“Ah!” he exclaimed, “the postman.”
The man entered, shown in by the servant.
“Two registered letters, sir … if you will sign, please?”
Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned.
“It seems to please you,” remarked Wilson, after a moment’s silence.
“This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case—here’s one. Read—”
Wilson read:
“Monsieur,
“I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses.
“Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige,
“Your humble servant,
“Baron Victor d’Imblevalle,
“18 rue Murillo, Paris.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Sholmes, “that sounds good … a little trip to Paris … and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Arsène Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions.”
He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor.
“Well! What’s the matter?” asked Wilson, anxiously.
He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement:
“My Dear Monsieur:
“You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat.
“Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside.
“My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted Arsène Lupin.”
“Arsène Lupin!” repeated Wilson, astounded.
Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed:
“Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn’t I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?”
“I tell you—he’s afraid,” suggested Wilson.
“Nonsense! Arsène Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it.”
“But how did he know that the Baron d’Imblevalle had written to you?”
“What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy.”
“I thought … I supposed—”
“What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?”
“No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things.”
“No person can perform marvellous things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude—that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine.”
Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness:
“Sholmes, you are going to Paris.”
“Possibly.”
“And Lupin’s affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d’Imblevalle.”
“Possibly.”
“Sholmes, I shall go with you.”
“Ah; ah! my old friend,” exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, “you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?”
“What can happen to me? You will be there.”
“That’s the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train.”
“Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?”
“What good are they?”
“I will send a telegram.”
“No; if you do that, Arsène Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover.”
That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was a delightful one. In the train from Calais to Paris, Sholmes had three hours sound sleep, while Wilson guarded the door of the compartment.
Sholmes awoke in good spirits. He was delighted at the idea of another duel with Arsène Lupin, and he rubbed his hands with the satisfied air of a man who looks forward to a pleasant vacation.
“At last!” exclaimed Wilson, “we are getting to work again.”
And he rubbed his hands with the same satisfied air.
At the station, Sholmes took the wraps and, followed by Wilson, who carried the valises, he gave up his tickets and started off briskly.
“Fine weather, Wilson. … Blue sky and sunshine! Paris is giving us a royal reception.”
“Yes, but what a crowd!”
“So much the better, Wilson, we will pass unnoticed. No one will recognize us in such a crowd.”
“Is this Monsieur Sholmes?”
He stopped, somewhat puzzled. Who the deuce could thus address him by his name? A woman stood beside him; a young girl whose simple dress outlined her slender form and whose pretty face had a sad and anxious expression. She repeated her enquiry:
“You are Monsieur Sholmes?”
As he still remained silent, as much from confusion as from a habit of prudence, the girl asked a third time:
“Have I the honor of addressing Monsieur Sholmes?”
“What do you want?” he replied, testily, considering the incident a suspicious one.
“You must listen to
