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“You! … you! …”

It was the third time that the young man saw Sernine since the awful night at Versailles; and each time it upset him.

“Tell me … who is the fellow with the eye-glass?”

Pierre Leduc turned pale and jabbered. Sernine pinched his arm:

“Answer me, confound it! Who is he?”

“Baron Altenheim.”

“Where does he come from?”

“He was a friend of Mr. Kesselbach’s. He arrived from Austria, six days ago, and placed himself at Mrs. Kesselbach’s disposal.”

The police authorities had, meanwhile, gone out of the garden; Baron Altenheim also.

The prince rose and, turning towards the Pavillon de l’Impératrice, continued:

“Has the baron asked you many questions?”

“Yes, a great many. He is interested in my case. He wants to help me find my family. He appealed to my childhood memories.”

“And what did you say?”

“Nothing, because I know nothing. What memories have I? You put me in another’s place and I don’t even know who that other is.”

“No more do I!” chuckled the prince. “And that’s just what makes your case so quaint.”

“Oh, it’s all very well for you to laugh … you’re always laughing! … But I’m beginning to have enough of it … I’m mixed up in a heap of nasty matters … to say nothing of the danger which I run in pretending to be somebody that I am not.”

“What do you mean … that you are not? You’re quite as much a duke as I am a prince … perhaps even more so … Besides, if you’re not a duke, hurry up and become one, hang it all! Geneviève can’t marry any one but a duke! Look at her: isn’t she worth selling your soul for?”

He did not even look at Leduc, not caring what he thought. They had reached the house by this time; and Geneviève appeared at the foot of the steps, comely and smiling:

“So you have returned?” she said to the prince. “Ah, that’s a good thing! I am so glad … Do you want to see Dolores?”

After a moment, she showed him into Mrs. Kesselbach’s room. The prince was taken aback. Dolores was paler still and thinner than on the day when he saw her last. Lying on a sofa, wrapped up in white stuffs, she looked like one of those sick people who have ceased to struggle against death. As for her, she had ceased to struggle against life, against the fate that was overwhelming her with its blows.

Sernine gazed at her with deep pity and with an emotion which he did not strive to conceal. She thanked him for the sympathy which he showed her. She also spoke of Baron Altenheim, in friendly terms.

“Did you know him before?” he asked.

“Yes, by name, and through his intimacy with my husband.”

“I have met an Altenheim who lives in the Rue de Rivoli. Do you think it’s the same?”

“Oh, no, this one lives in … As a matter of fact, I don’t quite know; he gave me his address, but I can’t say that I remember it …”

After a few minutes’ conversation, Sernine took his leave. Geneviève was waiting for him in the hall:

“I want to speak to you,” she said eagerly, “on a serious matter … Did you see him?”

“Whom?”

“Baron Altenheim … But that’s not his name … or, at least, he has another … I recognized him … he does not know it.”

She dragged him out of doors and walked on in great excitement.

“Calm yourself, Geneviève …”

“He’s the man who tried to carry me off … But for that poor M. Lenormand, I should have been done for … Come, you must know, for you know everything …”

“Then his real name is …”

“Ribeira.”

“Are you sure?”

“It was no use his changing his appearance, his accent, his manner: I knew him at once, by the horror with which he inspires me. But I said nothing … until you returned.”

“You said nothing to Mrs. Kesselbach either?”

“No. She seemed so happy at meeting a friend of her husband’s. But you will speak to her about it, will you not? You will protect her … I don’t know what he is preparing against her, against myself … Now that M. Lenormand is no longer there, he has nothing to fear, he does as he pleases. Who can unmask him?”

“I can. I will be responsible for everything. But not a word to anybody.”

They had reached the porter’s lodge. The gate was opened. The prince said:

“Good-bye, Geneviève, and be quite easy in your mind. I am there.”

He shut the gate, turned round and gave a slight start. Opposite him stood the man with the eye-glass, Baron Altenheim, with his head held well up, his broad shoulders, his powerful frame.

They looked at each other for two or three seconds, in silence. The baron smiled.

Then the baron said:

“I was waiting for you, Lupin.”

For all his self-mastery, Sernine felt a thrill pass over him. He had come to unmask his adversary; and his adversary had unmasked him at the first onset. And, at the same time, the adversary was accepting the contest boldly, brazenly, as though he felt sure of victory. It was a swaggering thing to do and gave evidence of no small amount of pluck.

The two men, violently hostile one to the other, took each other’s measure with their eyes.

“And what then?” asked Sernine.

“What then? Don’t you think we have occasion for a meeting?”

“Why?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“What day will suit you?”

“To-morrow. Let us lunch together at a restaurant.”

“Why not at your place?”

“You don’t know my address.”

“Yes, I do.”

With a swift movement, the prince pulled out a newspaper protruding from Altenheim’s pocket, a paper still in its addressed wrapper, and said:

“No. 29, Villa Dupont.”

“Well played!” said the other. “Then we’ll say, to-morrow, at my place.”

“To-morrow, at your place. At what time?”

“One o’clock.”

“I shall be there. Good-bye.”

They were about to walk away. Altenheim stopped:

“Oh, one word more, prince. Bring a weapon with you.”

“Why?”

“I keep four men-servants and you will be alone.”

“I have my fists,” said Sernine. “We shall be on even terms.”

He turned his back on him and then, calling him back:

“Oh, one word more, baron. Engage four more servants.”

“Why?”

“I have thought it over. I shall bring my whip.”

At one o’clock the next day, precisely, a horseman rode through the gate of the so-called Villa Dupont, a peaceful, countrified private road, the only entrance to which is in the Rue Pergolèse, close to the Avenue du Bois.

It is lined with gardens and handsome private houses; and, right at the end, it is closed by a sort of little park containing a large old house, behind which runs the Paris circular railway. It was here, at No. 29, that Baron Altenheim lived.

Sernine flung the reins of his horse to a groom whom he had sent on ahead and said:

“Bring him back at half-past two.”

He rang the bell. The garden-gate opened and he walked to the front-door steps, where he was awaited by two tall men in livery who ushered him into an immense, cold, stone hall, devoid of any ornament. The door closed behind him with a heavy thud; and, great and indomitable as his courage was, he nevertheless underwent an unpleasant sensation at feeling himself alone, surrounded by enemies, in that isolated prison.

“Say Prince Sernine.”

The drawing-room was near and he was shown straight in.

“Ah, there you are, my dear prince!” said the baron, coming toward him. “Well, will you believe—Dominique, lunch in twenty minutes. Until then, don’t let us be interrupted—will you believe, my dear prince, that I hardly expected to see you?”

“Oh, really? Why?”

“Well, your declaration of war, this morning, is so plain that an interview becomes superfluous.”

“My declaration of war?”

The baron unfolded a copy of the 
Grand
Journal
 and pointed to a paragraph which ran as follows:

“We are authoritatively informed that M. Lenormand’s disappearance has roused Arsène Lupin into taking action. After a brief enquiry and following on his proposal to clear up the Kesselbach case, Arsène Lupin has decided that he will find M. Lenormand, alive or dead, and that he will deliver the author or authors of that heinous series of crimes to justice.”

“This authoritative pronouncement comes from you, my dear prince, of course?”

“Yes, it comes from me.”

“Therefore, I was right: it means war.”

“Yes.”

Altenheim gave Sernine a chair, sat down himself and said, in a conciliatory tone:

“Well, no, I cannot allow that. It is impossible that two men like ourselves should fight and injure each other. We have only to come to an explanation, to seek the means: you and I were made to understand each other.”

“I think, on the contrary, that two men like ourselves are not made to understand each other.”

The baron suppressed a movement of impatience and continued:

“Listen to me, Lupin … By the way, do you mind my calling you Lupin?”

“What shall I call you? Altenheim, Ribeira, or Parbury?”

“Oho! I see that you are even better posted than I thought! … Hang it all, but you’re jolly smart! … All the more reason why we should agree.” And, bending toward him, “Listen, Lupin, and ponder my words well; I have weighed them carefully, every one. Look here … We two are evenly matched … Does that make you smile? You are wrong: it may be that you possess resources which I do not; but I have others of which you know nothing. Moreover, as you are aware, I have few scruples, some skill and a capacity for changing my personality which an expert like yourself ought to appreciate. In short, the two adversaries are each as good as the other. But one question remains unanswered: why are we adversaries? We are pursuing the same object, you will say? And what then? Do you know what will come of our rivalry? Each of us will paralyze the efforts and destroy the work of the other; and we shall both miss our aim! And for whose benefit? Some Lenormand or other, a third rogue! … It’s really too silly.”

“It’s really too silly, as you say,” Sernine admitted. “But there is a remedy.”

“What is that?”

“For you to withdraw.”

“Don’t chaff. I am serious. The proposal which I am going to make is not one to be rejected without examination. Here it is, in two words: let’s be partners!”

“I say!”

“Of course, each of us will continue free where his own affairs are concerned. But, for the business in question, let us combine our efforts. Does that suit you? Hand in hand and share alike.”

“What do you bring?”

“I?”

“Yes, you know what I’m worth; I’ve delivered my proofs. In the alliance which you are proposing, you know the figure, so to speak of my marriage-portion. What’s yours?”

“Steinweg.”

“That’s not much.”

“It’s immense. Through Steinweg, we learn the truth about Pierre Leduc. Through Steinweg, we get to know what the famous Kesselbach plan is all about.”

Sernine burst out laughing:

“And you need me for that?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Come, old chap, your offer is childish. You have Steinweg in your hands. If you wish for my collaboration, it is because you have not succeeded in making him speak. But for that fact, you would do without my services.”

“Well, what of it?”

“I refuse.”

The two men stood up to each other once more, violent and implacable.

“I refuse,” said Sernine. “Lupin requires nobody, in order to act. I am one of those who walk alone. If you were my equal, as you pretend, the idea of a partnership would never have entered your head. The man who has the stature of a leader commands. Union implies obedience. I do not obey.”

“You refuse? You refuse?” repeated Altenheim, turning pale under the insult.

“All that I can do for you, old chap, is to offer you a place in my band. You’ll be a private soldier, to begin with. Under my orders, you shall see how a general wins a battle … and how he pockets the booty, by himself and for himself. Does that suit you … Tommy?”

Altenheim was beside himself with fury. He gnashed his teeth:

“You are making a mistake, Lupin,” he mumbled, “you are making a mistake … I don’t want anybody either; and this business gives me no more difficulty than plenty of others which I have pulled off … What I said was said in order to effect our object more quickly and without inconveniencing each other.”

“You’re not inconveniencing me,” said Lupin, scornfully.

“Look here! If we don’t combine, only one of us will succeed.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

“And he will only succeed by passing over the other’s body. Are you prepared for that sort of duel, Lupin? A duel to the death, do you understand? … The knife is a method which you despise; but suppose you received one, Lupin, right in the throat?”

“Aha! So, when all is said, that’s what you propose?”

“No, I am not very fond of shedding blood … Look at my fists: I strike … and my man falls … I have special blows of my own … But 
the other one
 kills … remember … the little wound in the throat … Ah, Lupin, beware of him, beware of that one! … He is terrible, he is implacable … Nothing stops him.”

He spoke these words in a low voice and with such excitement that Sernine shuddered at the hideous thought of the unknown murderer:

“Baron,” he sneered, “one would think you were afraid of your accomplice!”

“I am afraid for the others, for those who bar our
road, for you, Lupin. Accept, or you are lost. I shall act myself, if necessary. The goal is too near … I have my hand on it … Get out of my way, Lupin!”

He was all energy and exasperated will. He spoke forcibly and so brutally that he seemed ready to strike his enemy then and there.

Sernine shrugged his shoulders:

“Lord, how hungry I am!” he said, yawning. “What a time to lunch at!”

The door opened.

“Lunch is served, sir,” said the butler.

“Ah, that’s good hearing!”

In the doorway, Altenheim caught Sernine by the arm and, disregarding the servant’s presence:

“If you take my advice … accept. This is a serious moment in your life … and you will do better, I swear to you, you will do better … to accept …”