“The better proof would be the piece of wood itself.”
“Here it is,” said Sholmes, “I found it in the garden, under the box of a laurel tree.”
The baron bowed to Sholmes in recognition of his skill. Only forty minutes had elapsed since the Englishman had entered the house, and he had already exploded all the theories theretofore formed, and which had been based on what appeared to be obvious and undeniable facts. But what now appeared to be the real facts of the case rested upon a more solid foundation, to-wit, the astute reasoning of a Herlock Sholmes.
“The accusation which you make against one of our household is a very serious matter,” said the baroness. “Our servants have been with us a long time and none of them would betray our trust.”
“If none of them has betrayed you, how can you explain the fact that I received this letter on the same day and by the same mail as the letter you wrote to me?”
He handed to the baroness the letter that he had received from Arsène Lupin. She exclaimed, in amazement:
“Arsène Lupin! How could he know?”
“Did you tell anyone that you had written to me?”
“No one,” replied the baron. “The idea occurred to us the other evening at the dinner-table.”
“Before the servants?”
“No, only our two children. Oh, no … Sophie and Henriette had left the table, hadn’t they, Suzanne?”
Madame d’Imblevalle, after a moment’s reflection, replied:
“Yes, they had gone to Mademoiselle.”
“Mademoiselle?” queried Sholmes.
“The governess, Mademoiselle Alice Demun.”
“Does she take her meals with you?”
“No. Her meals are served in her room.”
Wilson had an idea. He said:
“The letter written to my friend Herlock Sholmes was posted?”
“Of course.”
“Who posted it?”
“Dominique, who has been my valet for twenty years,” replied the baron. “Any search in that direction would be a waste of time.”
“One never wastes his time when engaged in a search,” said Wilson, sententiously.
This preliminary investigation now ended, and Sholmes asked permission to retire.
At dinner, an hour later, he saw Sophie and Henriette, the two children of the family, one was six and the other eight years of age. There was very little conversation at the table. Sholmes responded to the friendly advances of his hosts in such a curt manner that they were soon reduced to silence. When the coffee was served, Sholmes swallowed the contents of his cup, and rose to take his leave.
At that moment, a servant entered with a telephone message addressed to Sholmes. He opened it, and read:
“You have my enthusiastic admiration. The results attained by you in so short a time are simply marvellous. I am dismayed.
“Arsène Lupin.”
Sholmes made a gesture of indignation and handed the message to the baron, saying:
“What do you think now, monsieur? Are the walls of your house furnished with eyes and ears?”
“I don’t understand it,” said the baron, in amazement.
“Nor do I; but I do understand that Lupin has knowledge of everything that occurs in this house. He knows every movement, every word. There is no doubt of it. But how does he get his information? That is the first mystery I have to solve, and when I know that I will know everything.”
That night, Wilson retired with the clear conscience of a man who has performed his whole duty and thus acquired an undoubted right to sleep and repose. So he fell asleep very quickly, and was soon enjoying the most delightful dreams in which he pursued Lupin and captured him single-handed; and the sensation was so vivid and exciting that it woke him from his sleep. Someone was standing at his bedside. He seized his revolver, and cried:
“Don’t move, Lupin, or I’ll fire.”
“The deuce! Wilson, what do you mean?”
“Oh! it is you, Sholmes. Do you want me?”
“I want to show you something. Get up.”
Sholmes led him to the window, and said:
“Look! … on the other side of the fence. …”
“In the park?”
“Yes. What do you see?”
“I don’t see anything.”
“Yes, you do see something.”
“Ah! of course, a shadow … two of them.”
“Yes, close to the fence. See, they are moving. Come, quick!”
Quickly they descended the stairs, and reached a room which opened into the garden. Through the glass door they could see the two shadowy forms in the same place.
“It is very strange,” said Sholmes, “but it seems to me I can hear a noise inside the house.”
“Inside the house? Impossible! Everybody is asleep.”
“Well, listen—”
At that moment a low whistle came from the other side of the fence, and they perceived a dim light which appeared to come from the house.
“The baron must have turned on the light in his room. It is just above us.”
“That must have been the noise you heard,” said Wilson. “Perhaps they are watching the fence also.”
Then there was a second whistle, softer than before.
“I don’t understand it; I don’t understand,” said Sholmes, irritably.
“No more do I,” confessed Wilson.
Sholmes turned the key, drew the bolt, and quietly opened the door. A third whistle, louder than before, and modulated to another form. And the noise above their heads became more pronounced. Sholmes said:
“It seems to be on the balcony outside the boudoir window.”
He put his head through the half-opened door, but immediately recoiled, with a stifled oath. Then Wilson looked. Quite close to them there was a ladder, the upper end of which was resting on the balcony.
“The deuce!” said Sholmes, “there is someone in the boudoir. That is what we heard. Quick, let us remove the ladder.”
But at that instant a man slid down the ladder and ran toward the spot where his accomplices were waiting for him outside the fence. He carried the ladder with him. Sholmes and Wilson pursued the man and overtook him just as he was placing the ladder against the fence. From the other
