The avenue was deserted, and was very dark under its four rows of trees, between which, at considerable intervals, a few gas-lamps struggled in vain to light the deep shadows. One of them threw a dim light over a portion of the house, and Sholmes perceived the “To-let” sign posted on the gate, the neglected walks which encircled the small lawn, and the large bare windows of the vacant house.
“I suppose,” he said to himself, “the house has been unoccupied since the death of the baron. … Ah! if I could only get in and view the scene of the murder!”
No sooner did the idea occur to him than he sought to put it in execution. But how could he manage it? He could not climb over the gate; it was too high. So he took from his pocket an electric lantern and a skeleton key which he always carried. Then, to his great surprise, he discovered that the gate was not locked; in fact, it was open about three or four inches. He entered the garden, and was careful to leave the gate as he had found it—partly open. But he had not taken many steps from the gate when he stopped. He had seen a light pass one of the windows on the second floor.
He saw the light pass a second window and a third, but he saw nothing else, except a silhouette outlined on the walls of the rooms. The light descended to the first floor, and, for a long time, wandered from room to room.
“Who the deuce is walking, at one o’clock in the morning, through the house in which the Baron d’Hautrec was killed?” Herlock Sholmes asked himself, deeply interested.
There was only one way to find out, and that was to enter the house himself. He did not hesitate, but started for the door of the house. However, at the moment when he crossed the streak of gaslight that came from the street-lamp, the man must have seen him, for the light in the house was suddenly extinguished and Herlock Sholmes did not see it again. Softly, he tried the door. It was open, also. Hearing no sound, he advanced through the hallway, encountered the foot of the stairs, and ascended to the first floor. Here there was the same silence, the same darkness.
He entered, one of the rooms and approached a window through which came a feeble light from the outside. On looking through the window he saw the man, who had no doubt descended by another stairway and escaped by another door. The man was threading his way through the shrubbery which bordered the wall that separated the two gardens.
“The deuce!” exclaimed Sholmes, “he is going to escape.”
He hastened down the stairs and leaped over the steps in his eagerness to cut off the man’s retreat. But he did not see anyone, and, owing to the darkness, it was several seconds before he was able to distinguish a bulky form moving through the shrubbery. This gave the Englishman food for reflection. Why had the man not made his escape, which he could have done so easily? Had he remained in order to watch the movements of the intruder who had disturbed him in his mysterious work?
“At all events,” concluded Sholmes, “it is not Lupin; he would be more adroit. It may be one of his men.”
For several minutes Herlock Sholmes remained motionless, with his gaze fixed on the adversary who, in his turn was watching the detective. But as that adversary had become passive, and as the Englishman was not one to consume his time in idle waiting, he examined his revolver to see if it was in good working order, removed his knife from its sheath, and walked toward the enemy with that cool effrontery and scorn of danger for which he had become famous.
He heard a clicking sound; it was his adversary preparing his revolver. Herlock Sholmes dashed boldly into the thicket, and grappled with his foe. There was a sharp, desperate struggle, in the course of which Sholmes suspected that the man was trying to draw a knife. But the Englishman, believing his antagonist to be an accomplice of Arsène Lupin and anxious to win the first trick in the game with that redoubtable foe, fought with unusual strength and determination. He hurled his adversary to the ground, held him there with the weight of his body, and, gripping him by the throat with one hand, he used his free hand to take out his electric lantern, press the button, and throw the light over the face of his prisoner.
“Wilson!” he exclaimed, in amazement.
“Herlock Sholmes!” stammered a weak, stifled voice.
For a long time they remained silent, astounded, foolish. The shriek of an automobile rent the air. A slight breeze stirred the leaves. Suddenly, Herlock Sholmes seized his friend by the shoulders and shook him violently, as he cried:
“What are you doing here? Tell me. … What? … Did I tell you to hide in the bushes and spy on me?”
“Spy on you!” muttered Wilson, “why, I didn’t know it was you.”
“But what are you doing here? You ought to be in bed.”
“I was in bed.”
“You ought to be asleep.”
“I was asleep.”
“Well, what brought you here?” asked Sholmes.
“Your letter.”
“My letter? I don’t understand.”
“Yes, a messenger brought it to me at the hotel.”
“From me? Are you crazy?”
“It is true—I swear it.”
“Where is the letter?”
Wilson handed him a sheet of paper, which he read by the light of his lantern. It was as follows:
“Wilson, come at once to avenue Henri-Martin. The house is empty. Inspect the whole place and make an exact plan. Then return to hotel.—Herlock Sholmes.”
“I was measuring the rooms,” said Wilson, “when I saw a shadow in the garden. I had only
