And, suddenly, he remembered: the coffee! The taste of it … similar to the taste of the coffee which he had drunk at Veldenz!
He gave a cry, made a last effort and fell back exhausted. But, in his delirium, he felt that the man was unfastening the top button of his pajama-jacket and baring his neck, felt that the man was raising his arm, saw that the hand was clutching the handle of a dagger, a little steel dagger similar to that which had struck Kesselbach, Chapman, Altenheim and so many others. …
A few hours later, Lupin woke up, shattered with fatigue, with a scorched palate.
He lay for several minutes collecting his thoughts and, suddenly, remembering, made an instinctive defensive movement, as though he were being attacked:
“Fool that I am!” he cried, jumping out of bed. “It was a nightmare, an hallucination. It only needs a little reflection. Had it been ‘he,’ had it really been a man, in flesh and blood, who lifted his hand against me last night, he would have cut my throat like a rabbit’s. ‘He’ doesn’t hesitate. Let’s be logical. Why should he spare me? For the sake of my good looks? No, I have been dreaming, that’s all. …”
He began to whistle and dressed himself, assuming the greatest calmness, but his brain never ceased working and his eyes sought about. …
On the floor, on the window-ledge, not a trace. As his room was on the ground-floor and as he slept with his window open, it was evident that his assailant would have entered that way.
Well, he discovered nothing; and nothing either at the foot of the wall outside, or on the gravel of the path that ran round the chalet.
“Still … still …” he repeated, between his teeth. …
He called Octave:
“Where did you make the coffee which you gave me last night?”
“At the castle, governor, like the rest of the things. There is no range here.”
“Did you drink any of it?”
“No.”
“Did you throw away what was left in the coffeepot?”
“Why, yes, governor. You said it was so bad. You only took a few mouthfuls.”
“Very well. Get the motor ready. We’re leaving.”
Lupin was not the man to remain in doubt. He wanted to have a decisive explanation with Dolores. But, for this, he must first clear up certain points that seemed to him obscure and see Jean Doudeville who had sent him some rather curious information from Veldenz.
He drove, without stopping, to the grand-duchy, which he reached at two o’clock. He had an interview with Count de Waldemar, whom he asked, upon some pretext, to delay the journey of the delegates of the Regency to Bruggen. Then he went in search of Doudeville, in a tavern at Veldenz.
Doudeville took him to another tavern, where he introduced him to a shabbily-dressed little gentleman, Herr Stockli, a clerk in the department of births, deaths and marriages. They had a long conversation. They went out together and all three passed stealthily through the offices of the town-hall. At seven o’clock, Lupin dined and set out again. At ten o’clock he arrived at Bruggen Castle and asked for Geneviève, so that she might take him to Mrs. Kesselbach’s room.
He was told that Mlle. Ernemont had been summoned back to Paris by a telegram from her grandmother.
“Ah!” he said. “Could I see Mrs. Kesselbach?”
“Mrs. Kesselbach went straight to bed after dinner. She is sure to be asleep.”
“No, I saw a light in her boudoir. She will see me.”
He did not even wait for Mrs. Kesselbach to send out an answer. He walked into the boudoir almost upon the maid’s heels, dismissed her and said to Dolores:
“I have to speak to you, madame, on an urgent matter. … Forgive me … I confess that my behavior must seem importunate. … But you will understand, I am sure. …”
He was greatly excited and did not seem much disposed to put off the explanation, especially as, before entering the room, he thought he heard a sound.
Yet Dolores was alone and lying down. And she said, in her tired voice:
“Perhaps we might … tomorrow. …”
He did not answer, suddenly struck by a smell that surprised him in that boudoir, a smell of tobacco. And, at once, he had the intuition, the certainty, that there was a man there, at the moment when he himself arrived, and that perhaps the man was there still, hidden somewhere. …
Pierre Leduc? No, Pierre Leduc did not smoke. Then who?
Dolores murmured:
“Be quick, please.”
“Yes, yes, but first … would it be possible for you to tell me … ?”
He interrupted himself. What was the use of asking her? If there were really a man in hiding, would she be likely to tell?
Then he made up his mind and, trying to overcome the sort of timid constraint that oppressed him at the sense of a strange presence, he said, in a very low voice, so that Dolores alone should hear:
“Listen, I have learnt something … which I do not understand … and which perplexes me greatly. You will answer me, will you not, Dolores?”
He spoke her name with great gentleness and as though he were trying to master her by the note of love and affection in his voice.
“What have you learnt?” she asked.
“The register of births at Veldenz contains three names which are those of the last descendants of the family of Malreich, which settled in Germany. …”
“Yes, you have told me all that. …”
“You remember, the first name is Raoul de Malreich, better known under his alias of Altenheim, the scoundrel, the swell hooligan, now dead … murdered.”
“Yes.”
“Next comes Louis de Malreich, the monster, this one, the terrible murderer who will be beheaded in a few days from now.”
“Yes.”
“Then, lastly, Isilda, the mad daughter. …”
“Yes.”
“So all that is quite positive, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” said Lupin, leaning over her more closely than before, “I have just made an investigation which showed to me that the second of the three Christian names, or rather a part of the line on which it is written, has at some time or other, been subjected to erasure. The line is written over, in a new hand, with much fresher ink; but
