The interview was at an end, and Mon. Dudouis was about to leave the room when a most annoying incident occurred. Madame Réal turned to Ganimard, and said:

  “I understand that you are Monsieur Ganimard. Am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, this letter must be for you. I received it this morning. It was addressed to ‘Mon. Justin Ganimard, care of Madame Réal.’ I thought it was a joke, because I did not know you under that name, but it appears that your unknown correspondent knew of our rendezvous.”

  Ganimard was inclined to put the letter in his pocket unread, but he dared not do so in the presence of his superior, so he opened the envelope and read the letter aloud, in an almost inaudible tone:

  “Once upon a time, there were a Blonde Lady, a Lupin, and a Ganimard. Now, the wicked Ganimard had evil designs on the pretty Blonde Lady, and the good Lupin was her friend and protector. When the good Lupin wished the Blonde Lady to become the friend of the Countess de Crozon, he caused her to assume the name of Madame de Réal, which is a close resemblance to the name of a certain diamond broker, a woman with a pale complexion and golden hair. And the good Lupin said to himself: If ever the wicked Ganimard gets upon the track of the Blonde Lady, how useful it will be to me if he should be diverted to the track of the honest diamond broker. A wise precaution that has borne good fruit. A little note sent to the newspaper read by the wicked Ganimard, a perfume bottle intentionally forgotten by the genuine Blonde Lady at the Hôtel Beaurivage, the name and address of Madame Réal written on the hotel register by the genuine Blonde Lady, and the trick is played. What do you think of it, Ganimard! I wished to tell you the true story of this affair, knowing that you would be the first to laugh over it. Really, it is quite amusing, and I have enjoyed it very much.

  “Accept my best wishes, dear friend, and give my kind regards to the worthy Mon. Dudouis.

  “ARSÈNE LUPIN.”

  “He knows everything,” muttered Ganimard, but he did not see the humor of the situation as Lupin had predicted. “He knows some things I have never mentioned to anyone. How could he find out that I was going to invite you here, chief? How could he know that I had found the first perfume bottle? How could he find out those things?”

  He stamped his feet and tore his hair—a prey to the most tragic despair. Mon. Dudouis felt sorry for him, and said:

  “Come, Ganimard, never mind; try to do better next time.”

  And Mon. Dudouis left the room, accompanied by Madame Réal.

  During the next ten minutes, Ganimard read and re-read the letter of Arsène Lupin. Monsieur and Madame de Crozon, Monsieur d’Hautrec and Monsieur Gerbois were holding an animated discussion in a corner of the room. At last, the count approached the detective, and said:

  “My dear monsieur, after your investigation, we are no nearer the truth than we were before.”

  “Pardon me, but my investigation has established these facts: that the Blonde Lady is the mysterious heroine of these exploits, and that Arsène Lupin directed them.”

  “Those facts do not solve the mystery; in fact, they render it more obscure. The Blonde Lady commits a murder in order to steal the blue diamond, and yet she does not steal it. Afterward she steals it and gets rid of it by secretly giving it to another person. How do you explain her strange conduct?”

  “I cannot explain it.”

  “Of course; but, perhaps, someone else can.”

  “Who?”

  The Count hesitated, so the Countess replied, frankly:

  “There is only one man besides yourself who is competent to enter the arena with Arsène Lupin and overcome him. Have you any objection to our engaging the services of Herlock Sholmes in this case?”

  Ganimard was vexed at the question, but stammered a reply:

  “No … but … I do not understand what—”

  “Let me explain. All this mystery annoy me. I wish to have it cleared up. Monsieur Gerbois and Monsieur d’Hautrec have the same desire, and we have agreed to send for the celebrated English detective.”

  “You are right, madame,” replied the detective, with a loyalty that did him credit, “you are right. Old Ganimard is not able to overcome Arsène Lupin. But will Herlock Sholmes succeed? I hope so, as I have the greatest admiration for him. But … it is improbable.”

  “Do you mean to say that he will not succeed?”

  “That is my opinion. I can foresee the result of a duel between Herlock Sholmes and Arsène Lupin. The Englishman will be defeated.”

  “But, in any event, can we count on your assistance?”

  “Quite so, madame. I shall be pleased to render Monsieur Sholmes all possible assistance.”

  “Do you know his address?”

  “Yes; 219 Parker street.”

  That evening Monsieur and Madame de Crozon withdrew the charge they had made against Herr Bleichen, and a joint letter was addressed to Herlock Sholmes.

  CHAPTER III.

  HERLOCK SHOLMES OPENS HOSTILITIES.

  “WHAT DOES MONSIEUR WISH?” “Anything,” replied Arsène Lupin, like a man who never worries over the details of a meal; “anything you like, but no meat or alcohol.”

  The waiter walked away, disdainfully.

  “What? Still a vegetarian?” I exclaimed.

  “More so than ever,” replied Lupin.

  “Through taste, faith, or habit?”

  “Hygiene.”

  “And do you never fall from grace?”

  “Oh! Yes … when I am dining out … and wish to avoid being considered eccentric.”

  We were dining near the Northern Railway station, in a little restaurant to which Arsène Lupin had invited me. Frequently he would send me a telegram asking me to meet him in some obscure restaurant, where we could enjoy a quiet dinner, well served, and which was always made interesting to me by his recital of some startling adventure theretofore unknown to me.

  On that particular evening he appeared to be in a more lively mood than usual. He laughed and joked with careless animation, and with that delicate sarcasm that was habitual with him—a light and spontaneous sarcasm that was quite free from any tinge of malice. It was a pleasure to find him in that jovial mood, and I could not resist the desire to tell him so.

  “Ah! Yes,” he exclaimed, “there are days in which I find life as bright and gay as a spring morning; then life seems to be an infinite treasure which I can never exhaust. And yet God knows I lead a careless existence!”

  “Too much so, perhaps.”

  “Ah! But I tell you, the treasure is infinite. I can spend it with a lavish hand. I can cast my youth and strength to the four winds of Heaven, and it is replaced by a still younger and greater force. Besides, my life is so pleasant! … If I wished to do so, I might become—what shall I say? … An orator, a manufacturer, a politician … But, I assure you, I shall never have such a desire. Arsène Lupin, I am; Arsène Lupin, I shall remain. I have made a vain search in history to find a career comparable to mine; a life better filled or more intense … Napoleon? Yes, perhaps … But Napoleon, toward the close of his career, when all Europe was trying to crush him, asked himself on the eve of each battle if it would not be his last.”

  Was he serious? Or was he joking? He became more animated as he proceeded:

  “That is everything, do you understand, the danger! The continuous feeling of danger! To breathe it as you breathe the air, to scent it in every breath of wind, to detect it in every unusual sound … And, in the midst of the tempest, to remain calm … and not to stumble! Otherwise, you are lost. There is only one sensation equal to it: that of the chauffeur in an automobile race. But that race lasts only a few hours; my race continues until death!”

  “What fantasy!” I exclaimed. “And you wish me to believe that you have no particular motive for your adoption of that exciting life?”

  “Come,” he said, with a smile, “you are a clever psychologist. Work it out for yourself.”

  He poured himself a glass of water, drank it, and said: “Did you read ’Le Temps’ to-day?”

  “No.”

  “Herlock Sholmes crossed the Channel this afternoon, and arrived in Paris about six o’clock.”

  “The deuce! What is he coming for?”

  “A little journey he has undertaken at the request of the Count and Countess of Crozon, Monsieur Gerbois, and the nephew of Baron d’Hautrec. They met him at the Northern Railway station, took him to meet Ganimard, and, at this moment, the six of them are holding a consultation.”

  Despite a strong temptation to do so, I had never ventured to question Arsène Lupin concerning any action of his private life, unless he had first mentioned the subject to me. Up to that moment his name had not been mentioned, at least officially, in connection with the blue diamond. Consequently, I consumed my curiosity in patience. He continued:

  “There is also in ’Le Temps’ an interview with my old friend Ganimard, according to whom a certain blonde lady, who should be my friend, must have murdered the Baron d’Hautrec and tried to rob Madame de Crozon of her famous ring. And—what do you think?—he accuses me of being the instigator of those crimes.”

  I could not suppress a slight shudder. Was this true? Must I believe that his career of theft, his mode of existence, the logical result of such a life, had drawn that man into more serious crimes, including murder? I looked at him. He was so calm, and his eyes had such a frank expression! I observed his hands: they had been formed from a model of exceeding delicacy, long and slender; inoffensive, truly; and the hands of an artist. …

  “Ganimard has pipe-dreams,” I said.

  “No, no!” protested Lupin. “Ganimard has some cleverness; and, at times, almost inspiration.”

  “Inspiration!”

  “Yes. For instance, that interview is a master-stroke. In the first place, he announces the coming of his English rival in order to put me on my guard, and make his task more difficult. In the second place, he indicates the exact point to which he has conducted the affair in order that Sholmes will not get credit for the work already done by Ganimard. That is good warfare.”

  “Whatever it may be, you have two adversaries to deal with, and such adversaries!”

  “Oh! One of them doesn’t count.”

  “And the other?”

  “Sholmes? Oh! I confess he is a worthy foe; and that explains my present good humor. In the first place, it is a question of self-esteem; I am pleased to know that they consider me a subject worthy the attention of the celebrated English detective. In the next place, just imagine the pleasure a man, such as I, must experience in the thought of a duel with Herlock Sholmes. But I shall be obliged to strain every muscle; he is a clever fellow, and will contest every inch of the ground.”

  “Then you consider him a strong opponent?”

  “I do. As a detective, I believe, he has never had an equal. But I have one advantage over him; he is making the attack and I am simply defending myself. My rôle is the easier one. Besides, I am familiar with his method of warfare, and he does not know mine. I am prepared to show him a few new tricks that will give him something to think about.”

  He tapped the table with his fingers as he uttered the following sentences, with an air of keen delight:

  “Arsène Lupin against Herlock Sholmes … France against England … Trafalgar will be revenged at last … Ah! The rascal … he doesn’t suspect that I am prepared … and a Lupin warned—”

  He stopped suddenly, seized with a fit of coughing, and hid his face in his napkin, as if something had stuck in his throat.

  “A bit of bread?” I enquired. “Drink some water.”

  “No, it isn’t that,” he replied, in a stifled voice.

  “Then, what is it?”

  “The want of air.”

  “Do you wish a window opened?”

  “No, I shall go out. Give me my hat and overcoat, quick! I must go.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The two gentlemen who came in just now … Look at the taller one … now, when we go out, keep to my left, so he will not see me.”

  “The one who is sitting behind you?”

  “Yes. I will explain it to you, outside.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Herlock Sholmes.”

  He made a desperate effort to control himself, as if he were ashamed of his emotion, replaced his napkin, drank a glass of water, and, quite recovered, said to me, smiling:

  “It is strange, hein, that I should be affected so easily, but that unexpected sight—”

  “What have you to fear, since no one can recognize you, on account of your many transformations? Every time I see you it seems to me your face is changed; it’s not at all familiar. I don’t know why.”“But he would recognize me,” said Lupin. “He has seen me only once; but, at that time, he made a mental photograph of me—not of my external appearance but of my very soul—not what I appear to be but just what I am. Do you understand? And then … and then … I did not expect to meet him here … Such a strange encounter! … In this little restaurant … ”

  “Well, shall we go out?”

  “No, not now,” said Lupin.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “The better way is to act frankly … to have confidence in him—trust him. … ”

  “You will not speak to him?”

  “Why not? It will be to my advantage to do so, and find out what he knows, and, perhaps, what he thinks. At present I have the feeling that his gaze is on my neck and shoulders, and that he is trying to remember where he has seen them before.”

  He reflected a moment. I observed a malicious smile at the corner of his mouth; then, obedient, I think, to a whim of his impulsive nature, and not to the necessities of the situation, he arose, turned around, and, with a bow and a joyous air, he said:

  “By what lucky chance? Ah! I am delighted to see you. Permit me to introduce a friend of mine.”

  For a moment the Englishman was disconcerted; then he made a movement as if he would seize Arsène Lupin. The latter shook his head, and said:

  “That would not be fair; besides, the movement would be an awkward one and … quite useless.”

  The Englishman looked about him, as if in search of assistance.

  “No use,” said Lupin. “Besides, are you quite sure you can place your hand on me? Come, now, show me that you are a real Englishman and, therefore, a good sport.”

  This advice seemed to commend itself to the detective, for he partially rose and said, very formally:

  “Monsieur Wilson, my friend and assistant—Monsieur Arsène Lupin.”

  Wilson’s amazement evoked a laugh. With bulging eyes and gaping mouth, he looked from one to the other, as if unable to comprehend the situation. Herlock Sholmes laughed and said:

  “Wilson, you should conceal your astonishment at an incident which is one of the most natural in the world.”

  “Why do you not arrest him?” stammered Wilson.

  “Have you not observed, Wilson, that the gentleman is between me and the door, and only a few steps from the door. By the time I could move my little finger he would be outside.”

  “Don’t let that make any difference,” said Lupin, who now walked around the table and seated himself so that the Englishman was between him and the door—thus placing himself at the mercy of the foreigner.

  Wilson looked at Sholmes to find out if he had the right to admire this act of wanton courage. The Englishman’s face was impenetrable; but, a moment later, he called:

  “Waiter!”

  When the waiter came he ordered soda, beer and whisky. The treaty of peace was signed—until further orders. In a few moments the four men were conversing in an apparently friendly manner.

  Herlock Sholmes is a man such as you might meet every day in the business world. He is about fifty years of age, and looks as if he might have passed his life in an office, adding up columns of dull figures or writing out formal statements of business accounts. There was nothing to distinguish him from the average citizen of London, except the appearance of his eyes, his terribly keen and penetrating eyes.

  But then he is Herlock Sholmes—which means that he is a wonderful combination of intuition, observation, clairvoyance and ingenuity. One could readily believe that nature had been pleased to take the two most extraordinary detectives that the imagination of man has hitherto conceived, the Dupin of Edgar Allen Poe and the Lecoq of Emile Gaboriau, and, out of that material, constructed a new detective, more extraordinary and supernatural than either of them. And when a person reads the history of his exploits, which have made him famous throughout the entire world, he asks himself whether Herlock Sholmes is not a mythical personage, a fictitious hero born in the brain of a great novelist—Conan Doyle, for instance.

  When Arsène Lupin questioned him in regard to the length of his sojourn in France he turned the conversation into its proper channel by saying:

  “That depends on you, monsieur.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Lupin, laughing, “if it depends on me you can return to England to-night.”

  “That is a little too soon, but I expect to return in the course of eight or nine days—ten at the outside.”

  “Are you in such a hurry?”

  “I have many cases to attend to; such as the robbery of the Anglo-Chinese Bank, the abduction of Lady Eccleston … But, don’t you think, Monsieur Lupin, that I can finish my business in Paris within a week?”

  “Certainly, if you confine your efforts to the case of the blue diamond. It is, moreover, the length of time that I require to make preparations for my safety in case the solution of that affair should give you certain dangerous advantages over me.”

  “And yet,” said the Englishman, “I expect to close the business in eight or ten days.”

  “And arrest me on the eleventh, perhaps?”

  “No, the tenth is my limit.”

  Lupin shook his head thoughtfully, as he said:

  “That will be difficult—very difficult.”

  “Difficult, perhaps, but possible, therefore certain—”