At the end of an hour he climbed to the top of a tramcar going in the direction of Neuilly. Sholmes followed and took a seat behind the man, and beside a gentleman who was concealed behind the pages of a newspaper. At the fortifications the gentleman lowered the paper, and Sholmes recognized Ganimard, who thereupon whispered, as he pointed to the man in front:
“It is the man who followed Bresson last night. He has been watching the house for an hour.”
“Anything new in regard to Bresson?” asked Sholmes.
“Yes, a letter came to his address this morning.”
“This morning? Then it was posted yesterday before the sender could know of Bresson’s death.”
“Exactly. It is now in the possession of the examining magistrate. But I read it. It says: He will not accept any compromise. He wants everything—the first thing as well as those of the second affair. Otherwise he will proceed.”
“There is no signature,” added Ganimard. “It seems to me those few lines won’t help us much.”
“I don’t agree with you, Monsieur Ganimard. To me those few lines are very interesting.”
“Why so? I can’t see it.”
“For reasons that are personal to me,” replied Sholmes, with the indifference that he frequently displayed toward his colleague.
The tramcar stopped at the rue de Château, which was the terminus. The man descended and walked away quietly. Sholmes followed at so short a distance that Ganimard protested, saying:
“If he should turn around he will suspect us.”
“He will not turn around.”
“How do you know?”
“He is an accomplice of Arsène Lupin, and the fact that he walks in that manner, with his hands in his pockets, proves, in the first place, that he knows he is being followed and, in the second place, that he is not afraid.”
“But I think we are keeping too close to him.”
“Not too close to prevent his slipping through our fingers. He is too sure of himself.”
“Ah! Look there! In front of that café there are two of the bicycle police. If I summon them to our assistance, how can the man slip through our fingers?”
“Well, our friend doesn’t seem to be worried about it. In fact, he is asking for their assistance himself.”
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Ganimard, “he has a nerve.”
The man approached the two policemen just as they were mounting their bicycles. After a few words with them he leaped on a third bicycle, which was leaning against the wall of the café, and rode away at a fast pace, accompanied by the two policemen.
“Hein! one, two, three and away!” growled Sholmes. “And through, whose agency, Monsieur Ganimard? Two of your colleagues. … Ah! but Arsène Lupin has a wonderful organization! Bicycle policemen in his service! … I told you our man was too calm, too sure of himself.”
“Well, then,” said Ganimard, quite vexed, “what are we to do now? It is easy enough to laugh! Anyone can do that.”
“Come, come, don’t lose your temper! We will get our revenge. But, in the meantime, we need reinforcements.”
“Folenfant is waiting for me at the end of the avenue de Neuilly.”
“Well, go and get him and join me later. I will follow our fugitive.”
Sholmes followed the bicycle tracks, which were plainly visible in the dust of the road as two of the machines were furnished with striated tires. Very soon he ascertained that the tracks were leading him to the edge of the Seine, and that the three men had turned in the direction taken by Bresson on the preceding evening. Thus he arrived at the gateway where he and Ganimard had concealed themselves, and, a little farther on, he discovered a mingling of the bicycle tracks which showed that the men had halted at that spot. Directly opposite there was a little point of land which projected into the river and, at the extremity thereof, an old boat was moored.
It was there that Bresson had thrown away the package, or, rather, had dropped it. Sholmes descended the bank and saw that the declivity was not steep and the water quite shallow, so it would be quite easy to recover the package, provided the three men had not forestalled him.
“No, that can’t be,” he thought, “they have not had time. A quarter of an hour at the most. And yet, why did they come this way?”
A fisherman was seated on the old boat. Sholmes asked him:
“Did you see three men on bicycles a few minutes ago?”
The fisherman made a negative gesture. But Sholmes insisted:
“Three men who stopped on the road just on top of the bank?”
The fisherman rested his pole under his arm, took a memorandum book from his pocket, wrote on one of the pages, tore it out, and handed it to Sholmes. The Englishman gave a start of surprise. In the middle of the paper which he held in his hand he saw the series of letters cut from the alphabet-book:
CDEHNOPRZEO—237.
The man resumed his fishing, sheltered from the sun by a large straw hat, with his coat and vest lying beside him. He was intently watching the cork attached to his line as it floated on the surface of the water.
There was a moment of silence—solemn and terrible.
“Is it he?” conjectured Sholmes, with an anxiety that was almost pitiful. Then the truth burst upon him:
“It is he! It is he! No one else could remain there so calmly, without the slightest display of anxiety, without the least fear of what might happen. And who else would know the story of those mysterious letters? Alice had warned him by means of her messenger.”
Suddenly the Englishman felt that his hand—that his own hand had involuntarily seized the handle of his revolver, and that his eyes were fixed on the man’s back, a little below the neck. One movement, and the drama would be finished; the life of the strange adventurer would come to a miserable end.
The fisherman did not stir.
Sholmes nervously toyed with his revolver, and experienced a wild desire to fire it and end everything; but the
