“I warned you, Ganimard … about the dirigible balloon. Another time, don’t be so tenderhearted. And, moreover, remember that Arsène Lupin doesn’t allow himself to be struck and knocked down without sufficient reason. Adieu.”
The door of the elevator was already closed on Ganimard, and the machine began to descend; and it all happened so quickly that the old detective reached the ground floor as soon as his assistants. Without exchanging a word they crossed the court and ascended the servants’ stairway, which was the only way to reach the servants’ floor through which the escape had been made.
A long corridor with several turns and bordered with little numbered rooms led to a door that was not locked. On the other side of this door and, therefore, in another house there was another corridor with similar turns and similar rooms, and at the end of it a servants’ stairway. Ganimard descended it, crossed a court and a vestibule and found himself in the rue Picot. Then he understood the situation: the two houses, built the entire depth of the lots, touched at the rear, while the fronts of the houses faced upon two streets that ran parallel to each other at a distance of more than sixty metres apart.
He found the concierge and, showing his card, enquired:
“Did four men pass here just now?”
“Yes; the two servants from the fourth and fifth floors, with two friends.”
“Who lives on the fourth and fifth floors?”
“Two men named Fauvel and their cousins, whose name is Provost. They moved today, leaving the two servants, who went away just now.”
“Ah!” thought Ganimard; “what a grand opportunity we have missed! The entire band lived in these houses.”
And he sank down on a chair in despair.
Forty minutes later two gentlemen were driven up to the station of the Northern Railway and hurried to the Calais express, followed by a porter who carried their valises. One of them had his arm in a sling, and the pallor of his face denoted some illness. The other man was in a jovial mood.
“We must hurry, Wilson, or we will miss the train. … Ah! Wilson, I shall never forget these ten days.”
“Neither will I.”
“Ah! it was a great struggle!”
“Superb!”
“A few repulses, here and there—”
“Of no consequence.”
“And, at last, victory all along the line. Lupin arrested! The blue diamond recovered!”
“My arm broken!”
“What does a broken arm count for in such a victory as that?”
“Especially when it is my arm.”
“Ah! yes, don’t you remember, Wilson, that it was at the very time you were in the pharmacy, suffering like a hero, that I discovered the clue to the whole mystery?”
“How lucky!”
The doors of the carriages were being closed.
“All aboard. Hurry up, gentlemen!”
The porter climbed into an empty compartment and placed their valises in the rack, whilst Sholmes assisted the unfortunate Wilson.
“What’s the matter, Wilson? You’re not done up, are you? Come, pull your nerves together.”
“My nerves are all right.”
“Well, what is it, then?”
“I have only one hand.”
“What of it?” exclaimed Sholmes, cheerfully. “You are not the only one who has had a broken arm. Cheer up!”
Sholmes handed the porter a piece of fifty centimes.
“Thank you, Monsieur Sholmes,” said the porter.
The Englishman looked at him; it was Arsène Lupin.
“You! … you!” he stammered, absolutely astounded.
And Wilson brandished his sound arm in the manner of a man who demonstrates a fact as he said:
“You! you! but you were arrested! Sholmes told me so. When he left you Ganimard and thirty men had you in charge.”
Lupin folded his arms and said, with an air of indignation:
“Did you suppose I would let you go away without bidding you adieu? After the very friendly relations that have always existed between us! That would be discourteous and ungrateful on my part.”
The train whistled. Lupin continued:
“I beg your pardon, but have you everything you need? Tobacco and matches … yes … and the evening papers? You will find in them an account of my arrest—your last exploit, Monsieur Sholmes. And now, au revoir. Am delighted to have made your acquaintance. And if ever I can be of any service to you, I shall be only too happy. …” He leaped to the platform and closed the door.
“Adieu,” he repeated, waving his handkerchief. “Adieu. … I shall write to you. … You will write also, eh? And your arm broken, Wilson. … I am truly sorry. … I shall expect to hear from both of you. A postal card, now and then, simply address: Lupin, Paris. That is sufficient. … Adieu. … See you soon.”
VII
The Jewish Lamp
Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire.
Sholmes’ pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings.
Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts?
When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time, Wilson ventured to speak:
“Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments.”
Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact—an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window.
The lonely street extended between the gloomy façades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an
