“And you will not try to find another way out?”
“No.”
“But the man who brought us the basket of provisions did not cross the garden, coming or going. There is some other way out. Let us look for it, and not bother with the police.”
“Your argument is sound, but you forget that all the detectives in Paris have been trying to find it for the last six months, and that I searched the house from top to bottom while you were asleep. Ah! my dear Wilson, we have not been accustomed to pursue such game as Arsène Lupin. He leaves no trail behind him.”
At eleven o’clock, Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were liberated, and conducted to the nearest police station, where the commissary, after subjecting them to a severe examination, released them with an affectation of goodwill that was quite exasperating.
“I am very sorry, messieurs, that this unfortunate incident has occurred. You will have a very poor opinion of French hospitality. Mon Dieu! what a night you must have passed! Ah! that rascally Lupin is no respecter of persons.”
They took a carriage to their hotel. At the office Wilson asked for the key of his room.
After some search the clerk replied, much astonished:
“But, monsieur, you have given up the room.”
“I gave it up? When?”
“This morning, by the letter your friend brought here.”
“What friend?”
“The gentleman who brought your letter. … Ah! your card is still attached to the letter. Here they are.”
Wilson looked at them. Certainly, it was one of his cards, and the letter was in his handwriting.
“Good Lord!” he muttered, “this is another of his tricks,” and he added, aloud: “Where is my luggage?”
“Your friend took it.”
“Ah! … and you gave it to him?”
“Certainly; on the strength of your letter and card.”
“Of course … of course.”
They left the hotel and walked, slowly and thoughtfully, through the Champs-Élysées. The avenue was bright and cheerful beneath a clear autumn sun; the air was mild and pleasant.
At Rond-Point, Herlock Sholmes lighted his pipe. Then Wilson spoke:
“I can’t understand you, Sholmes. You are so calm and unruffled. They play with you as a cat plays with a mouse, and yet you do not say a word.”
Sholmes stopped, as he replied:
“Wilson, I was thinking of your card.”
“Well?”
“The point is this: here is a man who, in view of a possible struggle with us, procures specimens of our handwriting, and who holds, in his possession, one or more of your cards. Now, have you considered how much precaution and skill those facts represent?”
“Well?”
“Well, Wilson, to overcome an enemy so well prepared and so thoroughly equipped requires the infinite shrewdness of … of a Herlock Sholmes. And yet, as you have seen, Wilson, I have lost the first round.”
At six o’clock the Echo de France published the following article in its evening edition:
“This morning Mon. Thenard, commissary of police in the sixteenth district, released Herlock Sholmes and his friend Wilson, both of whom had been locked in the house of the late Baron d’Hautrec, where they spent a very pleasant night—thanks to the thoughtful care and attention of Arsène Lupin.”
“In addition to their other troubles, these gentlemen have been robbed of their valises, and, in consequence thereof, they have entered a formal complaint against Arsène Lupin.”
“Arsène Lupin, satisfied that he has given them a mild reproof, hopes these gentlemen will not force him to resort to more stringent measures.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Herlock Sholmes, crushing the paper in his hands, “that is only child’s play! And that is the only criticism I have to make of Arsène Lupin: he plays to the gallery. There is that much of the fakir in him.”
“Ah! Sholmes, you are a wonderful man! You have such a command over your temper. Nothing ever disturbs you.”
“No, nothing disturbs me,” replied Sholmes, in a voice that trembled from rage; “besides, what’s the use of losing my temper? … I am quite confident of the final result; I shall have the last word.”
IV
Light in the Darkness
However well-tempered a man’s character may be—and Herlock Sholmes is one of those men over whom ill-fortune has little or no hold—there are circumstances wherein the most courageous combatant feels the necessity of marshaling his forces before risking the chances of a battle.
“I shall take a vacation today,” said Sholmes.
“And what shall I do?” asked Wilson.
“You, Wilson—let me see! You can buy some underwear and linen to replenish our wardrobe, while I take a rest.”
“Very well, Sholmes, I will watch while you sleep.”
Wilson uttered these words with all the importance of a sentinel on guard at the outpost, and therefore exposed to the greatest danger. His chest was expanded; his muscles were tense. Assuming a shrewd look, he scrutinized, officially, the little room in which they had fixed their abode.
“Very well, Wilson, you can watch. I shall occupy myself in the preparation of a line of attack more appropriate to the methods of the enemy we are called upon to meet. Do you see, Wilson, we have been deceived in this fellow Lupin. My opinion is that we must commence at the very beginning of this affair.”
“And even before that, if possible. But have we sufficient time?”
“Nine days, dear boy. That is five too many.”
The Englishman spent the entire afternoon in smoking and sleeping. He did not enter upon his new plan of attack until the following day. Then he said:
“Wilson, I am ready. Let us attack the enemy.”
“Lead on, Macduff!” exclaimed Wilson, full of martial ardor. “I wish to fight in the front rank. Oh! have no fear. I shall do credit to my King and country, for I am an Englishman.”
In the first place, Sholmes had three long and important interviews: With Monsieur Detinan, whose rooms he examined with the greatest care and precision; with Suzanne Gerbois, whom he questioned in regard to the blonde Lady; and with Sister Auguste, who had retired to the convent of the Visitandines since the murder of Baron d’Hautrec.
At each of these
