“I have nothing to say.”
“And Mlle. Gerbois?”
“The search is being continued.”
“But Arsène Lupin has written to you?”
“No.”
“Do you swear to that?”
“No.”
“Then it is true. What are his instructions?”
“I have nothing to say.”
Then the interviewers attacked Mon. Detinan, and found him equally discreet.
“Monsieur Lupin is my client, and I cannot discuss his affairs,” he replied, with an affected air of gravity.
These mysteries served to irritate the gallery. Obviously, some secret negotiations were in progress. Arsène Lupin had arranged and tightened the meshes of his net, while the police maintained a close watch, day and night, over Mon. Gerbois. And the three and only possible dénouements—the arrest, the triumph, or the ridiculous and pitiful abortion—were freely discussed; but the curiosity of the public was only partially satisfied, and it was reserved for these pages to reveal the exact truth of the affair.
On Monday, March 12th, Mon. Gerbois received a notice from the Crédit Foncier. On Wednesday, he took the one o’clock train for Paris. At two o’clock, a thousand banknotes of one thousand francs each were delivered to him. Whilst he was counting them, one by one, in a state of nervous agitation—that money, which represented Suzanne’s ransom—a carriage containing two men stopped at the curb a short distance from the bank. One of the men had grey hair and an unusually shrewd expression which formed a striking contrast to his shabby makeup. It was Detective Ganimard, the relentless enemy of Arsène Lupin. Ganimard said to his companion, Folenfant:
“In five minutes, we will see our clever friend Lupin. Is everything ready?”
“Yes.”
“How many men have we?”
“Eight—two of them on bicycles.”
“Enough, but not too many. On no account, must Gerbois escape us; if he does, it is all up. He will meet Lupin at the appointed place, give half a million in exchange for the girl, and the game will be over.”
“But why doesn’t Gerbois work with us? That would be the better way, and he could keep all the money himself.”
“Yes, but he is afraid that if he deceives the other, he will not get his daughter.”
“What other?”
“Lupin.”
Ganimard pronounced the word in a solemn tone, somewhat timidly, as if he were speaking of some supernatural creature whose claws he already felt.
“It is very strange,” remarked Folenfant, judiciously, “that we are obliged to protect this gentleman contrary to his own wishes.”
“Yes, but Lupin always turns the world upside down,” said Ganimard, mournfully.
A moment later, Mon. Gerbois appeared, and started up the street. At the end of the rue des Capucines, he turned into the boulevards, walking slowly, and stopping frequently to gaze at the shopwindows.
“Much too calm, too self-possessed,” said Ganimard. “A man with a million in his pocket would not have that air of tranquillity.”
“What is he doing?”
“Oh! nothing, evidently. … But I have a suspicion that it is Lupin—yes, Lupin!”
At that moment, Mon. Gerbois stopped at a newsstand, purchased a paper, unfolded it and commenced to read it as he walked slowly away. A moment later, he gave a sudden bound into an automobile that was standing at the curb. Apparently, the machine had been waiting for him, as it started away rapidly, turned at the Madeleine and disappeared.
“Nom de nom!” cried Ganimard, “that’s one of his old tricks!”
Ganimard hastened after the automobile around the Madeleine. Then, he burst into laughter. At the entrance to the Boulevard Malesherbes, the automobile had stopped and Mon. Gerbois had alighted.
“Quick, Folenfant, the chauffeur! It may be the man Ernest.”
Folenfant interviewed the chauffeur. His name was Gaston; he was an employee of the automobile cab company; ten minutes ago, a gentleman had engaged him and told him to wait near the newsstand for another gentleman.
“And the second man—what address did he give?” asked Folenfant.
“No address. ‘Boulevard Malesherbes … avenue de Messine … double pourboire.’ That is all.”
But, during this time, Mon. Gerbois had leaped into the first passing carriage.
“To the Concorde station, Metropolitan,” he said to the driver.
He left the underground at the Place du Palais-Royal, ran to another carriage and ordered it to go to the Place de la Bourse. Then a second journey by the underground to the Avenue de Villiers, followed by a third carriage drive to number 25 rue Clapeyron.
Number 25 rue Clapeyron is separated from the Boulevard des Batignolles by the house which occupies the angle formed by the two streets. He ascended to the first floor and rang. A gentleman opened the door.
“Does Monsieur Detinan live here?”
“Yes, that is my name. Are you Monsieur Gerbois?”
“Yes.”
“I was expecting you. Step in.”
As Mon. Gerbois entered the lawyer’s office, the clock struck three. He said:
“I am prompt to the minute. Is he here?”
“Not yet.”
Mon. Gerbois took a seat, wiped his forehead, looked at his watch as if he did not know the time, and inquired, anxiously:
“Will he come?”
“Well, monsieur,” replied the lawyer, “that I do not know, but I am quite as anxious and impatient as you are to find out. If he comes, he will run a great risk, as this house has been closely watched for the last two weeks. They distrust me.”
“They suspect me, too. I am not sure whether the detectives lost sight of me or not on my way here.”
“But you were—”
“It wouldn’t be my fault,” cried the professor, quickly. “You cannot reproach me. I promised to obey his orders, and I followed them to the very letter. I drew the money at the time fixed by him, and I came here in the manner directed by him. I have faithfully performed my part of the agreement—let him do his!”
After a short silence, he asked, anxiously:
“He will bring
