He stopped suddenly, dropped the arm—which caused Wilson such an access of pain that he almost fainted—and, striking his forehead, Sholmes said:
“Wilson, I have an idea. You know, I have one occasionally.”
He stood for a moment, silent, with staring eyes, and then muttered, in short, sharp phrases:
“Yes, that’s it … that will explain all … right at my feet … and I didn’t see it … ah, parbleu! I should have thought of it before. … Wilson, I shall have good news for you.”
Abruptly leaving his old friend, Sholmes ran into the street and went directly to the house known as number 25. On one of the stones, to the right of the door, he read this inscription: “Destange, architect, 1875.”
There was a similar inscription on the house numbered 23.
Of course, there was nothing unusual in that. But what might be read on the houses in the avenue Henri-Martin?
A carriage was passing. He engaged it and directed the driver to take him to No. 134 avenue Henri-Martin. He was roused to a high pitch of excitement. He stood up in the carriage and urged the horse to greater speed. He offered extra pourboires to the driver. Quicker! Quicker!
How great was his anxiety as they turned from the rue de la Pompe! Had he caught a glimpse of the truth at last?
On one of the stones of the late Baron’s house he read the words: “Destange, architect, 1874.” And a similar inscription appeared on the two adjoining houses.
The reaction was such that he settled down in the seat of the carriage, trembling from joy. At last, a tiny ray of light had penetrated the dark shadows which encompassed these mysterious crimes! In the vast sombre forest wherein a thousand pathways crossed and re-crossed, he had discovered the first clue to the track followed by the enemy!
He entered a branch postoffice and obtained telephonic connection with the château de Crozon. The Countess answered the telephone call.
“Hello! … Is that you, madame?”
“Monsieur Sholmes, isn’t it? Everything going all right?”
“Quite well, but I wish to ask you one question. … Hello!”
“Yes, I hear you.”
“Tell me, when was the château de Crozon built?”
“It was destroyed by fire and rebuilt about thirty years ago.”
“Who built it, and in what year?”
“There is an inscription on the front of the house which reads: ‘Lucien Destange, architect, 1877.’ ”
“Thank you, madame, that is all. Goodbye.”
He went away, murmuring: “Destange … Lucien Destange … that name has a familiar sound.”
He noticed a public reading-room, entered, consulted a dictionary of modern biography, and copied the following information: “Lucien Destange, born 1840, Grand-Prix de Rome, officer of the Legion of Honor, author of several valuable books on architecture, etc. …”
Then he returned to the pharmacy and found that Wilson had been taken to the hospital. There Sholmes found him with his arm in splints, and shivering with fever.
“Victory! Victory!” cried Sholmes. “I hold one end of the thread.”
“Of what thread?”
“The one that leads to victory. I shall now be walking on solid ground, where there will be footprints, clues. …”
“Cigarette ashes?” asked Wilson, whose curiosity had overcome his pain.
“And many other things! Just think, Wilson, I have found the mysterious link which unites the different adventures in which the blonde Lady played a part. Why did Lupin select those three houses for the scenes of his exploits?”
“Yes, why?”
“Because those three houses were built by the same architect. That was an easy problem, eh? Of course … but who would have thought of it?”
“No one but you.”
“And who, except I, knows that the same architect, by the use of analogous plans, has rendered it possible for a person to execute three distinct acts which, though miraculous in appearance, are, in reality, quite simple and easy?”
“That was a stroke of good luck.”
“And it was time, dear boy, as I was becoming very impatient. You know, this is our fourth day.”
“Out of ten.”
“Oh! after this—”
Sholmes was excited, delighted, and gayer than usual.
“And when I think that these rascals might have attacked me in the street and broken my arm just as they did yours! Isn’t that so, Wilson?”
Wilson simply shivered at the horrible thought. Sholmes continued:
“We must profit by the lesson. I can see, Wilson, that we were wrong to try and fight Lupin in the open, and leave ourselves exposed to his attacks.”
“I can see it, and feel it, too, in my broken arm,” said Wilson.
“You have one consolation, Wilson; that is, that I escaped. Now, I must be doubly cautious. In an open fight he will defeat me; but if I can work in the dark, unseen by him, I have the advantage, no matter how strong his forces may be.”
“Ganimard might be of some assistance.”
“Never! On the day that I can truly say: Arsène Lupin is there; I show you the quarry, and how to catch it; I shall go and see Ganimard at one of the two addresses that he gave me—his residence in the rue Pergolese, or at the Suisse tavern in the Place du Châtelet. But, until that time, I shall work alone.”
He approached the bed, placed his hand on Wilson’s shoulder—on the sore one, of course—and said to him:
“Take care of yourself, old fellow. Henceforth your role will be to keep two or three of Arsène Lupin’s men busy watching here in vain for my return to enquire about your health. It is a secret mission for you, eh?”
“Yes, and I shall do my best to fulfil it conscientiously. Then you do not expect to come here any more?”
“What for?” asked Sholmes.
“I don’t know … of course. … I am getting on as well as possible. But, Herlock, do me a last service: give me a drink.”
“A drink?”
“Yes, I am dying of thirst; and with
