to time absorbed in deep meditation. After a short time he picked up a book and said to Monsieur Destange:
“Here is a book that Mademoiselle Destange asked me to bring to her when I found it.”
He went into the little parlor, stood before Clotilde in such a manner that her father could not see her, and said:
“I am Monsieur Stickmann, your father’s new secretary.”
“Ah!” said Clotilde, without moving, “my father has changed his secretary? I didn’t know it.”
“Yes, mademoiselle, and I desire to speak with you.”
“Kindly take a seat, monsieur; I have finished.”
She added a few words to her letter, signed it, enclosed it in the envelope, sealed it, pushed her writing material away, rang the telephone, got in communication with her dressmaker, asked the latter to hasten the completion of a traveling dress, as she required it at once, and then, turning to Holmes, she said:
“I am at your service, monsieur. But do you wish to speak before my father? Would not that be better?”
“No, mademoiselle; and I beg of you, do not raise your voice. It is better that Monsieur Destange should not hear us.”
“For whose sake is it better?”
“Yours, mademoiselle.”
“I cannot agree to hold any conversation with you that my father may not hear.”
“But you must agree to this. It is imperative.”
Both of them arose, eye to eye. She said:
“Speak, monsieur.”
Still standing, he commenced:
“You will be so good as to pardon me if I am mistaken on certain points of secondary importance. I will guarantee, however, the general accuracy of my statements.”
“Can we not dispense with these preliminaries, monsieur? Or are they necessary?”
Holmes felt the young woman was on her guard, so he replied:
“Very well; I will come to the point. Five years ago your father made the acquaintance of a certain young man called Maxime Bermond, who was introduced as a contractor or an architect, I am not sure which it was; but it was one or the other. Monsieur Destange took a liking to the young man, and as the state of his health compelled him to retire from active business, he entrusted to Monsieur Bermond the execution of certain orders he had received from some of his old customers and which seemed to come within the scope of Monsieur Bermond’s ability.”
Sherlock Holmes stopped. It seemed to him that the girl’s pallor had increased. Yet there was not the slightest tremor in her voice when she said:
“I know nothing about the circumstances to which you refer, monsieur, and I do not see in what way they can interest me.”
“In this way, mademoiselle: You know, as well as I, that Maxime Bermond is also known by the name of Arsène Lupin.”
She laughed, and said:
“Nonsense! Arsène Lupin? Maxime Bermond is Arsène Lupin? Oh! no! It isn’t possible!”
“I have the honor to inform you of that fact, and since you refuse to understand my meaning, I will add that Arsène Lupin has found in this house a friend—more than a friend—and accomplice, blindly and passionately devoted to him.”
Without emotion, or at least with so little emotion that Holmes was astonished at her self-control, she declared:
“I do not understand your object, monsieur, and I do not care to; but I command you to say no more and leave this house.”
“I have no intention of forcing my presence on you,” replied Holmes, with equal sang-froid, “but I shall not leave this house alone.”
“And who will accompany you, monsieur?”
“You will.”
“I?”
“Yes, mademoiselle, we will leave this house together, and you will follow me without one word of protest.”
The strange feature of the foregoing interview was the absolute coolness of the two adversaries. It bore no resemblance to an implacable duel between two powerful wills; but, judging solely from their attitude and the tone of their voices, an onlooker would have supposed their conversation to be nothing more serious than a courteous argument over some impersonal subject.
Clotilde resumed her seat without deigning to reply to the last remark of Sherlock Holmes, except by a shrug of her shoulders. Holmes looked at his watch and said:
“It is half-past ten. We will leave here in five minutes.”
“Perhaps.”
“If not, I shall go to Monsieur Destange, and tell him—”
“What?”
“The truth. I will tell him of the vicious life of Maxime Bermond, and I will tell him of the double life of his accomplice.”
“Of his accomplice?”
“Yes, of the woman known as the blonde Lady, of the woman who was blonde.”
“What proofs will you give him?”
“I will take him to the rue Chalgrin, and show him the secret passage made by Arsène Lupin’s workmen,—while doing the work of which he had the control—between the houses numbered 40 and 42; the passage which you and he used two nights ago.”
“Well?”
“I will then take Monsieur Destange to the house of Monsieur Detinan; we will descend the servant’s stairway which was used by you and Arsène Lupin when you escaped from Ganimard, and we will search together the means of communication with the adjoining house, which fronts on the Boulevard des Batignolles, and not upon the rue Clapeyron.”
“Well?”
“I will take Monsieur Destange to the château de Crozon, and it will be easy for him, who knows the nature of the work performed by Arsène Lupin in the restoration of the Château, to discover the secret passages constructed there by his workmen. It will thus be established that those passages allowed the blonde Lady to make a nocturnal visit to the Countess’ room and take the blue diamond from the mantel; and, two weeks later, by similar means, to enter the room of Herr Bleichen and conceal the blue diamond in his tooth-powder—a strange action, I confess; a woman’s revenge, perhaps; but I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
“Well?”
“After that,” said Sherlock Holmes, in a more serious tone, “I will take Monsieur Destange to 134 avenue Henri-Martin, and we will learn how the Baron d’Hautrec—”
“No, no, keep quiet,” stammered the girl, struck with a sudden terror, “I forbid you!…you dare to say that it was I…you accuse me?…”
“I accuse you of having killed the Baron d’Hautrec.”
“No, no, it is a lie.”
“You killed the Baron d’Hautrec, mademoiselle. You entered his service under the name of Antoinette Bréhat, for the purpose of stealing the blue diamond and you killed him.”
“Keep quiet, monsieur,” she implored him. “Since you know so much, you must know that I did not murder the baron.”
“I did not say that you murdered him, mademoiselle. Baron d’Hautrec was subject to fits of insanity that only Sister Auguste could control. She told me so herself. In her absence, he must have attacked you, and in the course of the struggle you struck him in order to save your own life. Frightened at your awful situation, you rang the bell, and fled without even taking the blue diamond from the finger of your victim. A few minutes later you returned with one of Arsène Lupin’s accomplices, who was a servant in the adjoining