“That was to seize the shadow. … The idea was excellent. … But remember this, Wilson, whenever you receive a letter from me, be sure it is my handwriting and not a forgery.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Wilson, as the truth dawned on him, “then the letter wasn’t from you?”
“No.”
“Who sent it, then?”
“Arsène Lupin.”
“Why? For what purpose?” asked Wilson.
“I don’t know, and that’s what worries me. I don’t understand why he took the trouble to disturb you. Of course, if he had sent me on such a foolish errand I wouldn’t be surprised; but what was his object in disturbing you?”
“I must hurry back to the hotel.”
“So must I, Wilson.”
They arrived at the gate. Wilson, who was ahead, took hold of it and pulled.
“Ah! you closed it?” he said.
“No, I left it partly open.”
Sholmes tried the gate; then, alarmed, he examined the lock. An oath escaped him:
“Good God! it is locked! locked with a key!”
He shook the gate with all his strength; then, realizing the futility of his efforts, he dropped his arms, discouraged, and muttered, in a jerky manner:
“I can see it all now—it is Lupin. He foresaw that I would leave the train at Creil, and he prepared this neat little trap for me in case I should commence my investigation this evening. Moreover, he was kind enough to send me a companion to share my captivity. All done to make me lose a day, and, perhaps, also, to teach me to mind my own business.”
“Do you mean to say we are prisoners?”
“Exactly. Herlock Sholmes and Wilson are the prisoners of Arsène Lupin. It’s a bad beginning; but he laughs best who laughs last.”
Wilson seized Sholmes’ arm, and exclaimed:
“Look! … Look up there! … A light. …”
A light shone through one of the windows of the first floor. Both of them ran to the house, and each ascended by the stairs he had used on coming out a short time before, and they met again at the entrance to the lighted chamber. A small piece of a candle was burning in the center of the room. Beside it there was a basket containing a bottle, a roasted chicken, and a loaf of bread.
Sholmes was greatly amused, and laughed heartily.
“Wonderful! we are invited to supper. It is really an enchanted place, a genuine fairyland. Come, Wilson, cheer up! this is not a funeral. It’s all very funny.”
“Are you quite sure it is so very funny?” asked Wilson, in a lugubrious tone.
“Am I sure?” exclaimed Sholmes, with a gaiety that was too boisterous to be natural, “why, to tell the truth, it’s the funniest thing I ever saw. It’s a jolly good comedy! What a master of sarcasm this Arsène Lupin is! He makes a fool of you with the utmost grace and delicacy. I wouldn’t miss this feast for all the money in the Bank of England. Come, Wilson, you grieve me. You should display that nobility of character which rises superior to misfortune. I don’t see that you have any cause for complaint, really, I don’t.”
After a time, by dint of good humor and sarcasm, he managed to restore Wilson to his normal mood, and make him swallow a morsel of chicken and a glass of wine. But when the candle went out and they prepared to spend the night there, with the bare floor for a mattress and the hard wall for a pillow, the harsh and ridiculous side of the situation was impressed upon them. That particular incident will not form a pleasant page in the memoirs of the famous detective.
Next morning Wilson awoke, stiff and cold. A slight noise attracted his attention: Herlock Sholmes was kneeling on the floor, critically examining some grains of sand and studying some chalk-marks, now almost effaced, which formed certain figures and numbers, which figures he entered in his notebook.
Accompanied by Wilson, who was deeply interested in the work, he examined each room, and found similar chalk-marks in two other apartments. He noticed, also, two circles on the oaken panels, an arrow on a wainscot, and four figures on four steps of the stairs. At the end of an hour Wilson said:
“The figures are correct, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know; but, at all events, they mean something,” replied Sholmes, who had forgotten the discomforts of the night in the joy created by his new discoveries.
“It is quite obvious,” said Wilson, “they represent the number of pieces in the floor.”
“Ah!”
“Yes. And the two circles indicate that the panels are false, as you can readily ascertain, and the arrow points in the direction in which the panels move.”
Herlock Sholmes looked at Wilson, in astonishment.
“Ah! my dear friend, how do you know all that? Your clairvoyance makes my poor ability in that direction look quite insignificant.”
“Oh! it is very simple,” said Wilson, inflated with pride; “I examined those marks last night, according to your instructions, or, rather, according to the instructions of Arsène Lupin, since he wrote the letter you sent to me.”
At that moment Wilson faced a greater danger than he had during his struggle in the garden with Herlock Sholmes. The latter now felt a furious desire to strangle him. But, dominating his feelings, Sholmes made a grimace which was intended for a smile, and said:
“Quite so, Wilson, you have done well, and your work shows commendable progress. But, tell me, have you exercised your powers of observation and analysis on any other points? I might profit by your deductions.”
“Oh! no, I went no farther.”
“That’s a pity. Your début was such a promising one. But, since that is all, we may as well go.”
“Go! but how can we get out?”
“The way all honest people go out: through the gate.”
“But it is locked.”
“It will be opened.”
“By whom?”
“Please call the two policemen who are strolling down the avenue.”
“But—”
“But what?”
“It is very humiliating. What will be said when it becomes known that Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were the prisoners of Arsène Lupin?”
“Of course, I understand they will roar with laughter,” replied Herlock Sholmes, in a dry voice and with frowning features, “but
