were fixed on the pavement, over which the carriage was traveling at enormous speed.
“Let him stop! Let him stop!” said Holmes to her, wild with rage, “I warn you that I am desperate.”
The barrel of the revolver brushed the waving locks of her hair. She replied, calmly:
“Maxime is so imprudent. He is going so fast, I am really afraid of some accident.”
Holmes returned the weapon to his pocket and seized the handle of the door, as if to alight, despite the absurdity of such an act. Clotilde said to him:
“Be careful, monsieur, there is an automobile behind us.”
He leaned over. There was an automobile close behind; a large machine of formidable aspect with its sharp prow and blood-red body, and holding four men clad in fur coats.
“Ah! I am well guarded,” thought Holmes. “I may as well be patient.”
He folded his arms across his chest with that proud air of submission so frequently assumed by heroes when fate has turned against them. And while they crossed the river Seine and rushed through Suresnes, Rueil and Chatou, motionless and resigned, controlling his actions and his passions, he tried to explain to his own satisfaction by what miracle Arsène Lupin had substituted himself for the chauffeur. It was quite improbable that the honest-looking fellow he had selected on the boulevard that morning was an accomplice placed there in advance. And yet Arsène Lupin had received a warning in some way, and it must have been after he, Holmes, had approached Clotilde in the house, because no one could have suspected his project prior to that time. Since then, Holmes had not allowed Clotilde out of his sight.
Then an idea struck him: the telephone communication desired by Clotilde and her conversation with the dressmaker. Now, it was all quite clear to him. Even before he had spoken to her, simply upon his request to speak to her as the new secretary of Monsieur Destange, she had scented the danger, surmised the name and purpose of the visitor, and, calmly, naturally, as if she were performing a commonplace action of her every-day life, she had called Arsène Lupin to her assistance by some preconcerted signal.
How Arsène Lupin had come and caused himself to be substituted for the chauffeur were matters of trifling importance. That which affected Holmes, even to the point of appeasing his fury, was the recollection of that incident whereby an ordinary woman, a sweetheart it is true, mastering her nerves, controlling her features, and subjugating the expression of her eyes, had completely deceived the astute detective Sherlock Holmes. How difficult to overcome an adversary who is aided by such confederates, and who, by the mere force of his authority, inspires in a woman so much courage and strength!
They crossed the Seine and climbed the hill at Saint-Germain; but, some five hundred metres beyond that town, the automobile slackened its speed. The other automobile advanced, and the two stopped, side by side. There was no one else in the neighborhood.
“Monsieur Holmes,” said Lupin, “kindly exchange to the other machine. Ours is really a very slow one.”
“Indeed!” said Holmes, calmly, convinced that he had no choice.
“Also, permit me to loan you a fur coat, as we will travel quite fast and the air is cool. And accept a couple of sandwiches, as we cannot tell when we will dine.”
The four men alighted from the other automobile. One of them approached, and, as he raised his goggles, Holmes recognized in him the gentleman in the frock coat that he had seen at the Hungarian restaurant. Lupin said to him:
“You will return this machine to the chauffeur from whom I hired it. He is waiting in the first wine-shop to the right as you go up the rue Legendre. You will give him the balance of the thousand francs I promised him.… Ah! yes, kindly give your goggles to Monsieur Holmes.”
He talked to Mlle. Destange for a moment, then took his place at the wheel and started, with Holmes at his side and one of his men behind him. Lupin had not exaggerated when he said “we will travel quite fast.” From the beginning he set a breakneck pace. The horizon rushed to meet them, as if attracted by some mysterious force, and disappeared instantly as though swallowed up in an abyss, into which many other things, such as trees, houses, fields and forests, were hurled with the tumultuous fury and haste of a torrent as it approached the cataract.
Holmes and Lupin did not exchange a word. Above their heads the leaves of the poplars made a great noise like the waves of the sea, rhythmically arranged by the regular spacing of the trees. And the towns swept by like spectres: Manteo, Vernon, Gaillon. From one hill to the other, from Bon-Secours to Canteleu, Rouen, its suburbs, its harbor, its miles of wharves, Rouen seemed like the straggling street of a country village. And this was Duclair, Caudebec, the country of Caux which they skimmed over in their terrific flight, and Lillebonne, and Quillebeuf. Then, suddenly, they found themselves on the banks of the Seine, at the extremity of a little wharf, beside which lay a staunch sea-going yacht that emitted great volumes of black smoke from its funnel.
The automobile stopped. In two hours they had traveled over forty leagues.
A man, wearing a blue uniform and a goldlaced cap, came forward and saluted. Lupin said to him:
“All ready, captain? Did you receive my telegram?”
“Yes, I got it.”
“Is The Swallow ready?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Come, Monsieur Holmes.”
The Englishman looked around, saw a group of people on the terrace in front of a café, hesitated a moment, then, realizing that before he could secure any assistance he would be seized, carried aboard and placed in the bottom of the hold, he crossed the gang-plank and followed Lupin into the captain’s cabin. It was quite a large room, scrupulously clean, and presented a cheerful appearance with its varnished woodwork and polished brass. Lupin closed the door and addressed Holmes abruptly, and almost rudely, as he said:
“Well, what do you know?”
“Everything.”
“Everything? Come, be precise.”
His voice contained no longer that polite, if ironical, tone, which he had affected when speaking to the Englishman. Now, his voice had the imperious tone of a master accustomed to command and accustomed to be obeyed—even by a Sherlock Holmes. They measured each other by their looks, enemies now—open and implacable foes. Lupin spoke again, but in a milder tone:
“I have grown weary of your pursuit, and do not intend to waste any more time in avoiding the traps you lay for me. I warn you that my treatment of you will depend on your reply. Now, what do you know?”
“Everything, monsieur.”
Arsène Lupin controlled his temper and said, in a jerky manner:
“I will tell you what you know. You know that, under the name of Maxime Bermond, I have…improved fifteen houses that were originally constructed by Monsieur Destange.”
“Yes.”
“Of those fifteen houses, you have seen four.”
“Yes.”
“And you have a list of the other eleven.”
“Yes.”
“You made that list at Monsieur Destange’s house on that night, no doubt.”
“Yes.”
“And you have an idea that, amongst those eleven houses, there is one that I have kept for the use of myself and my friends, and you have intrusted to Ganimard the task of finding my retreat.”
“No.”
“What does that signify?”
“It signifies that I choose to act alone, and do not want his help.”
“Then I have nothing to fear, since you are in my hands.”
“You have nothing to fear as long as I remain