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Lupin went to his own room, pressed the spring of his lantern and began to make a minute inspection. “It’s as I thought,” he said presently. “Some one came here to-night, while I was watching beneath the window. And, if he came, I know what he came for … I was certainly right: things are getting warm. … The first time, I was spared. This time, I may be sure of my little stab.”

For prudence’s sake, he took a blanket, chose a lonely spot in the park and spent the night under the stars.

Octave was back by ten o’clock in the morning:

“It’s all right, governor. The telegram has been sent.”

“Good. And is Louis de Malreich still in prison?”

“Yes. Doudeville passed his cell at the Santé last night as the warder was coming out. They talked together. Malreich is just the same, it appears: silent as the grave. He is waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“The fatal hour of course. They are saying, at headquarters, that the execution will take place on the day after to-morrow.”

“That’s all right, that’s all right,” said Lupin. “And one thing is quite plain: he has not escaped.”

He ceased to understand or even to look for the explanation of the riddle, so clearly did he feel that the whole truth would soon be revealed to him. He had only to prepare his plan, for the enemy to fall into the trap.

“Or for me to fall into it myself,” he thought, laughing.

He felt very gay, very free from care; and no fight had ever looked more promising to him.

A footman came from the castle with the telegram which he had told Doudeville to send him and which the postman had just brought. He opened it and put it in his pocket.

A little before twelve o’clock, he met Pierre Leduc in one of the avenues and said, off-hand:

“I am looking for you … things are serious … You must answer me frankly. Since you have been at the castle, have you ever seen a man there, besides the two German servants whom I sent in?”

“No.”

“Think carefully. I’m not referring to a casual visitor. I mean a man who hides himself, a man whose presence you might have discovered or, less than that, whose presence you might have suspected from some clue or even by some intuition?”

“No … Have you …?”

“Yes. Some one is hiding here … some one is prowling about … Where? And who is it? And what is his object? I don’t know … but I shall know. I already have a suspicion. Do you, on your side, keep your eyes open and watch. And, above all, not a word to Mrs. Kesselbach … It is no use alarming her …”

He went away.

Pierre Leduc, taken aback and upset, went back to the castle. On his way, he saw a piece of blue paper on the edge of the lawn. He picked it up. It was a telegram, not crumpled, like a piece of paper that had been thrown away, but carefully folded: obviously lost.

It was addressed to “Beauny,” the name by which Lupin was known at Bruggen. And it contained these words:

“We know the whole truth. Revelations impossible by letter. Will take train to-night. Meet me eight o’clock to-morrow morning Bruggen station.”

“Excellent!” said Lupin, who was watching Pierre Leduc’s movements from a neighboring coppice. “Excellent! In two minutes from now, the young idiot will have shown Dolores the telegram and told her all my fears. They will talk about it all day. And ‘the other one’ will hear, ‘the other one’ will know, because he knows everything, because he lives in Dolores’ own shadow and because Dolores is like a fascinated prey in his hands … And, to-night …”

He walked away humming to himself:

“To-night … to-night … we shall dance … Such a waltz, my boys! The waltz of blood, to the tune of the little nickel-plated dagger! … We shall have some fun, at last! …”

He reached the chalet, called to Octave, went to his room, flung himself on his bed, and said to the chauffeur:

“Sit down in that chair, Octave, and keep awake. Your master is going to take forty winks. Watch over him, you faithful servant.”

He had a good sleep.

“Like Napoleon on the morning of Austerlitz,” he said, when he woke up.

It was dinner-time. He made a hearty meal and then, while he smoked a cigarette, inspected his weapons and renewed the charges of his two revolvers:

“Keep your powder dry and your sword sharpened, as my chum the Kaiser says. Octave!”

Octave appeared.

“Go and have your dinner at the castle, with the servants. Tell them you are going to Paris to-night, in the motor.”

“With you, governor?”

“No, alone. And, as soon as dinner is over, make a start, ostensibly.”

“But I am not to go to Paris …”

“No, remain outside the park, half a mile down the road, until I come. You will have a long wait.”

He smoked another cigarette, went for a stroll, passed in front of the castle, saw a light in Dolores’ rooms and then returned to the chalet.

There he took up a book. It was 
The Lives of Illustrious Men
.

“There is one missing: the most illustrious of all. But the future will put that right; and I shall have my Plutarch some day or other.”

He read the life of Cæsar and jotted down a few reflections in the margin.

At half-past eleven, he went to his bedroom.

Through the open window, he gazed into the immense, cool night, all astir with indistinct sounds. Memories rose to his lips, memories of fond phrases which he had read or uttered; and he repeatedly whispered Dolores’s name, with the fervor of a stripling who hardly dares confide to the silence the name of his beloved.

He left the window half open, pushed aside a table that blocked the way, and put his revolvers under his pillow. Then, peacefully, without evincing the least excitement, he got into bed, fully dressed as he was, and blew out the candle.

And his fear began.

It was immediate. No sooner did he feel the darkness around him than his fear began!

“Damn it all!” he cried.

He jumped out of bed, took his weapons and threw them into the passage:

“My hands, my hands alone! Nothing comes up to the grip of my hands!”

He went to bed again. Darkness and silence, once more. And, once more, his fear …

The village clock struck twelve …

Lupin thought of the foul monster who, outside, at a hundred yards, at fifty yards from where he lay, was trying the sharp point of his dagger:

“Let him come, let him come?” whispered Lupin, shuddering. “Then the ghosts will vanish …”

One o’clock, in the village …

And minutes passed, endless minutes, minutes of fever and anguish … Beads of perspiration stood at the roots of his hair and trickled down his forehead; and he felt as though his whole frame were bathed in a sweat of blood …

Two o’clock …

And now, somewhere, quite close, a hardly perceptible sound stirred, a sound of leaves moving … but different from the sound of leaves moving in the night breeze …

As Lupin had foreseen, he was at once pervaded by an immense calm. All his adventurous being quivered with delight. The struggle was at hand, at last!

Another sound grated under the window, more plainly this time, but still so faint that it needed Lupin’s trained ear to distinguish it.

Minutes, terrifying minutes … The darkness was impenetrable. No light of star or moon relieved it.

And, suddenly, without hearing anything, he 
knew
 that the man was in the room.

And the man walked toward the bed. He walked as a ghost walks, without displacing the air of the room, without shaking the objects which he touched.

But, with all his instinct, with all his nervous force, Lupin saw the movements of the enemy and guessed the very sequence of his ideas.

He himself did not budge, but remained propped against the wall, almost on his knees, ready to spring.

He felt that the figure was touching, feeling the bed-clothes, to find the spot at which it must strike. Lupin heard its breath. He even thought that he heard the beating of its heart. And he noticed with pride that his own heart beat no louder than before … whereas the heart of the other … oh, yes, he could hear it now, that disordered, mad heart, knocking, like a clapper of a bell, against the cavity of the chest!

The hand of the other rose …

A second, two seconds …

Was he hesitating? Was he once more going to spare his adversary?

And Lupin, in the great silence, said:

“But strike! Why don’t you strike?”

A yell of rage … The arm fell as though moved by a spring.

Then came a moan.

Lupin had caught the arm in mid-air at the level of the wrist … And, leaping out of bed, tremendous, irresistible, he clutched the man by the throat and threw him.

That was all. There was no struggle. There was no possibility even of a struggle. The man lay on the floor, nailed, pinned by two steel rivets, which were Lupin’s hands. And there was not a man in the world strong enough to release himself from that grip.

And not a word. Lupin uttered none of those phrases in which his mocking humor usually delighted. He had no inclination to speak. The moment was too solemn.

He felt no vain glee, no victorious exaltation. In reality, he had but one longing, to know who was there: Louis de Malreich, the man sentenced to death, or another? Which was it?

At the risk of strangling the man, he squeezed the throat a little more … and a little more … and a little more still …

And he felt that all the enemy’s strength, all the strength that remained to him, was leaving him. The muscles of the arm relaxed and became lifeless. The hand opened and dropped the dagger.

Then, free to move as he pleased, with his adversary’s life hanging in the terrible clutch of his fingers, he took his pocket-lantern with one hand, laid his finger on the spring, without pressing, and brought it close to the man’s face.

He had only to press the spring to wish to know and he would know.

For a second, he enjoyed his power. A flood of emotion upheaved him. The vision, of his triumph dazzled him. Once again, superbly, heroically, he was the master.

He switched on the light. The face of the monster came into view.

Lupin gave a shriek of terror.

Dolores Kesselbach!

CHAPTER XVI

ARSÈNE LUPIN’S THREE MURDERS

A CYCLONE PASSED THROUGH
Lupin’s brain, a hurricane in which roars of thunder, gusts of wind, squalls of all the distraught elements were tumultuously unchained in the chaotic night.

And great flashes of lightning shot through the darkness. And, by the dazzling gleam of those lightning-flashes, Lupin, scared, shaken with thrills, convulsed with horror, saw and tried to understand.

He did not move, clinging to the enemy’s throat, as if his stiffened fingers were no longer able to release their grip. Besides, although he now 
knew
, he had not, so to speak, the exact feeling that it was Dolores. It was still the man in black, Louis de Malreich, the foul brute of the darkness; and that brute he held and did not mean to let go.

But the truth rushed upon the attack of his mind and of his consciousness; and, conquered, tortured with anguish, he muttered:

“Oh, Dolores! … Dolores! …”

He at once saw the excuse: it was madness. She was mad. The sister of Altenheim and Isilda, the daughter of the last of the Malreichs, of the demented mother, of the drunken father, was herself mad. A strange madwoman, mad with every appearance of sanity, but mad nevertheless, unbalanced, brain-sick, unnatural, truly monstrous.

That he most certainly understood! It was homicidal madness. Under the obsession of an object toward which she was drawn automatically, she killed, thirsting for blood, unconsciously, infernally.

She killed because she wanted something, she killed in self-defence, she killed because she had killed before. But she killed also and especially for the sake of killing. Murder satisfied sudden and irresistible appetites that arose in her. At certain seconds in her life, in certain circumstances, face to face with this or that being who had suddenly become the foe, her arm had to strike.

And she struck, drunk with rage, ferociously, frenziedly.

A strange madwoman, not answerable for her murders, and yet so lucid in her blindness, so logical in her mental derangement, so intelligent in her absurdity! What skill, what perseverance, what cunning contrivances, at once abominable and admirable!

And Lupin, in a rapid view, with prodigious keenness of outlook, saw the long array of bloodthirsty adventures and guessed the mysterious paths which Dolores had pursued.

He saw her obsessed and possessed by her husband’s scheme, a scheme which she evidently understood only in part. He saw her, on her side, looking for that same Pierre Leduc whom her husband was seeking, looking for him in order to marry him and to return, as queen, to that little realm of Veldenz from which her parents had been ignominiously driven.

And he saw her at the Palace Hotel, in the room of her brother, Altenheim, at the time when she was supposed to be at Monte Carlo. He saw her, for days together, spying upon her husband, creeping along the walls, one with the darkness, undistinguishable and unseen in her shadowy disguise.

And, one night, she found Mr. Kesselbach fastened up … and she stabbed him.

And, in the morning, when on the point of being denounced by the floor-waiter … she stabbed him.

And, an hour later, when on the point of being denounced by Chapman, she dragged him to her brother’s room … and stabbed him.

All this pitilessly, savagely, with diabolical skill.

And, with the same skill, she communicated by telephone with her two maids, Gertrude and Suzanne, both of whom had arrived from Monte Carlo, where one of them had enacted the part of her mistress. And Dolores, resuming her feminine attire, discarding the fair wig that altered her appearance beyond recognition, went down to the ground-floor, joined Gertrude at the moment when the maid entered the hotel and pretended herself to have just arrived, all ignorant of the tragedy that awaited her.

An incomparable actress, she played the part of the wife whose life is shattered. Every one pitied her. Every one wept for her. Who could have suspected her?