She stood up and, without showing any emotion, or at least with so little emotion that Sholmes was struck at such self-control, she said:

  “I don’t know the point of your behaviour, Monsieur, and I don’t want to know it. I must ask you therefore not to add another word and to leave.”

  “It was not my intention to impose my presence on you indefinitely,” replied Sholmes, as calm as she was. “Only I am determined not to leave this house alone.”

  “And who will accompany you, Monsieur?”

  “You!”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle, we shall leave this house together, and you will follow me, without making any protest, without uttering a word.”

  What was strange about this scene was the absolute calmness of the adversaries. Rather than it being an implacable duel between two powerful wills, one would have said, from their attitude and the tone of their voices, that it was a courteous debate between two people who do not share the same opinion.

  In the rotunda, from the large open bay window, M. Destange could be seen handling his books with measured movements.

  Clotilde sat down again, shrugging her shoulders lightly. Herlock pulled out his watch.

  “It is half-past ten. In five minutes we shall leave.”

  “Otherwise?”

  “Otherwise, I shall go and find M. Destange, and I shall tell him…”

  “What?”

  “The truth. I shall tell him about the dishonest life of Maxime Bermond, and I shall tell him about the double life of his accomplice.”

  “Of his accomplice?”

  “Yes, of the person they call the Blonde Woman, or of the woman who used to be blonde.”

  “And what proof will you supply him with?”

  “I shall take him to Rue Chalgrin and show him the passage that Arsène Lupin, taking advantage of the work he was in charge of, had made by his men, between number 40 and number 42, the passage which you both used the night before last.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I shall take M. Destange to the apartment of Maître Detinan, and we shall go down the backstairs by which you descended with Arsène Lupin, to escape from Ganimard. And together we shall look for the connection, no doubt similar, with the house next door, the house whose exit opens onto the Boulevard des Batignolles and not onto the Rue Clapeyron.”

  “And after that?”

  “After that I shall take M. Destange to the Château de Crozon, and it will be easy for him, knowing the type of work carried out by Arsène Lupin at the time of the restoration of the chateau, to discover the secret passages which Arsène Lupin had made by his men. He will confirm that these passages allowed the Blonde Woman to get in during the night, into the countess’s room, and to take the blue diamond from the mantelpiece, and allowed her two weeks later to get into Consul Bleichen’s room and hide this blue diamond at the bottom of a small bottle… quite a strange action, I admit, some small feminine form of revenge perhaps. I don’t know, and it’s not important.”

  “And then?”

  “Then,” Herlock said in a more serious voice, “I shall take M. Destange to 134 Avenue Henri-Martin, and we shall try to find out how the Baron d’Hautrec—”

  “Be quiet! Be quiet!” the young girl mumbled, suddenly terrified… I forbid you to!… So you dare say that it was me… you accuse me…”

  “I accuse you of having killed Baron d’Hautrec.”

  “No, no, it’s slanderous.”

  “You did kill Baron d’Hautrec, Mademoiselle. You entered his employment under the name of Antoinette Bréhat, with the aim of stealing the blue diamond from him, and you killed him.”

  Again she murmured, shattered and reduced to begging:

  “Please be quiet, Monsieur, I beg you. Since you know so many things, then you must know that I did not murder the baron.”

  “I did not say that you murdered him, Mademoiselle. The Baron d’Hautrec was subject to bouts of madness that only Sister Auguste was able to bring under control. I learnt these details directly from her. In this person’s absence he must have pounced on you, and it was in the course of this struggle, to protect your own life, that you struck him. Horrified at such an act, you rang the bell and you ran away without even pulling from the finger of your victim the blue diamond which you had come to take. A moment later you brought back one of Lupin’s accomplices, a servant in the house next door, and together you carried the baron to his bed. Then you tidied up the room again… but still without daring to take the blue diamond. That’s what happened. So, I repeat, you did not murder the baron. But it was your hands which struck him.”

  She had put her long slender hands together over her forehead, and she kept them there for a long time, motionless. At last, unfolding her fingers, she uncovered her sorrowful face and said:

  “And you intend to tell all this to my father?”

  “Yes, and I shall tell him that my witnesses will be Mlle Gerbois, who will be able to recognize the Blonde Woman; Sister Auguste, who will recognize Antoinette Bréhat; and the Countess de Crozon, who will recognize Mme de Réal. That is what I shall tell him.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she said, recovering her composure when faced with the threat of immediate danger.

  He got up and stepped towards the library. Clotilde stopped him:

  “One moment, Monsieur.”

  She thought for a moment, having regained her self-control again, and, very calmly, she asked him:

  “You are Herlock Sholmes, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “What I want? I have undertaken a duel with Arsène Lupin, from which I must emerge as victor. In expectation of an outcome which should occur without delay, I estimate that a hostage as valuable as you will give me a considerable advantage over my opponent. So, you will follow me, Mademoiselle, and I shall entrust you to one of my friends. As soon as I have achieved my goal, you will be free.”

  “And that is all?”

  “That is all. I do not belong to the police force of your country, and consequently I do not feel I have any right… to dispense justice.”

  She seemed to be determined. But she required a moment of respite. She closed her eyes and Sholmes looked at her: she had suddenly become calm, almost indifferent to the dangers surrounding her.

  “And yet,” thought the Englishman, “does she still believe herself to be in danger? No, because Lupin is protecting her. With the help of Lupin nothing can touch you. Lupin is omnipotent, Lupin is infallible.”

  “Mademoiselle,” he said. “I spoke of five minutes, but now more than thirty have passed.”

  “Will you allow me to go to my room, Monsieur, and pack my things?”

  “If you wish, Mademoiselle. I shall go and wait for you on Rue Montchanin. I am a good friend of the concierge, Jeanniot.”

  “Oh, then you know…” she said in obvious dread.

  “I know many things.”

  “Very well. Then I’ll ring.”

  Her hat and coat were brought for her, and Sholmes said to her:

  “You must give M. Destange a reason which explains our departure, and this reason must necessarily explain your absence for several days.”

  “There’s no point. I shall be here again this afternoon.”

  Again they stared defiantly at each other, both of them smiling and ironic.

  “How sure you are of him!” said Sholmes.

  “Blindly.”

  “Everything he does is good, isn’t it? Everything that he wants comes true. And you approve of it all and are ready to do everything for him.”

  “I love him,” she said, trembling with passion.

  “And you believe that he will save you?”

  She shrugged her shoulders and, moving towards her father, she said to him:

  “I’m taking you with me, Monsieur Stickmann. We’re going to the Bibliothèque Nationale.”

  “Will you be back for dinner?”

  “Perhaps… or rather no… but don’t worry about it.”

  And she said firmly to Sholmes:

  “I shall follow you, Monsieur.”

  “Without reservation?”

  “With my eyes closed.”

  “If you try to escape, I shall call out, shout, and you will be arrested, and that will mean prison. Do not forget that there is a warrant out for the Blonde Woman.”

  “I swear to you that I shall make no attempt to escape.”

  “I believe you, so let’s go.”

  Together, as he said they would, they left the house.

  In the square the car was parked, but facing in the opposite direction. They could see the driver’s back and his cap, which almost covered the collar of his coat. As they approached, Sholmes could hear the purring of the engine. He opened the door, asked Clotilde to get in and then sat down beside her.

  The vehicle abruptly drove off, reached the outer boulevards, the Avenue Hoche and the Avenue de la Grande-Armée.

  Deep in thought, Herlock worked out his plans.

  “Ganimard is at his home. I’ll leave the young woman in his hands… Shall I tell him who this young woman is? No, he will take her straight to the police cells, which will spoil everything. Once alone I shall consult the MB file, and the chase is on! And tonight, or tomorrow morning at the latest, I’ll go and find Ganimard as agreed, and I’ll hand over Arsène Lupin and his gang…”

  He rubbed his hands, happy to feel at last his goal within his reach and to perceive that there was no serious obstacle separating him from it. And yielding to a need to be more expansive, which contrasted with his usual nature, he exclaimed:

  “Please excuse me, Mademoiselle, if I display so much satisfaction. The battle was hard, and success is especially enjoyable for me.”

  “Justifiable success, Monsieur, and which you have a right to delight in.”

  “Thank you. But what an odd route we are taking! Didn’t the driver understand?”

  At that moment they were leaving Paris via the Porte de Neuilly. What the devil! But the Rue Pergolèse wasn’t outside the city limits!

  Sholmes lowered the glass pane.

  “Hey, driver, you’ve made a mistake… Rue Pergolèse!…”

  The man did not reply. And he repeated in a raised voice:

  “I told you to go to Rue Pergolèse.”

  The man still did not reply.

  “Oh, you must be deaf, my friend. Or you’re just ill-willed… We’ve no reason to come to this area… Rue Pergolèse! I order you to turn back, and as quickly as you can.”

  Still the same silence. The Englishman trembled with anxiety. He looked at Clotilde: an indefinable smile was creasing the young woman’s lips.

  “Why are you smiling?…” he grumbled. “This incident has nothing to do with… it doesn’t change anything.”

  “Absolutely nothing,” she replied.

  Suddenly an idea struck him. Raising himself up halfway, he examined more carefully the man who was in the driving seat. His shoulders were slimmer, his posture more casual… A cold sweat ran over him, he clenched his hands, as the dreadful conviction formed clearly in his mind: this man was Arsène Lupin.

  “Well now, Mr Sholmes, how do you like our little excursion?”

  “Delightful, my dear Monsieur, truly delightful,” retorted Sholmes.

  It had perhaps never been necessary for him to force himself to make such a tremendous effort to utter his words without his voice trembling, without any sign of the eruption in his whole being. But immediately, in a sort of enormous reaction, a flood of anger and hatred breached the dykes, overcame his will, and with a sudden movement he drew out his revolver and turned it on Mlle Destange.

  “Stop, at this very minute, this second, or I’ll fire at the young lady.”

  “I recommend you to aim at the cheek if you want to hit the temple,” replied Lupin without turning his head.

  Clotilde said:

  “Maxime, don’t go too fast, the cobblestones are slippery, and I am very scared.”

  She was still smiling, with her eyes fixed on the cobblestones, with which the road bristled in front of the car.

  “Make him stop! Make him stop!” Sholmes said to her, mad with rage. “You can see that I am capable of doing anything!”

  The barrel of the revolver brushed against the curls of her hair.

  She murmured:

  “Maxime is so careless! At this rate we are sure to skid.”

  Sholmes put the weapon back in his pocket and seized the handle of the door, ready to jump out, despite the absurdity of such an act.

  Clotilde said to him:

  “Be careful, sir, there’s a car behind us.”

  He turned round. There was indeed a car following them, a huge one, with a fierce appearance and a high bonnet, and blood-red in colour, with four men in leather jackets riding in it.

  “Well, I’m being guarded. We must wait.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, with that over-proud submission of those who give in and wait for fate to turn against them. And while they were crossing the Seine, and were roaring through Suresnes, Rueil and Chatou, he sat motionless, resigned, in control of his anger and without bitterness. His only thought was to find out by what miracle Arsène Lupin had replaced the driver. He could not admit that the good fellow whom he had chosen that morning on the boulevard was an accomplice placed there in advance. Yet it must be that Arsène Lupin had been told beforehand, and he could not have been told until after that moment when he, Sholmes, had threatened Clotilde, since no one could have any suspicion about his plan beforehand. Well, since that moment Clotilde and he had not been parted from each other at all.

  A memory struck him: the telephone connection which the young woman asked for, the conversation with her dressmaker. And suddenly he understood. Even before he had spoken to her, just by announcing that he wanted to discuss something with her as M. Destange’s new secretary, she had sensed the danger, guessed the name and aim of the visitor and, coldly and quite naturally, as though she was in reality carrying out the action which she seemed to be doing, she had called Lupin and asked for his help, with the pretence of his being a supplier, and using some expressions agreed on between them.

  How Arsène Lupin had come, how this parked car, with its motor throbbing, had seemed suspicious to him and how he had bribed the driver, all that was unimportant. What fascinated Sholmes so much that it calmed his rage was the recollection of that moment, when an ordinary woman, a woman in love it is true, suppressing her nerves, overcoming her instincts, keeping her facial features completely still and even subduing the expression in her eyes, had pulled the wool over the eyes of old Herlock Sholmes.

  What can one do against a man helped by such assistants, and who, by the sole influence of his authority, could instill in a woman such reserves of boldness and energy?

  They crossed the Seine and went up the hill of Saint-Germain, but at five hundred metres beyond this town the cab slowed down. The other car drew level with it and both of them stopped. There was nobody else around.

  “Mr Sholmes,” said Lupin, “please be so kind as to change vehicles. Ours is really so slow!”

  “Of course!” exclaimed Sholmes, all the more obliging, as he did not have any choice.

  “Please permit me also to lend you this fur coat, for we shall be going quite fast, and to offer you these two sandwiches… Yes, yes, please accept them. Who knows when you will have dinner!”

  The four men had alighted. One of them came towards them, and when they removed the goggles which were masking them, Sholmes recognized the gentleman in the frock coat at the Hungarian restaurant. Lupin said to him:

  “You will take this cab back to the driver from whom I hired it. He is waiting in the first wine bar on the right on the Rue Legendre. You will pay him the second instalment of a thousand francs that I promised him. Oh, I forgot, please give your goggles to Mr Sholmes.”

  He discussed something with Mlle Destange, and then he settled down at the steering wheel and drove off, with Sholmes at their side, and one of his men behind him.

  Lupin had not been exaggerating when he said they would be going “quite fast”. From the start they went at breathtaking speed. The horizon came to meet them, as though attracted by a mysterious force, and it disappeared at once, as though absorbed by an abyss to which other things also immediately rushed, trees, houses, plains and forests, with the tempestuous haste of a torrent sensing the approach of a chasm.

  Sholmes and Lupin did not exchange a word. Above their heads the leaves of the poplar trees made a huge noise like waves, made rhythmic by the regular spacing of the trees. And the towns just faded away: Mantes, Vernon, Gaillon. From one hill to the next, from Bon-Secours to Canteleu, and Rouen, its suburbs, its port and its many kilometres of quays. Rouen seemed to be nothing but a street in a small town. And then came Duclair, Caudebec, the Pays de Caux, touching lightly its rolling plains in their powerful flight, and Lillebonne and Quillebeuf. And then suddenly they found themselves on the banks of the Seine, at the end of a small quay, along which there was lying a plain yacht with sturdy lines, the funnel of which was sending out curls of black smoke.

  The car stopped. In two hours they had covered more than forty leagues.

  A man came towards them wearing a blue uniform jacket and a cap trimmed with gold braid. He saluted them.

  “Perfect, Captain!” exclaimed Lupin. “You received my telegram?”

  “I received it.”

  “And is the Hirondelle ready?”

  “The Hirondelle is ready.”

  “In that case, Mr Sholmes?…”