“I am not mistaken. Madame is blonde, it is true, and in that respect resembles the blonde Lady; but, in all other respects, she is totally different.”
“I can’t believe it. You must be mistaken.”
Ganimard called in his other witnesses.
“Monsieur d’Hautrec,” he said, “do you recognize Antoinette Bréhat?”
“No, this is not the person I saw at my uncle’s house.”
“This woman is not Madame de Réal,” declared the Count de Crozon.
That was the finishing touch. Ganimard was crushed. He was buried beneath the ruins of the structure he had erected with so much care and assurance. His pride was humbled, his spirit was broken, by the force of this unexpected blow.
Mon. Dudouis arose, and said:
“We owe you an apology, madame, for this unfortunate mistake. But, since your arrival here, I have noticed your nervous agitation. Something troubles you; may I ask what it is?”
“Mon Dieu, monsieur, I was afraid. My satchel contains diamonds to the value of a hundred thousand francs, and the conduct of your friend was rather suspicious.”
“But you were frequently absent from Paris. How do you explain that?”
“I make frequent journeys to other cities in the course of my business. That is all.”
Mon. Dudouis had nothing more to ask. He turned to his subordinate, and said:
“Your investigation has been very superficial, Ganimard, and your conduct toward this lady is really deplorable. You will come to my office tomorrow and explain it.”
The interview was at an end, and Mon. Dudouis was about to leave the room when a most annoying incident occurred. Madame Réal turned to Ganimard, and said:
“I understand that you are Monsieur Ganimard. Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Then, this letter must be for you. I received it this morning. It was addressed to ‘Mon. Justin Ganimard, care of Madame Réal.’ I thought it was a joke, because I did not know you under that name, but it appears that your unknown correspondent knew of our rendezvous.”
Ganimard was inclined to put the letter in his pocket unread, but he dared not do so in the presence of his superior, so he opened the envelope and read the letter aloud, in an almost inaudible tone:
“Once upon a time, there were a blonde Lady, a Lupin, and a Ganimard. Now, the wicked Ganimard had evil designs on the pretty blonde Lady, and the good Lupin was her friend and protector. When the good Lupin wished the blonde Lady to become the friend of the Countess de Crozon, he caused her to assume the name of Madame de Réal, which is a close resemblance to the name of a certain diamond broker, a woman with a pale complexion and golden hair. And the good Lupin said to himself: If ever the wicked Ganimard gets upon the track of the blonde Lady, how useful it will be to me if he should be diverted to the track of the honest diamond broker. A wise precaution that has borne good fruit. A little note sent to the newspaper read by the wicked Ganimard, a perfume bottle intentionally forgotten by the genuine blonde Lady at the Hôtel Beaurivage, the name and address of Madame Réal written on the hotel register by the genuine blonde Lady, and the trick is played.What do you think of it, Ganimard! I wished to tell you the true story of this affair, knowing that you would be the first to laugh over it. Really, it is quite amusing, and I have enjoyed it very much.
“Accept my best wishes, dear friend, and give my kind regards to the worthy Mon. Dudouis.
“ARSÈNE LUPIN.”
“He knows everything,” muttered Ganimard, but he did not see the humor of the situation as Lupin had predicted. “He knows some things I have never mentioned to any one. How could he find out that I was going to invite you here, chief? How could he know that I had found the first perfume bottle? How could he find out those things?”
He stamped his feet and tore his hair—a prey to the most tragic despair. Mon. Dudouis felt sorry for him, and said:
“Come, Ganimard, never mind; try to do better next time.”
And Mon. Dudouis left the room, accompanied by Madame Réal.
* * * *
During the next ten minutes, Ganimard read and re-read the letter of Arsène Lupin. Monsieur and Madame de Crozon, Monsieur d’Hautrec and Monsieur Gerbois were holding an animated discussion in a corner of the room. At last, the count approached the detective, and said:
“My dear monsieur, after your investigation, we are no nearer the truth than we were before.”
“Pardon me, but my investigation has established these facts: that the blonde Lady is the mysterious heroine of these exploits, and that Arsène Lupin directed them.”
“Those facts do not solve the mystery; in fact, they render it more obscure. The blonde Lady commits a murder in order to steal the blue diamond, and yet she does not steal it. Afterward she steals it and gets rid of it by secretly giving it to another person. How do you explain her strange conduct?”
“I cannot explain it.”
“Of course; but, perhaps, someone else can.”
“Who?”
The Count hesitated, so the Countess replied, frankly:
“There is only one man besides yourself who is competent to enter the arena with Arsène Lupin and overcome him. Have you any objection to our engaging the services of Sherlock Holmes in this case?”
Ganimard was vexed at the question, but stammered a reply:
“No…but…I do not understand what—”
“Let me explain. All this mystery annoys me. I wish to have it cleared up. Monsieur Gerbois and Monsieur d’Hautrec have the same desire, and we have agreed to send for the celebrated English detective.”
“You are right, madame,” replied the detective, with a loyalty that did him credit, “you are right. Old Ganimard is not able to overcome Arsène Lupin. But will Sherlock Holmes succeed? I hope so, as I have the greatest admiration for him. But…it is improbable.”
“Do you mean to say that he will not succeed?”
“That is my opinion. I can foresee the result of a duel between Sherlock Holmes and Arsène Lupin. The Englishman will be defeated.”
“But, in any event, can we count on your assistance?”
“Quite so, madame. I shall be pleased to render Monsieur Holmes all possible assistance.”
“Do you know his address?”
“Yes; 219 Parker street.”
That evening Monsieur and Madame de Crozon withdrew the charge they had made against Herr Bleichen, and a joint letter was addressed to Sherlock Holmes.
CHAPTER III.
SHERLOCK HOLMES OPENS HOSTILITIES.
“What does monsieur wish?”
“Anything,” replied Arsène Lupin, like a man who never worries over the details of a meal; “anything you like, but no meat or alcohol.”
The waiter walked away, disdainfully.
“What! still a vegetarian?” I exclaimed.
“More so than ever,” replied Lupin.
“Through taste, faith, or habit?”
“Hygiene.”
“And do you never fall from grace?”
“Oh! yes…when I am dining out…and wish to avoid being considered eccentric.”
We were dining near the Northern Railway station, in a little restaurant