn’t see it? Oh, no one has eyes but Master Ya-Bon, I suppose.”
Ya-Bon handed him a box of matches. He struck several, one after the other, and examined the door.
“What did I tell you?” he said between his teeth. “There’s nothing to be done. Massive wood, barred and studded with iron. … Look, there’s no handle on this side, merely a keyhole. … Ah, what we want is a key, made to measure and cut for the purpose! … For instance, a key like the one which the commissionaire left for me at the home just now. …”
He stopped. An absurd idea flitted through his brain; and yet, absurd as it was, he felt that he was bound to perform the trifling action which it suggested to him. He therefore retraced his steps. He had the key on him. He took it from his pocket.
He struck a fresh light. The keyhole appeared. Belval inserted the key at the first attempt. He bore on it to the left: the key turned in the lock. He pushed the door: it opened.
“Come along in,” he said.
The negro did not stir a foot. Patrice could understand his amazement. All said, he himself was equally amazed. By what unprecedented miracle was the key just the key of this very door? By what miracle was the unknown person who had sent it him able to guess that he would be in a position to use it without further instructions? A miracle indeed!
But Patrice had resolved to act without trying to solve the riddle which a mischievous chance seemed bent upon setting him.
“Come along in,” he repeated, triumphantly.
Branches struck him in the face and he perceived that he was walking on grass and that there must be a garden lying in front of him. It was so dark that he could not see the paths against the blackness of the turf; and, after walking for a minute or two, he hit his foot against some rocks with a sheet of water on them.
“Oh, confound it!” he cursed. “I’m all wet. Damn you, Ya-Bon!”
He had not finished speaking when a furious barking was heard at the far end of the garden; and the sound at once came nearer, with extreme rapidity. Patrice realized that a watchdog, perceiving their presence, was rushing upon them, and, brave as he was, he shuddered, because of the impressiveness of this attack in complete darkness. How was he to defend himself? A shot would betray them; and yet he carried no weapon but his revolver.
The dog came dashing on, a powerful animal, to judge by the noise it made, suggesting the rush of a wild boar through the copsewood. It must have broken its chain, for it was accompanied by the clatter of iron. Patrice braced himself to meet it. But through the darkness he saw Ya-Bon pass before him to protect him, and the impact took place almost at once.
“Here, I say, Ya-Bon! Why did you get in front of me? It’s all right, my
