Patrice asked no more questions. He hurriedly got into his boat, pulled back to shore and found Don Luis seated with a comfortable supper in front of him.
“Quick!” he said. “The cargo is on board a steamer, the Chamois. We can catch her up between Rouen and Le Hâvre.”
Don Luis rose and handed the officer a white-paper packet:
“Here’s a few sandwiches for you, captain,” he said. “We’ve an arduous night before us. I’m very sorry that you didn’t get a sleep, as I did. Let’s be off, and this time I shall drive. We’ll knock some pace out of her! Come and sit beside me, captain.”
They both stepped into the car; the chauffeur took his seat behind them. But they had hardly started when Patrice exclaimed:
“Hi! What are you up to? Not this way! We’re going back to Mantes or Paris!”
“That’s what I mean to do,” said Luis, with a chuckle.
“Eh, what? Paris?”
“Well, of course!”
“Oh, look here, this is a bit too thick! Didn’t I tell you that the two bargees … ?”
“Those bargees of yours are humbugs.”
“They declared that the cargo …”
“Cargo? No go!”
“But the Chamois …”
“Chamois? Sham was! I tell you once more, we’re done, captain, done brown! Old Siméon is a wonderful old hand! He’s a match worth meeting. He gives you a run for your money. He laid a trap in which I’ve been fairly caught. It’s a magnificent joke, but there’s moderation in all things. We’ve been fooled enough to last us the rest of our lives. Let’s be serious now.”
“But …”
“Aren’t you satisfied yet, captain? After the Belle Hélène do you want to attack the Chamois? As you please. You can get out at Mantes: Only, I warn you, Siméon is in Paris, with three or four hours’ start of us.”
Patrice gave a shudder. Siméon in Paris! In Paris, where Coralie was alone and unprotected! He made no further protest; and Don Luis ran on:
“Oh, the rascal! How well he played his hand! The Memoirs of Benjamin Franklin were a master stroke. Knowing of my arrival, he said to himself, ‘Arsène Lupin is a dangerous fellow, capable of disentangling the affair and putting both me and the bags of gold in his pocket. To get rid of him, there’s only one thing to be done: I must act in such a way as to make him rush along the real track at so fast a rate of speed that he does not perceive the moment when the real track becomes a false track.’ That was clever of him, wasn’t it? And so we have the Franklin book, held out as a bait; the page opening of itself, at the right place; my inevitable easy discovery of the conduit system; the clue of Ariadne most obligingly offered. I follow up the clue like a trusting child, led by Siméon’s own hand, from the cellar down to Berthou’s Wharf. So far all’s well. But, from that moment, take care! There’s nobody at Berthou’s Wharf. On the other hand, there’s a barge alongside, which means a chance of making enquiries, which means the certainty that I shall make enquiries. And I make enquiries. And, having made enquiries, I am done for.”
“But then that man … ?”
“Yes, yes, yes, an accomplice of Siméon’s, whom Siméon, knowing that he would be followed to the Gare Saint-Lazare, instructs in this way to direct me to Mantes for the second time. At Mantes the comedy continues. The Belle Hélène passes, with her double freight, Siméon and the bags of gold. We go running after the Belle Hélène. Of course, on the Belle Hélène there’s nothing: no Siméon, no bags of gold. ‘Run after the Chamois. We’ve transhipped it all on the Chamois.’ We run after the Chamois, to Rouen, to Le Hâvre, to the end of the world; and of course our pursuit is fruitless, for the Chamois does not exist. But we are convinced that she does exist and that she has escaped our search. And by this time the trick is played. The millions are gone, Siméon has disappeared and there is only one thing left for us to do, which is to resign ourselves and abandon our quest. You understand, we’re to abandon our quest: that’s the fellow’s object. And he would have succeeded if …”
The car was traveling at full speed. From time to time Don Luis would stop her dead with extraordinary skill. Post of territorials. Pass to be produced. Then a leap onward and once more the breakneck pace.
“If what?” asked Patrice, half-convinced. “Which was the clue that put you on the track?”
“The presence of that woman at Mantes. It was a vague clue at first. But suddenly I remembered that, in the first barge, the Nonchalante, the person who gave us information—do you recollect?—well, that this person somehow gave me the queer impression, I can’t tell you why, that I might be talking to a woman in disguise. The impression occurred to me once more. I made a mental comparison with the woman at Mantes. … And then … and then it was like a flash of light. …”
Don Luis paused to think and, in a lower voice, continued:
“But who the devil can this woman be?”
There was a brief silence, after which Patrice said, from instinct rather than reason:
“Grégoire, I suppose.”
“Eh? What’s that? Grégoire?”
“Yes. Yes, Grégoire is a woman.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, obviously. Don’t you remember? The accomplice told me so, on the day when I had them arrested outside the café.”
“Why, your diary doesn’t say a word about it!”
“Oh, that’s true! … I forgot to put down that detail.”
“A detail! He calls it a detail! Why, it’s of the greatest importance, captain! If I had known, I should have guessed that that bargee was no other than Grégoire and we should not have wasted a whole night. Hang it all, captain, you really are the limit!”
But all this was unable to affect his good-humor. While Patrice, overcome
