He lit a cigarette and walked back to the chalet.
As he approached it, he saw, at some distance from him, a shadow that appeared to be moving away.
He did not stir, for fear of giving the alarm.
The shadow crossed a path. By the light of the moon, he seemed to recognize the black figure of Malreich.
He rushed forward.
The shadow fled and vanished from sight.
“Come,” he said, “it shall be for tomorrow. And, this time. …”
Lupin went to Octave’s, his chauffeur’s, room, woke him and said:
“Take the motor and go to Paris. You will be there by six o’clock in the morning. See Jacques Doudeville and tell him two things: first, to give me news of the man under sentence of death; and secondly, as soon as the post-offices open, to send me a telegram which I will write down for you now. …”
He worded the telegram on a scrap of paper and added:
“The moment you have done that, come back, but this way, along the wall of the park. Go now. No one must suspect your absence.”
Lupin went to his own room, pressed the spring of his lantern and began to make a minute inspection. “It’s as I thought,” he said presently. “Someone came here tonight, while I was watching beneath the window. And, if he came, I know what he came for. … I was certainly right: things are getting warm. … The first time, I was spared. This time, I may be sure of my little stab.”
For prudence’s sake, he took a blanket, chose a lonely spot in the park and spent the night under the stars.
Octave was back by ten o’clock in the morning:
“It’s all right, governor. The telegram has been sent.”
“Good. And is Louis de Malreich still in prison?”
“Yes. Doudeville passed his cell at the Santé last night as the warder was coming out. They talked together. Malreich is just the same, it appears: silent as the grave. He is waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“The fatal hour of course. They are saying, at headquarters, that the execution will take place on the day after tomorrow.”
“That’s all right, that’s all right,” said Lupin. “And one thing is quite plain: he has not escaped.”
He ceased to understand or even to look for the explanation of the riddle, so clearly did he feel that the whole truth would soon be revealed to him. He had only to prepare his plan, for the enemy to fall into the trap.
“Or for me to fall into it myself,” he thought, laughing.
He felt very gay, very free from care; and no fight had ever looked more promising to him.
A footman came from the castle with the telegram which he had told Doudeville to send him and which the postman had just brought. He opened it and put it in his pocket.
A little before twelve o’clock, he met Pierre Leduc in one of the avenues and said, offhand:
“I am looking for you … things are serious. … You must answer me frankly. Since you have been at the castle, have you ever seen a man there, besides the two German servants whom I sent in?”
“No.”
“Think carefully. I’m not referring to a casual visitor. I mean a man who hides himself, a man whose presence you might have discovered or, less than that, whose presence you might have suspected from some clue or even by some intuition?”
“No. … Have you … ?”
“Yes. Someone is hiding here … someone is prowling about. … Where? And who is it? And what is his object? I don’t know … but I shall know. I already have a suspicion. Do you, on your side, keep your eyes open and watch. And, above all, not a word to Mrs. Kesselbach. … It is no use alarming her. …”
He went away.
Pierre Leduc, taken aback and upset, went back to the castle. On his way, he saw a piece of blue paper on the edge of the lawn. He picked it up. It was a telegram, not crumpled, like a piece of paper that had been thrown away, but carefully folded: obviously lost.
It was addressed to “Beauny,” the name by which Lupin was known at Bruggen. And it contained these words:
“We know the whole truth. Revelations impossible by letter. Will take train tonight. Meet me eight o’clock tomorrow morning Bruggen station.”
“Excellent!” said Lupin, who was watching Pierre Leduc’s movements from a neighboring coppice. “Excellent! In two minutes from now, the young idiot will have shown Dolores the telegram and told her all my fears. They will talk about it all day. And ‘the other one’ will hear, ‘the other one’ will know, because he knows everything, because he lives in Dolores’ own shadow and because Dolores is like a fascinated prey in his hands. … And, tonight. …”
He walked away humming to himself:
“Tonight … tonight … we shall dance. … Such a waltz, my boys! The waltz of blood, to the tune of the little nickel-plated dagger! … We shall have some fun, at last! …”
He reached the chalet, called to Octave, went to his room, flung himself on his bed, and said to the chauffeur:
“Sit down in that chair, Octave, and keep awake. Your master is going to take forty winks. Watch over him, you faithful servant.”
He had a good sleep.
“Like Napoleon on the morning of Austerlitz,” he said, when he woke up.
It was dinnertime. He made a hearty meal and then, while he smoked a cigarette, inspected his weapons and renewed the charges of his two revolvers:
“Keep your powder dry and your sword sharpened, as my chum the Kaiser says. Octave!”
Octave appeared.
“Go and have your dinner at the castle, with the servants. Tell them you are going to Paris tonight, in the motor.”
“With you, governor?”
“No, alone. And, as soon as dinner is over, make a start, ostensibly.”
“But I am not to go to Paris. …”
“No, remain outside the park, half a mile down the road, until I come. You will have a long wait.”
He smoked another cigarette, went for a stroll, passed in front of the castle, saw a light in Dolores’ rooms and then returned to the chalet.
There he took up
