.

      "And Lupin's affront impels you to go, rather than the desire to assist the Baron d'Imblevalle."

      "Possibly."

      "Sholmes, I shall go with you."

      "Ah; ah! my old friend," exclaimed Sholmes, interrupting his walking, "you are not afraid that your right arm will meet the same fate as your left?"

      "What can happen to me? You will be there."

      "That's the way to talk, Wilson. We will show that clever Frenchman that he made a mistake when he threw his glove in our faces. Be quick, Wilson, we must catch the first train."

      "Without waiting for the papers the baron has sent you?"

      "What good are they?"

      "I will send a telegram."

      "No; if you do that, Arsène Lupin will know of my arrival. I wish to avoid that. This time, Wilson, we must fight under cover."

      That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was a delightful one. In the train from Calais to Paris, Sholmes had three hours sound sleep, while Wilson guarded the door of the compartment.

      Sholmes awoke in good spirits. He was delighted at the idea of another duel with Arsène Lupin, and he rubbed his hands with the satisfied air of a man who looks forward to a pleasant vacation.

      "At last!" exclaimed Wilson, "we are getting to work again."

      And he rubbed his hands with the same satisfied air.

      At the station, Sholmes took the wraps and, followed by Wilson, who carried the valises, he gave up his tickets and started off briskly.

      "Fine weather, Wilson.... Blue sky and sunshine! Paris is giving us a royal reception."

      "Yes, but what a crowd!"

      "So much the better, Wilson, we will pass unnoticed. No one will recognize us in such a crowd."

      "Is this Monsieur Sholmes?"

      He stopped, somewhat puzzled. Who the deuce could thus address him by his name? A woman stood beside him; a young girl whose simple dress outlined her slender form and whose pretty face had a sad and anxious expression. She repeated her enquiry:

      "You are Monsieur Sholmes?"

      As he still remained silent, as much from confusion as from a habit of prudence, the girl asked a third time:

      "Have I the honor of addressing Monsieur Sholmes?"

      "What do you want?" he replied, testily, considering the incident a suspicious one.

      "You must listen to me, Monsieur Sholmes, as it is a serious matter. I know that you are going to the rue Murillo."

      "What do you say?"

      "I know ... I know ... rue Murillo ... number 18. Well, you must not go ... no, you must not. I assure you that you will regret it. Do not think that I have any interest in the matter. I do it because it is right ... because my conscience tells me to do it."

      Sholmes tried to get away, but she persisted:

      "Oh! I beg of you, don't neglect my advice.... Ah! if I only knew how to convince you! Look at me! Look into my eyes! They are sincere ... they speak the truth."

      She gazed at Sholmes, fearlessly but innocently, with those beautiful eyes, serious and clear, in which her very soul seemed to be reflected.

      Wilson nodded his head, as he said:

      "Mademoiselle looks honest."

      "Yes," she implored, "and you must have confidence——"

      "I have confidence in you, mademoiselle," replied Wilson.

      "Oh, how happy you make me! And so has your friend? I feel it ... I am sure of it! What happiness! Everything will be all right now!... What a good idea of mine!... Ah! yes, there is a train for Calais in twenty minutes. You will take it.... Quick, follow me ... you must come this way ... there is just time."

      She tried to drag them along. Sholmes seized her arm, and in as gentle a voice as he could assume, said to her:

      "Excuse me, mademoiselle, if I cannot yield to your wishes, but I never abandon a task that I have once undertaken."

      "I beseech you ... I implore you.... Ah if you could only understand!"

      Sholmes passed outside and walked away at a quick pace. Wilson said to the girl:

      "Have no fear ... he will be in at the finish. He never failed yet."

      And he ran to overtake Sholmes.

      HERLOCK SHOLMES—ARSÈNE LUPIN.

      These words, in great black letters, met their gaze as soon as they left the railway station. A number of sandwich-men were parading through the street, one behind the other, carrying heavy canes with iron ferrules with which they struck the pavement in harmony, and, on their backs, they carried large posters, on which one could read the following notice:

       THE MATCH BETWEEN HERLOCK SHOLMES

       AND ARSÈNE LUPIN. ARRIVAL OF THE ENGLISH

       CHAMPION. THE GREAT DETECTIVE ATTACKS

       THE MYSTERY OF THE RUE MURILLO. READ THE

       DETAILS IN THE "ECHO DE FRANCE".

       Wilson shook his head, and said:

      "Look at that, Sholmes, and we thought we were traveling incognito! I shouldn't be surprised to find the republican guard waiting for us at the rue Murillo to give us an official reception with toasts and champagne."

      "Wilson, when you get funny, you get beastly funny," growled Sholmes.

      Then he approached one of the sandwich-men with the obvious intention of seizing him in his powerful grip and crushing him, together with his infernal sign-board. There was quite a crowd gathered about the men, reading the notices, and joking and laughing.

      Repressing a furious access of rage, Sholmes said to the man:

      "When did they hire you?"

      "This morning."

      "How long have you been parading?"

      "About an hour."

      "But the boards were ready before that?"

      "Oh, yes, they were ready when we went to the agency this morning."

      So then it appears that Arsène Lupin had foreseen that he, Sholmes, would accept the challenge. More than that, the letter written by Lupin showed that he was eager for the fray and that he was prepared to measure swords once more with his formidable rival. Why? What motive could Arsène Lupin have in renewing the struggle?

      Sholmes hesitated for a moment. Lupin must be very confident of his success to show so much insolence in advance; and was not he, Sholmes, falling into a trap by rushing into the battle at the first call for help?

      However, he called a carriage.

      "Come, Wilson!... Driver, 18 rue Murillo!" he exclaimed, with an outburst of his accustomed energy. With distended veins and clenched fists, as if he were about to engage in a boxing bout, he jumped into the carriage.

      The rue Murillo is bordered with magnificent private residences, the rear of which overlook the Parc Monceau. One of the most pretentious of these houses is number 18, owned and occupied by the Baron d'Imblevalle and furnished in a luxurious manner consistent with the owner's taste and wealth. There was a courtyard in front of the house, and, in the rear, a garden well filled with trees whose branches mingle with those of the park.

      After ringing the bell, the two Englishmen were admitted, crossed the courtyard, and were received at the door by a footman who showed them into a small parlor facing the garden in the rear of the house. They sat down and, glancing about, made a rapid inspection of the many valuable objects with which the room was filled.

      "Everything very choice," murmured Wilson, "and in the best of