“No, no, it’s impossible,” thought the secretary-general. “I have the sealed envelope. … It’s here. … I have only to open it.”
He dared not open it. He handled it, weighed it, examined it … And doubt made its way so swiftly into his mind that he was not in the least surprised, when he did open it, to find that it contained four blank sheets of notepaper.
“Well, well,” he said, “I am no match for those rascals. But all is not over yet.”
And, in point of fact, all was not over. If Lupin had acted so daringly, it showed that the letters existed and that he relied upon buying them from Stanislas Vorenglade. But, as, on the other hand, Vorenglade was not in Paris, Prasville’s business was simply to forestall Lupin’s steps with regard to Vorenglade and obtain the restitution of those dangerous letters from Vorenglade at all costs. The first to arrive would be the victor.
Prasville once more took his hat, coat and stick, went downstairs, stepped into a taxi and drove to Vorenglade’s flat.
Here he was told that the ex-deputy was expected home from London at six o’clock that evening.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon. Prasville therefore had plenty of time to prepare his plan.
He arrived at the Gare du Nord at five o’clock and posted all around, in the waiting-rooms and in the railway-offices, the three or four dozen detectives whom he had brought with him.
This made him feel easy. If M. Nicole tried to speak to Vorenglade, they would arrest Lupin. And, to make assurance doubly sure, they would arrest whosoever could be suspected of being either Lupin or one of Lupin’s emissaries.
Moreover, Prasville made a close inspection of the whole station. He discovered nothing suspicious. But, at ten minutes to six, Chief-inspector Blanchon, who was with him, said:
“Look, there’s Daubrecq.”
Daubrecq it was; and the sight of his enemy exasperated the secretary-general to such a pitch that he was on the verge of having him arrested. But he reflected that he had no excuse, no right, no warrant for the arrest.
Besides, Daubrecq’s presence proved, with still greater force, that everything now depended on Stanislas Vorenglade. Vorenglade possessed the letters: who would end by having them? Daubrecq? Lupin? Or he, Prasville?
Lupin was not there and could not be there. Daubrecq was not in a position to fight. There could be no doubt, therefore, about the result: Prasville would reenter into possession of his letters and, through this very fact, would escape Daubrecq’s threats and Lupin’s threats and recover all his freedom of action against them.
The train arrived.
In accordance with orders, the stationmaster had issued instructions that no one was to be admitted to the platform. Prasville, therefore, walked on alone, in front of a number of his men, with Chief-inspector Blanchon at their head.
The train drew up.
Prasville almost at once saw Stanislas Vorenglade at the window of a first-class compartment, in the middle of the train.
The ex-deputy alighted and then held out his hand to assist an old gentleman who was travelling with him.
Prasville ran up to him and said, eagerly:
“Vorenglade … I want to speak to you …”
At the same moment, Daubrecq, who had managed to pass the barrier, appeared and exclaimed:
“M. Vorenglade, I have had your letter. I am at your disposal.”
Vorenglade looked at the two men, recognized Prasville, recognized Daubrecq, and smiled:
“Oho, it seems that my return was awaited with some impatience! What’s it all about? Certain letters, I expect?”
“Yes … yes …” replied the two men, fussing around him.
“You’re too late,” he declared.
“Eh? What? What do you mean?”
“I mean that the letters are sold.”
“Sold! To whom?”
“To this gentleman,” said Vorenglade, pointing to his travelling-companion, “to this gentleman, who thought that the business was worth going out of his way for and who came to Amiens to meet me.”
The old gentleman, a very old man wrapped in furs and leaning on his stick, took off his hat and bowed.
“It’s Lupin,” thought Prasville, “it’s Lupin, beyond a doubt.”
And he glanced toward the detectives, was nearly calling them, but the old gentleman explained:
“Yes, I thought the letters were good enough to warrant a few hours’ railway journey and the cost of two return tickets.”
“Two tickets?”
“One for me and the other for one of my friends.”
“One of your friends?”
“Yes, he left us a few minutes ago and reached the front part of the train through the corridor. He was in a great hurry.”
Prasville understood: Lupin had taken the precaution to bring an accomplice, and the accomplice was carrying off the letters. The game was lost, to a certainty. Lupin had a firm grip on his victim. There was nothing to do but submit and accept the conqueror’s conditions.
“Very well, sir,” said Prasville. “We shall see each other when the time comes. Goodbye for the present, Daubrecq: you shall hear from me.” And, drawing Vorenglade aside, “As for you, Vorenglade, you are playing a dangerous game.”
“Dear me!” said the ex-deputy. “And why?”
The two men moved away.
Daubrecq had not uttered a word and stood motionless, as though rooted to the ground.
The old gentleman went up to him and whispered:
“I say, Daubrecq, wake up, old chap … It’s the chloroform, I expect …”
Daubrecq clenched his fists and gave a muttered growl.
“Ah, I see you know me!” said the old gentleman. “Then you will remember our interview, some months ago, when I came to see you in the Square Lamartine and asked you to intercede in Gilbert’s favour. I said to you that day, ‘Lay down your arms, save Gilbert and I will leave you in peace. If not, I shall take the list of the Twenty-Seven from you; and then you’re done for.’ Well, I have a strong suspicion that done for is what you are. That comes of not making terms with kind M. Lupin. Sooner or later, you’re bound to lose your boots by it. However, let it be a lesson to you.
“By the way, here’s your pocketbook which I forgot to give you. Excuse me if you find
