“Satisfactory?”
“Quite so.”
“I was sure we were on the right track.”
They paid a visit to the two houses adjoining that of the late Baron d’Hautrec in the avenue Henri-Martin; then they visited the rue Clapeyron, and, while he was examining the front of number 25, Sholmes said:
“All these houses must be connected by secret passages, but I can’t find them.”
For the first time in his life, Wilson doubted the omnipotence of his famous associate. Why did he now talk so much and accomplish so little?
“Why?” exclaimed Sholmes, in answer to Wilson’s secret thought, “because, with this fellow Lupin, a person has to work in the dark, and, instead of deducting the truth from established facts, a man must extract it from his own brain, and afterward learn if it is supported by the facts in the case.”
“But what about the secret passages?”
“They must exist. But even though I should discover them, and thus learn how Arsène Lupin made his entrance to the lawyer’s house and how the blonde Lady escaped from the house of Baron d’Hautrec after the murder, what good would it do? How would it help me? Would it furnish me with a weapon of attack?”
“Let us attack him just the same,” exclaimed Wilson, who had scarcely uttered these words when he jumped back with a cry of alarm. Something had fallen at their feet; it was a bag filled with sand which might have caused them serious injury if it had struck them.
Sholmes looked up. Some men were working on a scaffolding attached to the balcony at the fifth floor of the house. He said:
“We were lucky; one step more, and that heavy bag would have fallen on our heads. I wonder if—”
Moved by a sudden impulse, he rushed into the house, up the five flights of stairs, rang the bell, pushed his way into the apartment to the great surprise and alarm of the servant who came to the door, and made his way to the balcony in front of the house. But there was no one there.
“Where are the workmen who were here a moment ago?” he asked the servant.
“They have just gone.”
“Which way did they go?”
“By the servants’ stairs.”
Sholmes leaned out of the window. He saw two men leaving the house, carrying bicycles. They mounted them and quickly disappeared around the corner.
“How long have they been working on this scaffolding?”
“Those men? … only since this morning. It’s their first day.”
Sholmes returned to the street, and joined Wilson. Together they returned to the hotel, and thus the second day ended in a mournful silence.
On the following day their programme was almost similar. They sat together on a bench in the avenue Henri-Martin, much to Wilson’s disgust, who did not find it amusing to spend long hours watching the house in which the tragedy had occurred.
“What do you expect, Sholmes? That Arsène Lupin will walk out of the house?”
“No.”
“That the blonde Lady will make her appearance?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I am looking for something to occur; some slight incident that will furnish me with a clue to work on.”
“And if it does not occur?”
“Then I must, myself, create the spark that will set fire to the powder.”
A solitary incident—and that of a disagreeable nature—broke the monotony of the forenoon.
A gentleman was riding along the avenue when his horse suddenly turned aside in such a manner that it ran against the bench on which they were sitting, and struck Sholmes a slight blow on the shoulder.
“Ha!” exclaimed Sholmes, “a little more and I would have had a broken shoulder.”
The gentleman struggled with his horse. The Englishman drew his revolver and pointed it; but Wilson seized his arm, and said:
“Don’t be foolish! What are you going to do? Kill the man?”
“Leave me alone, Wilson! Let go!”
During the brief struggle between Sholmes and Wilson the stranger rode away.
“Now, you can shoot,” said Wilson, triumphantly, when the horseman was at some distance.
“Wilson, you’re an idiot! Don’t you understand that the man is an accomplice of Arsène Lupin?”
Sholmes was trembling from rage. Wilson stammered pitifully:
“What! … that man … an accomplice?”
“Yes, the same as the workmen who tried to drop the bag of sand on us yesterday.”
“It can’t be possible!”
“Possible or not, there was only one way to prove it.”
“By killing the man?”
“No—by killing the horse. If you hadn’t grabbed my arm, I should have captured one of Lupin’s accomplices. Now, do you understand the folly of your act?”
Throughout the afternoon both men were morose. They did not speak a word to each other. At five o’clock they visited the rue Clapeyron, but were careful to keep at a safe distance from the houses. However, three young men who were passing through the street, arm in arm, singing, ran against Sholmes and Wilson and refused to let them pass. Sholmes, who was in an ill humor, contested the right of way with them. After a brief struggle, Sholmes resorted to his fists. He struck one of the men a hard blow on the chest, another a blow in the face, and thus subdued two of his adversaries. Thereupon the three of them took to their heels and disappeared.
“Ah!” exclaimed Sholmes, “that does me good. I needed a little exercise.”
But Wilson was leaning against the wall. Sholmes said:
“What’s the matter, old chap? You’re quite pale.”
Wilson pointed to his left arm, which hung inert, and stammered:
“I don’t know what it is. My arm pains me.”
“Very much? … Is it serious?”
“Yes, I am afraid so.”
He tried to raise his arm, but it was helpless. Sholmes felt it, gently at first, then in a rougher way, “to see how badly it was hurt,” he said. He concluded that Wilson was really hurt, so he led him to a neighboring pharmacy, where a closer examination revealed the fact that the arm was broken and that Wilson was a candidate for the hospital. In the meantime they bared his arm and applied some remedies to ease his suffering.
“Come, come, old chap, cheer
