“You must understand, my dear Sholmes, there is nothing to be done, absolutely nothing. You find yourself in the deplorable position of a gentleman—”
“Surrender, Lupin!” shouted Folenfant.
“You are an ill-bred fellow, Folenfant, to interrupt me in the middle of a sentence. I was saying—”
“Surrender, Lupin!”
“Oh! parbleu! Brigadier Folenfant, a man surrenders only when he is in danger. Surely, you do not pretend to say that I am in any danger.”
“For the last time, Lupin, I call on you to surrender.”
“Brigadier Folenfant, you have no intention of killing me; you may wish to wound me since you are afraid I may escape. But if by chance the wound prove mortal? Just think of your remorse! It would embitter your old age.”
The shot was fired.
Lupin staggered, clutched at the keel of the boat for a moment, then let go and disappeared.
It was exactly three o’clock when the foregoing events transpired. Precisely at six o’clock, as he had foretold, Herlock Sholmes, dressed in trousers that were too short and a coat that was too small, which he had borrowed from an innkeeper at Neuilly, wearing a cap and a flannel shirt, entered the boudoir in the Rue Murillo, after having sent word to Monsieur and Madame d’Imblevalle that he desired an interview.
They found him walking up and down the room. And he looked so ludicrous in his strange costume that they could scarcely suppress their mirth. With pensive air and stooped shoulders, he walked like an automaton from the window to the door and from the door to the window, taking each time the same number of steps, and turning each time in the same manner.
He stopped, picked up a small ornament, examined it mechanically, and resumed his walk. At last, planting himself before them, he asked:
“Is Mademoiselle here?”
“Yes, she is in the garden with the children.”
“I wish Mademoiselle to be present at this interview.”
“Is it necessary—”
“Have a little patience, monsieur. From the facts I am going to present to you, you will see the necessity for her presence here.”
“Very well. Suzanne, will you call her?”
Madame d’Imblevalle arose, went out, and returned almost immediately, accompanied by Alice Demun. Mademoiselle, who was a trifle paler than usual, remained standing, leaning against a table, and without even asking why she had been called. Sholmes did not look at her, but, suddenly turning toward Monsieur d’Imblevalle, he said, in a tone which did not admit of a reply:
“After several days’ investigation, monsieur, I must repeat what I told you when I first came here: the Jewish lamp was stolen by someone living in the house.”
“The name of the guilty party?”
“I know it.”
“Your proof?”
“I have sufficient to establish that fact.”
“But we require more than that. We desire the restoration of the stolen goods.”
“The Jewish lamp? It is in my possession.”
“The opal necklace? The snuffbox?”
“The opal necklace, the snuffbox, and all the goods stolen on the second occasion are in my possession.”
Sholmes delighted in these dramatic dialogues, and it pleased him to announce his victories in that curt manner. The baron and his wife were amazed, and looked at Sholmes with a silent curiosity, which was the highest praise.
He related to them, very minutely, what he had done during those three days. He told of his discovery of the alphabet book, wrote upon a sheet of paper the sentence formed by the missing letters, then related the journey of Bresson to the bank of the river and the suicide of the adventurer, and, finally, his struggle with Lupin, the shipwreck, and the disappearance of Lupin. When he had finished, the baron said, in a low voice:
“Now, you have told us everything except the name of the guilty party. Whom do you accuse?”
“I accuse the person who cut the letters from the alphabet book, and communicated with Arsène Lupin by means of those letters.”
“How do you know that such correspondence was carried on with Arsène Lupin?”
“My information comes from Lupin himself.”
He produced a piece of paper that was wet and crumpled. It was the page which Lupin had torn from his memorandum-book, and upon which he had written the phrase.
“And you will notice,” said Sholmes, with satisfaction, “that he was not obliged to give me that sheet of paper, and, in that way, disclose his identity. Simple childishness on his part, and yet it gave me exactly the information I desired.”
“What was it?” asked the baron. “I don’t understand.”
Sholmes took a pencil and made a fresh copy of the letters and figures.
“CDEHNOPRZEO—237.”
“Well?” said the baron; “it is the formula you showed me yourself.”
“No. If you had turned and returned that formula in every way, as I have done, you would have seen at first glance that this formula is not like the first one.”
“In what respect do they differ?”
“This one has two more letters—an E and an O.”
“Really; I hadn’t noticed that.”
“Join those two letters to the C and the H which remained after forming the word respondez, and you will agree with me that the only possible word is ECHO.”
“What does that mean?”
“It refers to the Echo de France, Lupin’s newspaper, his official organ, the one in which he publishes his communications. Reply in the Echo de France, in the personal advertisements, under number 237. That is the key to the mystery, and Arsène Lupin was kind enough to furnish it to me. I went to the newspaper office.”
“What did you find there?”
“I found the entire story of the relations between Arsène Lupin and his accomplice.”
Sholmes produced seven newspapers which he opened at the fourth page and pointed to the following lines:
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Ars. Lup. Lady implores protection. 540.
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540. Awaiting particulars. A. L.
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A. L. Under domin. enemy. Lost.
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540. Write address. Will make investigation.
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A. L. Murillo.
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540. Park three o’clock. Violets.
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237. Understand. Sat. Will be Sun. morn. park.
“And you call that the whole story!” exclaimed the baron.
“Yes, and if
