“I can. I will be responsible for everything. But not a word to anybody.”
They had reached the porter’s lodge. The gate was opened. The prince said:
“Goodbye, Geneviève, and be quite easy in your mind. I am there.”
He shut the gate, turned round and gave a slight start. Opposite him stood the man with the eyeglass, Baron Altenheim, with his head held well up, his broad shoulders, his powerful frame.
They looked at each other for two or three seconds, in silence. The baron smiled.
Then the baron said:
“I was waiting for you, Lupin.”
For all his self-mastery, Sernine felt a thrill pass over him. He had come to unmask his adversary; and his adversary had unmasked him at the first onset. And, at the same time, the adversary was accepting the contest boldly, brazenly, as though he felt sure of victory. It was a swaggering thing to do and gave evidence of no small amount of pluck.
The two men, violently hostile one to the other, took each other’s measure with their eyes.
“And what then?” asked Sernine.
“What then? Don’t you think we have occasion for a meeting?”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“What day will suit you?”
“Tomorrow. Let us lunch together at a restaurant.”
“Why not at your place?”
“You don’t know my address.”
“Yes, I do.”
With a swift movement, the prince pulled out a newspaper protruding from Altenheim’s pocket, a paper still in its addressed wrapper, and said:
“No. 29, Villa Dupont.”
“Well played!” said the other. “Then we’ll say, tomorrow, at my place.”
“Tomorrow, at your place. At what time?”
“One o’clock.”
“I shall be there. Goodbye.”
They were about to walk away. Altenheim stopped:
“Oh, one word more, prince. Bring a weapon with you.”
“Why?”
“I keep four menservants and you will be alone.”
“I have my fists,” said Sernine. “We shall be on even terms.”
He turned his back on him and then, calling him back:
“Oh, one word more, baron. Engage four more servants.”
“Why?”
“I have thought it over. I shall bring my whip.”
At one o’clock the next day, precisely, a horseman rode through the gate of the so-called Villa Dupont, a peaceful, countrified private road, the only entrance to which is in the Rue Pergolèse, close to the Avenue du Bois.
It is lined with gardens and handsome private houses; and, right at the end, it is closed by a sort of little park containing a large old house, behind which runs the Paris circular railway. It was here, at No. 29, that Baron Altenheim lived.
Sernine flung the reins of his horse to a groom whom he had sent on ahead and said:
“Bring him back at half-past two.”
He rang the bell. The garden-gate opened and he walked to the front-door steps, where he was awaited by two tall men in livery who ushered him into an immense, cold, stone hall, devoid of any ornament. The door closed behind him with a heavy thud; and, great and indomitable as his courage was, he nevertheless underwent an unpleasant sensation at feeling himself alone, surrounded by enemies, in that isolated prison.
“Say Prince Sernine.”
The drawing-room was near and he was shown straight in.
“Ah, there you are, my dear prince!” said the baron, coming toward him. “Well, will you believe—Dominique, lunch in twenty minutes. Until then, don’t let us be interrupted—will you believe, my dear prince, that I hardly expected to see you?”
“Oh, really? Why?”
“Well, your declaration of war, this morning, is so plain that an interview becomes superfluous.”
“My declaration of war?”
The baron unfolded a copy of the Grand Journal and pointed to a paragraph which ran as follows:
“We are authoritatively informed that M. Lenormand’s disappearance has roused Arsène Lupin into taking action. After a brief enquiry and following on his proposal to clear up the Kesselbach case, Arsène Lupin has decided that he will find M. Lenormand, alive or dead, and that he will deliver the author or authors of that heinous series of crimes to justice.”
“This authoritative pronouncement comes from you, my dear prince, of course?”
“Yes, it comes from me.”
“Therefore, I was right: it means war.”
“Yes.”
Altenheim gave Sernine a chair, sat down himself and said, in a conciliatory tone:
“Well, no, I cannot allow that. It is impossible that two men like ourselves should fight and injure each other. We have only to come to an explanation, to seek the means: you and I were made to understand each other.”
“I think, on the contrary, that two men like ourselves are not made to understand each other.”
The baron suppressed a movement of impatience and continued:
“Listen to me, Lupin. … By the way, do you mind my calling you Lupin?”
“What shall I call you? Altenheim, Ribeira, or Parbury?”
“Oho! I see that you are even better posted than I thought! … Hang it all, but you’re jolly smart! … All the more reason why we should agree.” And, bending toward him, “Listen, Lupin, and ponder my words well; I have weighed them carefully, every one. Look here. … We two are evenly matched. … Does that make you smile? You are wrong: it may be that you possess resources which I do not; but I have others of which you know nothing. Moreover, as you are aware, I have few scruples, some skill and a capacity for changing my personality which an expert like yourself ought to appreciate. In short, the two adversaries are each as good as the other. But one question remains unanswered: why are we adversaries? We are pursuing the same object, you will say? And what then? Do you know what will come of our rivalry? Each of us will paralyze the efforts and destroy the work of the other; and we shall both miss our aim! And for whose benefit? Some Lenormand or other, a third rogue! … It’s really too silly.”
“It’s really too silly, as you say,” Sernine admitted. “But there is a remedy.”
“What is that?”
“For you to withdraw.”
“Don’t chaff. I am serious. The proposal which I am going to make is not one to be rejected
