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“And how will you get out?”

“Oh, that’s asking me more than I can tell you! The great thing was to get in. Here I am, and here I stay. Go, Doudeville, and shut the doors as you go.”

He sat down on a little box at the back of the cupboard. Four rows of hanging clothes protected him. Except in the case of a close investigation, he was evidently quite safe.

Two hours passed. He heard the dull sound of a horse’s hoofs and the tinkling of a collar-bell. A carriage stopped, the front door slammed and almost immediately he heard voices, exclamations, a regular outcry that increased, probably, as each of the prisoners was released from his gag.

“They are explaining the thing to him,” he thought. “The baron must be in a tearing rage. He now understands the reason for my conduct at the club to-night and sees that I have dished him nicely … Dished? That depends … After all, I haven’t got Steinweg yet … That is the first thing that he will want to know: did they get Steinweg? To find this out, he will go straight to the hiding-place. If he goes up, it means that the hiding-place is upstairs. If he goes down, then it is in the basement.”

He listened. The sound of voices continued in the rooms on the ground floor, but it did not seem as if any one were moving. Altenheim must be cross-examining his confederates. It was half an hour before Sernine heard steps mounting the staircase.

“Then it must be upstairs,” he said to himself. “But why did they wait so long?”

“Go to bed, all of you,” said Altenheim’s voice.

The baron entered his room with one of his men and shut the door:

“And I am going to bed, too, Dominique. We should be no further if we sat arguing all night.”

“My opinion is,” said the other, “that he came to fetch Steinweg.”

“That is my opinion, too; and that’s why I’m really enjoying myself, seeing that Steinweg isn’t here.”

“But where is he, after all? What have you done with him?”

“That’s my secret; and you know I keep my secrets to myself. All that I can tell you is that he is in safe keeping, and that he won’t get out before he has spoken.”

“So the prince is sold?”

“Sold is the word. And he has had to fork out to attain this fine result! Oh, I’ve had a good time to-night! … Poor prince!”

“For all that,” said the other, “we shall have to get rid of him.”

“Make your mind easy, old man; that won’t take long. Before a week’s out you shall have a present of a pocket-book made out of Lupin-skin. But let me go to bed now. I’m dropping with sleep.”

There was a sound of the door closing. Then Sernine heard the baron push the bolt, empty his pockets, wind up his watch and undress. He seemed in a gay mood, whistling and singing, and even talking aloud:

“Yes, a Lupin-skin pocket-book … in less than a week … in less than four days! … Otherwise he’ll eat us up, the bully! … No matter, he missed his shot to-night … His
calculation was right enough, though … Steinweg was bound to be here … Only, there you are! …”

He got into bed and at once switched off the light.

Sernine had come forward as far as the dividing curtain, which he now lifted slightly, and he saw the vague light of the night filtering through the windows, leaving the bed in profound darkness.

He hesitated. Should he leap out upon the baron, take him by the throat and obtain from him by force and threats what he had not been able to obtain by craft? Absurd? Altenheim would never allow himself to be intimidated.

“I say, he’s snoring now,” muttered Sernine. “Well, I’m off. At the worst, I shall have wasted a night.”

He did not go. He felt that it would be impossible for him to go, that he must wait, that chance might yet serve his turn.

With infinite precautions, he took four or five coats and great-coats from their hooks, laid them on the floor, made himself comfortable and, with his back to the wall, went peacefully to sleep.

The baron was not an early riser. A clock outside was striking nine when he got out of bed and rang for his servant.

He read the letters which his man brought him, splashed about in his tub, dressed without saying a word and sat down to his table to write, while Dominique was carefully hanging up the clothes of the previous day in the cupboard and Sernine asking himself, with his fists ready to strike:

“I wonder if I shall have to stave in this fellow’s solar plexus?”

At ten o’clock the baron was ready:

“Leave me,” said he to the servant.

“There’s just this waistcoat …”

“Leave me, I say. Come back when I ring … not before.”

He shut the door himself, like a man who does not trust others, went to a table on which a telephone was standing and took down the receiver:

“Hullo! … Put me on to Garches, please, mademoiselle … Very well, I’ll wait till you ring me up …”

He sat down to the instrument.

The telephone-bell rang.

“Hullo!” said Altenheim. “Is that Garches? … Yes, that’s right … Give me number 38, please, mademoiselle …”

A few seconds later, in a lower voice, as low and as distinct as he could make it, he began:

“Are you 38? … It’s I speaking; no useless words … Yesterday? … Yes, you missed him in the garden … Another time, of course; but the thing’s becoming urgent … He had the house searched last night … I’ll tell you about it … Found nothing, of course … What? … Hullo! … No, old Steinweg refuses to speak … Threats, promises, nothing’s any good … Hullo! … Yes, of course, he sees that we can do nothing … We know just a part of the Kesselbach scheme and of the story of Pierre Leduc … He’s the only one who has the answer to the riddle … Oh, he’ll speak all right; that I’ll answer for … this very night, too … If not … What? … Well, what can we do? Anything rather than let him escape! Do you want
the prince to bag him from us? As for the prince, we shall have to cook his goose in three days from now … You have an idea? … Yes, that’s a good idea … Oh, oh, excellent! I’ll see to it … When shall we meet? Will Tuesday do? Right you are. I’ll come on Tuesday … at two o’clock … Good-bye.”

He replaced the receiver and went out.

A few hours later, while the servants were at lunch, Prince Sernine strolled quietly out of the Villa Dupont, feeling rather faint in the head and weak in the knees, and, while making for the nearest restaurant, he thus summed up the situation:

“So, on Tuesday next, Altenheim and the Palace Hotel murderer have an appointment at Garches, in a house with the telephone number 38. On Tuesday, therefore, I shall hand over the two criminals to the police and set M. Lenormand at liberty. In the evening, it will be old Steinweg’s turn; and I shall learn, at last, whether Pierre Leduc is the son of a pork-butcher or not and whether he will make a suitable husband for Geneviève. So be it!”

At eleven o’clock on Tuesday morning Valenglay, the prime minister, sent for the prefect of police and M. Weber, the deputy-chief of the detective-service, and showed them an express letter which he had just received:

“MONSIEUR LE PRÉSIDENT DU CONSEIL,

“Knowing the interest which you take in M. Lenormand, I am writing to inform you of certain facts which chance has revealed to me.

“M. Lenormand is locked up in the cellars of the Villa des Glycines at Garches, near the House of Retreat.

“The ruffians of the Palace Hotel have resolved to murder him at two o’clock to-day.

“If the police require my assistance, they will find me at half-past one in the garden of the House of Retreat, or at the garden-house occupied by Mrs. Kesselbach, whose friend I have the honor to be.

“I am, Monsieur le Président du Conseil,
“Your obedient servant,
“P
RINCE
S
ERNINE
.”

“This is an exceedingly grave matter, my dear M. Weber,” said Valenglay. “I may add that we can have every confidence in the accuracy of Prince Sernine’s statements. I have often met him at dinner. He is a serious, intelligent man …”

“Will you allow me, Monsieur le Président,” asked the deputy-chief detective, “to show you another letter which I also received this morning?”

“About the same case?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see it.”

He took the letter and read:

“S
IR
,

“This is to inform you that Prince Paul Sernine, who calls himself Mrs. Kesselbach’s friend, is really Arsène Lupin.

“One proof will be sufficient: 
Paul Sernine
 is the anagram of 
Arsène Lupin
. Not a letter more, not a letter less.

“L. M.”

And M. Weber added, while Valenglay stood amazed:

“This time, our friend Lupin has found an adversary who is a match for him. While he denounces the other, the other betrays him to us. And the fox is caught in the trap.”

“What do you propose to do?”

“Monsieur le Président, I shall take two hundred men with me!”

CHAPTER VIII

THE OLIVE-GREEN FROCK-COAT

A QUARTER PAST TWELVE,
in a restaurant near the Madeleine. The prince is at lunch. Two young men sit down at the next table. He bows to them and begins to speak to them, as to friends whom he has met by chance.

“Are you going on the expedition, eh?”

“Yes.”

“How many men altogether?”

“Six, I think. Each goes down by himself. We’re to meet M. Weber at a quarter to two, near the House of Retreat.”

“Very well, I shall be there.”

“What?”

“Am I not leading the expedition? And isn’t it my business to find M. Lenormand, seeing that I’ve announced it publicly?”

“Then you believe that M. Lenormand is not dead, governor?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Do you know anything?”

“Yes, since yesterday I know for certain that Altenheim and his gang took M. Lenormand and Gourel to the bridge at Bougival and heaved them overboard. Gourel sank, but M. Lenormand managed to save himself. I shall furnish all the necessary proofs when the time comes.”

“But, then, if he’s alive, why doesn’t he show himself?”

“Because he’s not free.”

“Is what you said true, then? Is he in the cellars of the Villa des Glycines?”

“I have every reason to think so.”

“But how do you know? … What clue? …”

“That’s my secret. I can tell you one thing: the revelation will be—what shall I say—sensational. Have you finished?”

“Yes.”

“My car is behind the Madeleine. Join me there.”

At Garches, Sernine sent the motor away, and they walked to the path that led to Geneviève’s school. There he stopped:

“Listen to me, lads. This is of the highest importance. You will ring at the House of Retreat. As inspectors, you have your right of entry, have you not? You will then go to the Pavillon Hortense, the empty one. There you will run down to the basement and you will find an old shutter, which you have only to lift to see the opening of a tunnel which I discovered lately and which forms a direct communication with the Villa des Glycines. It was by means of this that Gertrude and Baron Altenheim used to meet. And it was this way that M. Lenormand passed, only to end by falling into the hands of his enemies.”

“You think so, governor?”

“Yes, I think so. And now the point is this: you must go and make sure that the tunnel is exactly in the condition in which I left it last night; that the two doors which bar it are open; and that there is still, in a hole near the second door, a parcel wrapped in a piece of black cloth which I put there myself.”

“Are we to undo the parcel?”

“No, that’s not necessary. It’s a change of clothes. Go; and don’t let yourselves be seen more than you can help. I will wait for you.”

Ten minutes later, they were back:

“The two doors are open,” said one of the Doudevilles.

“And the black cloth parcel?”

“In its place near the second door.”

“Capital! It is twenty-five past one. Weber will be arriving with his champions. They are to watch the villa. They will surround it as soon as Altenheim is inside. I have arranged with Weber that I shall ring the bell; the door will be opened; and I shall have my foot inside the citadel. Once there, I have my plan. Come, I’ve an idea that we shall see some fun.”

And Sernine, after dismissing them, walked down the path to the school, soliloquizing as he went:

“All bodes well. The battle will be fought on the ground chosen by myself. I am bound to win. I shall get rid of my two adversaries and I shall find myself alone engaged in the Kesselbach case … alone, with two whacking trump-cards: Pierre Leduc and Steinweg … Besides the king … that is to say, Bibi. Only, there’s one thing: what is Altenheim up to? Obviously, he has a plan of attack of his own. On which side does he mean to attack me? And how does it come that he has not attacked me yet? It’s rather startling. Can he have denounced me to the police?”

He went along the little playground of the school. The pupils were at their lessons. He knocked at the door.

“Ah, is that you?” said Mme. Ernemont, opening the door. “So you have left Geneviève in Paris?”

“For me to do that, Geneviève would have to be in Paris,” he replied.

“So she has been, seeing that you sent for her.”

“What’s that?” he exclaimed catching hold of her arm.

“Why, you know better than I!”

“I know nothing … I know nothing … Speak! …”

“Didn’t you write to Geneviève to meet you at the Gare Saint-Lazare?”

“And did she go?”

“Why, of course … You were to lunch together at the Hôtel Ritz.”

“The letter … Show me the letter.”

She went to fetch it and gave it to him.

“But, wretched woman, couldn’t you see that it was a forgery? The handwriting is a good imitation … but it’s a forgery … Any one can see that.” He pressed his clenched hands to his temples with rage. “That’s the move I was wondering about. Oh, the dirty scoundrel! He’s attacking me through her … But how does he know? No, he does not know … He’s tried it on twice now … and it’s because of Geneviève, because he’s taken a fancy to her … Oh, not that! Never! Listen, Victoire, are you sure that she doesn’t love him? … Oh, I’m losing my head! … Wait … wait! … I must think … this isn’t the moment …”