struck the blow.”
She had crossed them over her forehead—those long delicate white hands—and kept them thus for a long time. At last, loosening her fingers, she said, in a voice rent by anguish:
“And do you intend to tell all that to my father?”
“Yes; and I will tell him that I have secured as witnesses: Mademoiselle Gerbois, who will recognize the blonde Lady; Sister Auguste, who will recognize Antoinette Bréhat; and the Countess de Crozon, who will recognize Madame de Réal. That is what I shall tell him.”
“You will not dare,” she said, recovering her self-possession in the face of an immediate peril.
He arose, and made a step toward the library. Clotilde stopped him:
“One moment, monsieur.”
She paused, reflected a moment, and then, perfect mistress of herself, said:
“You are Sherlock Holmes?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want of me?”
“What do I want? I am fighting a duel with Arsène Lupin, and I must win. The contest is now drawing to a climax, and I have an idea that a hostage as precious as you will give me an important advantage over my adversary. Therefore, you will follow me, mademoiselle; I will entrust you to one of my friends. As soon as the duel is ended, you will be set at liberty.”
“Is that all?”
“That is all. I do not belong to the police service of this country, and, consequently, I do not consider that I am under any obligation…to cause your arrest.”
She appeared to have come to a decision…yet she required a momentary respite. She closed her eyes, the better to concentrate her thoughts. Holmes looked at her in surprise; she was now so tranquil and, apparently, indifferent to the dangers which threatened her. Holmes thought: Does she believe that she is in danger? Probably not—since Lupin protects her. She has confidence in him. She believes that Lupin is omnipotent, and infallible.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I told you that we would leave here in five minutes. That time has almost expired.”
“Will you permit me to go to my room, monsieur, to get some necessary articles?”
“Certainly, mademoiselle; and I will wait for you in the rue Montchanin. Jeanniot, the concierge, is a friend of mine.”
“Ah! you know.…” she said, visibly alarmed.
“I know many things.”
“Very well. I will ring for the maid.”
The maid brought her hat and jacket. Then Holmes said:
“You must give Monsieur Destange some reason for our departure, and, if possible, let your excuse serve for an absence of several days.”
“That shall not be necessary. I shall be back very soon.”
“They exchanged defiant glances and an ironic smile.
“What faith you have in him!” said Holmes.
“Absolute.”
“He does everything well, doesn’t he? He succeeds in everything he undertakes. And whatever he does receives your approval and cooperation.”
“I love him,” she said, with a touch of passion in her voice.
“And you think that he will save you?”
She shrugged her shoulders, and, approaching her father, she said:
“I am going to deprive you of Monsieur Stickmann. We are going to the National Library.”
“You will return for luncheon?”
“Perhaps…no, I think not…but don’t be uneasy.”
Then she said to Holmes, in a firm voice:
“I am at your service, monsieur.”
“Absolutely?”
“Quite so.”
“I warn you that if you attempt to escape, I shall call the police and have you arrested. Do not forget that the blonde Lady is on parole.”
“I give you my word of honor that I shall not attempt to escape.”
“I believe you. Now, let us go.”
They left the house together, as he had predicted.
The automobile was standing where Holmes had left it. As they approached it, Holmes could hear the rumbling of the motor. He opened the door, asked Clotilde to enter, and took a seat beside her. The machine started at once, gained the exterior boulevards, the avenue Hoche and the avenue de la Grande-Armée. Holmes was considering his plans. He thought:
“Ganimard is at home. I will leave the girl in his care. Shall I tell him who she is? No, he would take her to prison at once, and that would spoil everything. When I am alone, I can consult my list of addresses taken from the ‘account M.B.,’ and run them down. Tonight, or tomorrow morning at the latest, I shall go to Ganimard, as I agreed, and deliver into his hands Arsène Lupin and all his band.”
He rubbed his hand, gleefully, at the thought that his duel with Lupin was drawing to a close, and he could not see any serious obstacle in the way of his success. And, yielding to an irrepressible desire to give vent to his feelings—an unusual desire on his part—he exclaimed:
“Excuse me, mademoiselle, if I am unable to conceal my satisfaction and delight. The battle has been a difficult one, and my success is, therefore, more enjoyable.”
“A legitimate success, monsieur, of which you have a just right to be proud.”
“Thank you. But where are we going? The chauffeur must have misunderstood my directions.”
At that moment they were leaving Paris by the gate de Neuilly. That was strange, as the rue Pergolese is not outside the fortifications. Holmes lowered the glass, and said:
“Chauffeur, you have made a mistake.… Rue Pergolese!”
The man made no reply. Holmes repeated, in a louder voice:
“I told you to go to the rue Pergolese.”
Still the man did not reply.
“Ah! but you are deaf, my friend. Or is he doing it on purpose? We are very much out of our way.… Rue Pergolese!… Turn back at once!… Rue Pergolese!”
The chauffeur made no sign of having heard the order. The Englishman fretted with impatience. He looked at Clotilde; a mysterious smile played upon her lips.
“Why do you laugh?” he said. “It is an awkward mistake, but it won’t help you.”
“Of course not,” she replied.
Then an idea occurred to him. He rose and made a careful scrutiny of the chauffeur. His shoulders were not so broad; his bearing was not so stiff and mechanical. A cold perspiration covered his forehead and his hands clenched with sudden fear, as his mind was seized with the conviction that the chauffeur was Arsène Lupin.
“Well, Monsieur Holmes, what do you think of our little ride?”
“Delightful, monsieur, really delightful,” replied Holmes.
Never in his life had he experienced so much difficulty in uttering a few simple words without a tremor, or without betraying his feelings in his voice. But quickly, by a sort of reaction, a flood of hatred and rage burst its bounds, overcame his self-control, and, brusquely drawing his revolver, he pointed it at Mademoiselle Destange.
“Lupin, stop, this minute, this second, or I fire at mademoiselle.”
“I advise you to aim at the cheek if you wish to hit the temple,” replied Lupin, without turning his head.
“Maxime,