“Dubreuil, did you tell the moving men not to touch the wire of that bell?”
“Certainly; it is working all right.”
“That is all I want to know.”
The two gentlemen then descended to the apartment of Felix Davey and the latter, after adjusting the marble mantel, exclaimed, joyfully:
“Dubreuil, I should like to see the man who is able to discover all the ingenious devices, warning bells, networks of electric wires and acoustic tubes, invisible passages, moving floors and hidden stairways. A real fairyland!”
“What fame for Arsène Lupin!”
“Fame I could well dispense with. It’s a pity to be compelled to leave a place so well equipped, and commence all over again, Dubreuil … and on a new model, of course, for it would never do to duplicate this. Curse Herlock Sholmes!”
“Has he returned to Paris?”
“How could he? There has been only one boat come from Southampton and it left there at midnight; only one train from Havre, leaving there at eight o’clock this morning and due in Paris at eleven fifteen. As he could not catch the midnight boat at Southampton—and the instructions to the captain on that point were explicit—he cannot reach France until this evening via Newhaven and Dieppe.”
“Do you think he will come back?”
“Yes; he never gives up. He will return to Paris; but it will be too late. We will be far away.”
“And Mademoiselle Destange?”
“I am to see her in an hour.”
“At her house?”
“Oh! no; she will not return there for several days. But you, Dubreuil, you must hurry. The loading of our goods will take a long time and you should be there to look after them.”
“Are you sure that we are not being watched?”
“By whom? I am not afraid of anyone but Sholmes.”
Dubreuil retired. Felix Davey made a last tour of the apartment, picked up two or three torn letters, then, noticing a piece of chalk, he took it and, on the dark paper of the drawing-room, drew a large frame and wrote within it the following:
“Arsène Lupin, gentleman-burglar, lived here for five years at the beginning of the twentieth century.”
This little pleasantry seemed to please him very much. He looked at it for a moment, whistling a lively air, then said to himself:
“Now that I have placed myself in touch with the historians of future generations, I can go. You must hurry, Herlock Sholmes, as I shall leave my present abode in three minutes, and your defeat will be an accomplished fact. … Two minutes more! you are keeping me waiting, Monsieur Sholmes. … One minute more! Are you not coming? Well, then, I proclaim your downfall and my apotheosis. And now I make my escape. Farewell, kingdom of Arsène Lupin! I shall never see you again. Farewell to the fifty-five rooms of the six apartments over which I reigned! Farewell, my own royal bed chamber!”
His outburst of joy was interrupted by the sharp ringing of a bell, which stopped twice, started again and then ceased. It was the alarm bell.
What was wrong? What unforeseen danger? Ganimard? No; that wasn’t possible!
He was on the point of returning to his library and making his escape. But, first, he went to the window. There was no one in the street. Was the enemy already in the house? He listened and thought he could discern certain confused sounds. He hesitated no longer. He ran to his library, and as he crossed the threshold he heard the noise of a key being inserted in the lock of the vestibule door.
“The deuce!” he murmured; “I have no time to lose. The house may be surrounded. The servants’ stairway—impossible! Fortunately, there is the chimney.”
He pushed the moulding; it did not move. He made a greater effort—still it refused to move. At the same time he had the impression that the door below opened and that he could hear footsteps.
“Good God!” he cried; “I am lost if this cursed mechanism—”
He pushed with all his strength. Nothing moved—nothing! By some incredible accident, by some evil stroke of fortune, the mechanism, which had worked only a few moments ago, would not work now.
He was furious. The block of marble remained immovable. He uttered frightful imprecations on the senseless stone. Was his escape to be prevented by that stupid obstacle? He struck the marble wildly, madly; he hammered it, he cursed it.
“Ah! what’s the matter, Monsieur Lupin? You seem to be displeased about something.”
Lupin turned around. Herlock Sholmes stood before him!
Herlock Sholmes! … Lupin gazed at him with squinting eyes as if his sight were defective and misleading. Herlock Sholmes in Paris! Herlock Sholmes, whom he had shipped to England only the day before as a dangerous person, now stood before him free and victorious! … Ah! such a thing was nothing less than a miracle; it was contrary to all natural laws; it was the culmination of all that is illogical and abnormal. … Herlock Sholmes here—before his face!
And when the Englishman spoke his words were tinged with that keen sarcasm and mocking politeness with which his adversary had so often lashed him. He said:
“Monsieur Lupin, in the first place I have the honor to inform you that at this time and place I blot from my memory forever all thoughts of the miserable night that you forced me to endure in the house of Baron d’Hautrec, of the injury done to my friend Wilson, of my abduction in the automobile, and of the voyage I took yesterday under your orders, bound to a very uncomfortable couch. But the joy of this moment effaces all those bitter memories. I forgive everything. I forget everything—I wipe out the debt. I am paid—and royally paid.”
Lupin made no reply. So the Englishman continued:
“Don’t you think so yourself?”
He appeared to insist as if demanding an acquiescence, as a sort of receipt in regard to the part.
After a moment’s reflection, during which the Englishman felt that he was scrutinized to the very depth of his soul, Lupin declared:
“I presume, monsieur, that your conduct is based upon serious motives?”
“Very serious.”
“The fact
