first, they descended twelve steps, then twelve more, and, farther on, two other flights of twelve steps each. Then they walked through a long passageway, the brick walls of which showed the marks of successive restorations, and, in spots, were dripping with water. The earth, also, was very damp.
“We are passing under the pond,” said Devanne, somewhat nervously.
At last, they came to a stairway of twelve steps, followed by three others of twelve steps each, which they mounted with difficulty, and then found themselves in a small cavity cut in the rock. They could go no further.
“The deuce!” muttered Holmes, “nothing but bare walls. This is provoking.”
“Let us go back,” said Devanne. “I have seen enough to satisfy me.”
But the Englishman raised his eye and uttered a sigh of relief. There, he saw the same mechanism and the same word as before. He had merely to work the three letters. He did so, and a block of granite swung out of place. On the other side, this granite block formed the tombstone of Duke Rollo, and the word “Thibermesnil” was engraved on it in relief. Now, they were in the little ruined chapel, and the detective said:
“The other eye leads to God; that means, to the chapel.”
“It is marvelous!” exclaimed Devanne, amazed at the clairvoyance and vivacity of the Englishman. “Can it be possible that those few words were sufficient for you?”
“Bah!” declared Holmes, “they weren’t even necessary. In the chart in the book of the National Library, the drawing terminates at the left, as you know, in a circle, and at the right, as you do not know, in a cross. Now, that cross must refer to the chapel in which we now stand.”
Poor Devanne could not believe his ears. It was all so new, so novel to him. He exclaimed:
“It is incredible, miraculous, and yet of a childish simplicity! How is it that no one has ever solved the mystery?”
“Because no one has ever united the essential elements, that is to say, the two books and the two sentences. No one, but Arsène Lupin and myself.”
“But, Father Gélis and I knew all about those things, and, likewise—”
Holmes smiled, and said:
“Monsieur Devanne, everybody cannot solve riddles.”
“I have been trying for ten years to accomplish what you did in ten minutes.”
“Bah! I am used to it.”
They emerged from the chapel, and found an automobile.
“Ah! there’s an auto waiting for us.”
“Yes, it is mine,” said Devanne.
“Yours? You said your chauffeur hadn’t returned.”
They approached the machine, and Mon. Devanne questioned the chauffer:
“Edouard, who gave you orders to come here?”
“Why, it was Monsieur Velmont.”
“Mon. Velmont? Did you meet him?”
“Near the railway station, and he told me to come to the chapel.”
“To come to the chapel! What for?”
“To wait for you, monsieur, and your friend.”
Devanne and Holmes exchanged looks, and Mon. Devanne said:
“He knew the mystery would be a simple one for you. It is a delicate compliment.”
A smile of satisfaction lighted up the detective’s serious features for a moment. The compliment pleased him. He shook his head, as he said:
“A clever man! I knew that when I saw him.”
“Have you seen him?”
“I met him a short time ago—on my way from the station.”
“And you knew it was Horace Velmont—I mean, Arsène Lupin?”
“That is right. I wonder how it came—”
“No, but I supposed it was—from a certain ironical speech he made.”
“And you allowed him to escape?”
“Of course I did. And yet I had everything on my side, such as five gendarmes who passed us.”
“Sacrableu!” cried Devanne. “You should have taken advantage of the opportunity.”
“Really, monsieur,” said the Englishman, haughtily, “when I encounter an adversary like Arsène Lupin, I do not take advantage of chance opportunities, I create them.”
But time pressed, and since Lupin had been so kind as to send the automobile, they resolved to profit by it. They seated themselves in the comfortable limousine; Edouard took his place at the wheel, and away they went toward the railway station. Suddenly, Devanne’s eyes fell upon a small package in one of the pockets of the carriage.
“Ah! what is that? A package! Whose is it? Why, it is for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes, it is addressed: Sherlock Holmes, from Arsène Lupin.”
The Englishman took the package, opened it, and found that it contained a watch.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, with an angry gesture.
“A watch,” said Devanne. “How did it come there?”
The detective did not reply.
“Oh! it is your watch! Arsène Lupin returns your watch! But, in order to return it, he must have taken it. Ah! I see! He took your watch! That is a good one! Sherlock Holmes’ watch stolen by Arsène Lupin! Mon Dieu! that is funny! Really…you must excuse me.… I can’t help it.”
He roared with laughter, unable to control himself. After which, he said, in a tone of earnest conviction:
“A clever man, indeed!”
The Englishman never moved a muscle. On the way to Dieppe, he never spoke a word, but fixed his gaze on the flying landscape. His silence was terrible, unfathomable, more violent than the wildest rage. At the railway station, he spoke calmly, but in a voice that impressed one with the vast energy and will power of that famous man. He said:
“Yes, he is a clever man, but some day I shall have the pleasure of placing on his shoulder the hand I now offer to you, Monsieur Devanne. And I believe that Arsène Lupin and Sherlock Holmes will meet again some day. Yes, the world is too small—we will meet—we must meet—and then—”
ARSÈNE LUPIN VERSUS SHERLOCK HOLMES, by Maurice Leblanc
CHAPTER I.
LOTTERY TICKET NO. 514.
On the eighth day of last December, Mon. Gerbois, professor of mathematics at the College of Versailles, while rummaging in an old curiosity-shop, unearthed a small mahogany writing-desk which pleased him very much on account of the multiplicity of its drawers.
“Just the thing for Suzanne’s birthday present,” thought he. And as he always tried to furnish some simple pleasures for his daughter, consistent with his modest income, he enquired the price, and, after some keen bargaining, purchased it for sixty-five francs. As he was giving his address to the shopkeeper, a young man, dressed with elegance and taste, who had been exploring the stock of antiques, caught sight of the writing-desk, and immediately enquired its price.
“It is sold,” replied the shopkeeper.
“Ah! to this gentleman, I presume?”
Monsieur Gerbois bowed, and left the store, quite proud to be the possessor of an article which had attracted the attention of a gentleman of quality. But he had not taken a dozen steps in the street, when he was overtaken by the young man who, hat in hand and in a tone of