“That’s all you care about me!” she cried. “You run me into danger once more; and you think it’s funny!”
“What are you risking?”
“How do you mean, what am I risking? All my characters are false.”
“Characters are always false.”
“And suppose M. Daubrecq finds out? Suppose he makes inquiries?”
“He has made inquiries.”
“Eh? What’s that?”
“He has telephoned to the steward of Comte Saulevat, in whose service you say that you have had the honour of being.”
“There, you see, I’m done for!”
“The count’s steward could not say enough in your praise.”
“He does not know me.”
“But I know him. I got him his situation with Comte Saulevat. So you understand …”
Victoire seemed to calm down a little:
“Well,” she said, “God’s will be done … or rather yours. And what do you expect me to do in all this?”
“First, to put me up. You were my wet-nurse once. You can very well give me half your room now. I’ll sleep in the armchair.”
“And next?”
“Next? To supply me with such food as I want.”
“And next?”
“Next? To undertake, with me and under my direction, a regular series of searches with a view …”
“To what?”
“To discovering the precious object of which I spoke to you.”
“What’s that?”
“A crystal stopper.”
“A crystal stopper … Saints above! A nice business! And, if we don’t find your confounded stopper, what then?”
Lupin took her gently by the arm and, in a serious voice:
“If we don’t find it, Gilbert, young Gilbert whom you know and love, will stand every chance of losing his head; and so will Vaucheray.”
“Vaucheray I don’t mind … a dirty rascal like him! But Gilbert …”
“Have you seen the papers this evening? Things are looking worse than ever. Vaucheray, as might be expected, accuses Gilbert of stabbing the valet; and it so happens that the knife which Vaucheray used belonged to Gilbert. That came out this morning. Whereupon Gilbert, who is intelligent in his way, but easily frightened, blithered and launched forth into stories and lies which will end in his undoing. That’s how the matter stands. Will you help me?”
Thenceforth, for several days, Lupin moulded his existence upon Daubrecq’s, beginning his investigations the moment the deputy left the house. He pursued them methodically, dividing each room into sections which he did not abandon until he had been through the tiniest nooks and corners and, so to speak, exhausted every possible device.
Victoire searched also. And nothing was forgotten. Table-legs, chair-rungs, floorboards, mouldings, mirror- and picture-frames, clocks, plinths, curtain-borders, telephone-holders and electric fittings: everything that an ingenious imagination could have selected as a hiding-place was overhauled.
And they also watched the deputy’s least actions, his most unconscious movements, the expression of his face, the books which he read and the letters which he wrote.
It was easy enough. He seemed to live his life in the light of day. No door was ever shut. He received no visits. And his existence worked with mechanical regularity. He went to the Chamber in the afternoon, to the club in the evening.
“Still,” said Lupin, “there must be something that’s not orthodox behind all this.”
“There’s nothing of the sort,” moaned Victoire. “You’re wasting your time and we shall be bowled out.”
The presence of the detectives and their habit of walking up and down outside the windows drove her mad. She refused to admit that they were there for any other purpose than to trap her, Victoire. And, each time that she went shopping, she was quite surprised that one of those men did not lay his hand upon her shoulder.
One day she returned all upset. Her basket of provisions was shaking on her arm.
“What’s the matter, my dear Victoire?” said Lupin. “You’re looking green.”
“Green? I dare say I do. So would you look green …”
She had to sit down and it was only after making repeated efforts that she succeeded in stuttering:
“A man … a man spoke to me … at the fruiterer’s.”
“By jingo! Did he want you to run away with him?”
“No, he gave me a letter …”
“Then what are you complaining about? It was a love-letter, of course!”
“No. ‘It’s for your governor,’ said he. ‘My governor?’ I said. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘for the gentleman who’s staying in your room.’ ”
“What’s that?”
This time, Lupin had started:
“Give it here,” he said, snatching the letter from her. The envelope bore no address. But there was another, inside it, on which he read:
“Monsieur Arsène Lupin,
“℅ Victoire.”
“The devil!” he said. “This is a bit thick!” He tore open the second envelope. It contained a sheet of paper with the following words, written in large capitals:
“Everything you are doing is useless and dangerous … Give it up.”
Victoire uttered one moan and fainted. As for Lupin, he felt himself blush up to his eyes, as though he had been grossly insulted. He experienced all the humiliation which a duellist would undergo if he heard the most secret advice which he had received from his seconds repeated aloud by a mocking adversary.
However, he held his tongue. Victoire went back to her work. As for him, he remained in his room all day, thinking.
That night he did not sleep.
And he kept saying to himself:
“What is the good of thinking? I am up against one of those problems which are not solved by any amount of thought. It is certain that I am not alone in the matter and that, between Daubrecq and the police, there is, in addition to the third thief that I am, a fourth thief who is working on his own account, who knows me and who reads my game clearly. But who is this fourth thief? And am I mistaken, by any chance? And … oh, rot! … Let’s get to sleep! …”
But he could not sleep; and a good part of the night went in this way.
At four o’clock in the morning he seemed to hear a noise in the house. He jumped up quickly and, from the top of the staircase, saw Daubrecq go down the first flight and turn toward the garden.
A minute later, after opening the gate,
