you, madame?”
“Monsieur Holmes, isn’t it? Everything going all right?”
“Quite well, but I wish to ask you one question.… Hello!”
“Yes, I hear you.”
“Tell me, when was the château de Crozon built?”
“It was destroyed by fire and rebuilt about thirty years ago.”
“Who built it, and in what year?”
“There is an inscription on the front of the house which reads: ‘Lucien Destange, architect, 1877.’”
“Thank you, madame, that is all. Good-bye.”
He went away, murmuring: “Destange…Lucien Destange…that name has a familiar sound.”
He noticed a public reading-room, entered, consulted a dictionary of modern biography, and copied the following information: “Lucien Destange, born 1840, Grand-Prix de Rome, officer of the Legion of Honor, author of several valuable books on architecture, etc.…”
Then he returned to the pharmacy and found that Wilson had been taken to the hospital. There Holmes found him with his arm in splints, and shivering with fever.
“Victory! Victory!” cried Holmes. “I hold one end of the thread.”
“Of what thread?”
“The one that leads to victory. I shall now be walking on solid ground, where there will be footprints, clues.…”
“Cigarette ashes?” asked Wilson, whose curiosity had overcome his pain.
“And many other things! Just think, Wilson, I have found the mysterious link which unites the different adventures in which the blonde Lady played a part. Why did Lupin select those three houses for the scenes of his exploits?”
“Yes, why?”
“Because those three houses were built by the same architect. That was an easy problem, eh? Of course…but who would have thought of it?”
“No one but you.”
“And who, except I, knows that the same architect, by the use of analogous plans, has rendered it possible for a person to execute three distinct acts which, though miraculous in appearance, are, in reality, quite simple and easy?”
“That was a stroke of good luck.”
“And it was time, dear boy, as I was becoming very impatient. You know, this is our fourth day.”
“Out of ten.”
“Oh! after this—”
Holmes was excited, delighted, and gayer than usual.
“And when I think that these rascals might have attacked me in the street and broken my arm just as they did yours! Isn’t that so, Wilson?”
Wilson simply shivered at the horrible thought. Holmes continued:
“We must profit by the lesson. I can see, Wilson, that we were wrong to try and fight Lupin in the open, and leave ourselves exposed to his attacks.”
“I can see it, and feel it, too, in my broken arm,” said Wilson.
“You have one consolation, Wilson; that is, that I escaped. Now, I must be doubly cautious. In an open fight he will defeat me; but if I can work in the dark, unseen by him, I have the advantage, no matter how strong his forces may be.”
“Ganimard might be of some assistance.”
“Never! On the day that I can truly say: Arsène Lupin is there; I show you the quarry, and how to catch it; I shall go and see Ganimard at one of the two addresses that he gave me—his residence in the rue Pergolese, or at the Suisse tavern in the Place du Châtelet. But, until that time, I shall work alone.”
He approached the bed, placed his hand on Wilson’s shoulder—on the sore one, of course—and said to him:
“Take care of yourself, old fellow. Henceforth your rôle will be to keep two or three of Arsène Lupin’s men busy watching here in vain for my return to enquire about your health. It is a secret mission for you, eh!”
“Yes, and I shall do my best to fulfil it conscientiously. Then you do not expect to come here any more?”
“What for?” asked Holmes.
“I don’t know…of course.… I am getting on as well as possible. But, Sherlock, do me a last service: give me a drink.”
“A drink?”
“Yes, I am dying of thirst; and with my fever—”
“To be sure—directly—”
He made a pretense of getting some water, perceived a package of tobacco, lighted his pipe, and then, as if he had not heard his friend’s request, he went away, whilst Wilson uttered a mute prayer for the inaccessible water.
* * * *
“Monsieur Destange!”
The servant eyed from head to foot the person to whom he had opened the door of the house—the magnificent house that stood at the corner of the Place Malesherbes and the rue Montchanin—and at the sight of the man with gray hairs, badly shaved, dressed in a shabby black coat, with a body as ill-formed and ungracious as his face, he replied with the disdain which he thought the occasion warranted:
“Monsieur Destange may or may not be at home. That depends. Has monsieur a card?”
Monsieur did not have a card, but he had a letter of introduction and, after the servant had taken the letter to Mon. Destange, he was conducted into the presence of that gentleman who was sitting in a large circular room or rotunda which occupied one of the wings of the house. It was a library, and contained a profusion of books and architectural drawings. When the stranger entered, the architect said to him:
“You are Monsieur Stickmann?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“My secretary tells me that he is ill, and has sent you to continue the general catalogue of the books which he commenced under my direction, and, more particularly, the catalogue of German books. Are you familiar with that kind of work?”
“Yes, monsieur, quite so,” he replied, with a strong German accent.
Under those circumstances the bargain was soon concluded, and Mon. Destange commenced work with his new secretary.
Sherlock Holmes had gained access to the house.
In order to escape the vigilance of Arsène Lupin and gain admittance to the house occupied by Lucien Destange and his daughter Clotilde, the famous detective had been compelled to resort to a number of stratagems, and, under a variety of names, to ingratiate himself into the good graces and confidence of a number of persons—in short, to live, during forty-eight hours, a most complicated life. During that time he had acquired the following information: Mon. Destange, having retired from active business on account of his failing health, now lived amongst the many books he had accumulated on the subject of architecture. He derived infinite pleasure in viewing and handling those dusty old volumes.
His daughter Clotilde was considered eccentric. She passed her time in another part of the house, and never went out.
“Of course,” Holmes said to himself, as he wrote in a register the titles of the books which Mon. Destange dictated to him, “all that is vague and incomplete, but it is quite a long step in advance. I shall surely solve one of these absorbing problems: Is Mon. Destange associated with Arsène Lupin? Does he continue to see him? Are the papers relating to the construction of the three houses still in existence? Will those papers not furnish me with the location of other houses of similar construction which Arsène Lupin and his associates will plunder in the future?
“Monsieur Destange, an accomplice of Arsène Lupin! That venerable man, an officer of the Legion of