Chapter 1

Holmlock Shears and Wilson were seated on either side of the fireplace in Shears's sitting-room. The great detective's pipe had gone out. He knocked the ashes into the grate, re-filled his briar, lit it, gathered the skirts of his dressing-gown around his knees, puffed away and devoted all his attention to sending rings of smoke curling gracefully up to the ceiling.

Wilson watched him. He watched him as a dog, rolled up on the hearth-rug, watches its master, with wide-open eyes and unblinking lids, eyes which have no other hope than to reflect the expected movement on the master's part. Would Shears break silence? Would he reveal the secret of his present dreams and admit Wilson to the realm of meditation into which he felt that he was not allowed to enter uninvited?

Shears continued silent.

Wilson ventured upon a remark:

"Things are very quiet. There's not a single case for us to nibble at."

Shears was more and more fiercely silent; but the rings of tobacco-smoke became more and more successful and any one but Wilson would have observed that Shears obtained from this the profound content which we derive from the minor achievements of our vanity, at times when our brain is completely void of thought.

Disheartened, Wilson rose and walked to the window. The melancholy street lay stretched between the gloomy fronts of the houses, under a dark sky whence fell an angry and pouring rain. A cab drove past; another cab. Wilson jotted down their numbers in his note-book. One can never tell!

The postman came down the street, gave a treble knock at the door; and, presently, the servant entered with two registered letters.

"You look remarkably pleased," said Wilson, when Shears had unsealed and glanced through the first.

"This letter contains a very attractive proposal. You were worrying about a case: here is one. Read it."

Wilson took the letter and read:

"18, _Rue Murillo_,
"PARIS.

"Sir:

"I am writing to ask for the benefit of your assistance and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft and all the investigations attempted up to the present would seem to lead to nothing.

"I am sending you by this post a number of newspapers which will give you all the details of the case; and, if you are inclined to take it up, I shall be pleased if you will accept the hospitality of my house and if you will fill in the enclosed signed check for any amount which you like to name for your expenses.

"Pray, telegraph to inform me if I may expect you and believe me to be, sir,

"Yours very truly,
"BARON VICTOR D'IMBLEVALLE."

"Well," said Shears, "this comes just at the right time: why shouldn't I take a little run to Paris? I haven't been there since my famous duel with Arsene Lupin and I shan't be sorry to re-visit it under rather more peaceful conditions."

He tore the cheque into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet recovered from the injury received in the course of the aforesaid encounter, was inveighing bitterly against Paris and all its inhabitants, he opened the second envelope.

A movement of irritation at once escaped him; he knitted his brow as he read the letter and, when he had finished, he crumpled it into a ball and threw it angrily on the floor.

"What's the matter?" exclaimed Wilson, in amazement.

He picked up the ball, unfolded it and read, with ever-increasing stupefaction:

"MY DEAR MAITRE:

"You know my admiration for you and the interest which I take in your reputation. Well, accept my advice and have nothing to do with the case in which you are asked to assist. Your interference would do a great deal of harm, all your efforts would only bring about a pitiable result and you would be obliged publicly to acknowledge your defeat.

"I am exceedingly anxious to spare you this humiliation and I beg you, in the name of our mutual friendship, to remain very quietly by your fireside.

"Give my kind remembrances to Dr. Wilson and accept for yourself the respectful compliments of

"Yours most sincerely,
"ARSENE LUPIN."

"Arsene Lupin!" repeated Wilson, in bewilderment.

Shears banged the table with his fist:

"Oh, I'm getting sick of the brute! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! I am publicly to acknowledge my defeat, am I? Didn't I compel him to give up the blue diamond?"

"He's afraid of you," suggested Wilson.

"You're talking nonsense! Arsene Lupin is never afraid; and the proof is that he challenges me."

"But how does he come to know of Baron d'Imblevalle's letter?"

"How can I tell? You're asking silly questions, my dear fellow!"

"I thought ... I imagined..."

"What? That I am a sorcerer?"

"No, but I have seen you perform such marvels!"

"No one is able to perform marvels ... I no more than another. I make reflections, deductions, conclusions, but I don't make guesses. Only fools make guesses."

Wilson adopted the modest attitude of a beaten dog and did his best, lest he should be a fool, not to guess why Shears was striding angrily up and down the room. But, when Shears rang for the servant and asked for his travelling-bag, Wilson thought himself entitled, since this was a material fact, to reflect, deduce and conclude that his chief was going on a journey.

The same mental operation enabled him to declare, in the tone of a man who has no fear of the possibility of a mistake:

"Holmlock, you are going to Paris."

"Possibly."

"And you are going to Paris even more in reply to Lupin's challenge than to oblige Baron d'Imblevalle."

"Possibly."

"Holmlock, I will go with you."

"Aha, old friend!" cried Shears, interrupting his walk. "Aren't you afraid that your left arm may share the fate of the right?"

"What can happen to me? You will be there."

"Well said! You're a fine fellow! And we will show this gentleman that he may have made a mistake in defying us so boldly. Quick, Wilson, and meet me at the first train."

"Won't you wait for the newspapers the baron mentions?"

"What's the good?"

"Shall I send a telegram?"

"No. Arsene Lupin would know I was coming and I don't wish him to. This time, Wilson, we must play a cautious game."

That afternoon, the two friends stepped on board the boat at Dover. They had a capital crossing. In the express from Calais to Paris, Shears indulged in three hours of the soundest sleep, while Wilson kept a good watch at the door of the compartment and meditated with a wandering eye.

Shears woke up feeling happy and well. The prospect of a new duel with Arsene Lupin delighted him; and he rubbed his hands with the contented air of a man preparing to taste untold joys.

"At last," exclaimed Wilson, "we shall feel that we're alive!"

And he rubbed his hands with the same contented air.

At the station, Shears took the rugs, and, followed by Wilson carrying the bags--each his burden!--handed the tickets to the collector and walked gaily into the street.

"A fine day, Wilson ... Sunshine! ... Paris is dressed in her best to receive us."

"What a crowd!"

"So much the better, Wilson: we stand less chance of being noticed. No one will recognize us in the midst of such a multitude."

"Mr. Shears, I believe?"

He stopped, somewhat taken aback. Who on earth could be addressing him by name?

A woman was walking beside him, or rather a girl whose exceedingly simple dress accentuated her well-bred appearance. Her pretty face wore a sad and anxious expression. She repeated:

"You must be Mr. Shears, surely?"

He was silent, as much from confusion as from the habit of prudence, and she asked for the third time:

"Surely I am speaking to Mr. Shears?"

"What do you want with me?" he asked, crossly, thinking this a questionable meeting.

She placed herself in front of him:

"Listen to me, Mr. Shears: it is a very serious matter. I know that you are going to the Rue Murillo."

"What's that?"

"I know ... I know ... Rue Murillo ... No. 18. Well, you must not ... no, you must not go ... I assure you, you will regret it. Because I tell you this, you need not think that I am interested in any way. I have a reason; I know what I am saying."

He tried to push her aside. She insisted:

"I entreat you; do not be obstinate ... Oh, if I only knew how to convince you! Look into me, look into the depths of my eyes ... they are sincere ... they speak the truth..."

Desperately, she raised her eyes, a pair of beautiful, grave and limpid eyes that seemed to reflect her very soul. Wilson nodded his head:

"The young lady seems quite sincere," he said.

"Indeed I am," she said beseechingly, "and you must trust me..."

"I do trust you, mademoiselle," replied Wilson.

"Oh, how happy you make me! And your friend trusts me too, does he not? I feel it ... I am sure of it! How glad I am! All will be well! ... Oh, what a good idea I had! Listen, Mr. Shears: there's a train for Calais in twenty minutes ... Now, you must take it ... Quick, come with me: it's this way and you have not much time."

She tried to drag Shears with her. He seized her by the arm and, in a voice which he strove to make as gentle as possible, said: "Forgive me, mademoiselle, if I am not able to accede to your wish; but I never turn aside from a task which I have undertaken."

"I entreat you ... I entreat you ... Oh, if you only knew!"

He passed on and walked briskly away.

Wilson lingered behind and said to the girl:

"Be of good hope ... He will see the thing through to the end ... He has never yet been known to fail..."

And he ran after Shears to catch him up.

These words, standing out in great black letters, struck their eyes at the first steps they took. They walked up to them: a procession of sandwich-men was moving along in single file. In their hands they carried heavy ferruled canes, with which they tapped the pavement in unison as they went; and their boards bore the above legend in front and a further huge poster at the back which read:

Wilson tossed his head:

"I say, Holmlock, I thought we were travelling incognito! I shouldn't be astonished to find the Republican Guard waiting for us in the Rue Murillo, with an official reception and champagne!"

"When you try to be witty, Wilson," snarled Shears, "you're witty enough for two!"

He strode up to one of the men with apparent intention of taking him in his powerful hands and tearing him and his advertisement to shreds. Meanwhile, a crowd gathered round the posters, laughing and joking.

Suppressing a furious fit of passion, Shears said to the man:

"When were you hired?"

"This morning."

"When did you start on your round?"

"An hour ago."

"But the posters were ready?"

"Lord, yes! They were there when we came to the office this morning."

So Arsene Lupin had foreseen that Shears would accept the battle! Nay, more, the letter written by Lupin proved that he himself wished for the battle and that it formed part of his intentions to measure swords once more with his rival. Why? What possible motive could urge him to re-commence the contest?

Holmlock Shears showed a momentary hesitation. Lupin must really feel very sure of victory to display such insolence; and was it not falling into a trap to hasten like that in answer to the first call? Then, summoning up all his energy:

"Come along, Wilson! Driver, 18, Rue Murillo!" he shouted.

And, with swollen veins and fists clenched as though for a boxing-match, he leapt into a cab.

The Rue Murillo is lined with luxurious private residences, the backs of which look out upon the Parc Monceau. No. 18 is one of the handsomest of these houses; and Baron d'Imblevalle, who occupies it with his wife and children, has furnished it in the most sumptuous style, as befits an artist and millionaire. There is a courtyard in front of the house, skirted on either side by the servants' offices. At the back, a garden mingles the branches of its trees with the trees of the park.

The two Englishmen rang the bell, crossed the courtyard and were admitted by a footman, who showed them into a small drawing-room at the other side of the house.

They sat down and took a rapid survey of the many valuable objects with which the room was filled.

"Very pretty things," whispered Wilson. "Taste and fancy ... One can safely draw the deduction that people who have had the leisure to hunt out these articles are persons of a certain age ... fifty, perhaps..."

He did not have time to finish. The door opened and M. d'Imblevalle entered, followed by his wife.

Contrary to Wilson's deductions, they were both young, fashionably dressed and very lively in speech and manner. Both were profuse in thanks:

"It is really too good of you! To put yourself out like this! We are almost glad of this trouble since it procures us the pleasure..."

"How charming those French people are!" thought Wilson, who never shirked the opportunity of making an original observation.

"But time is money," cried the baron. "And yours especially, Mr. Shears. Let us come to the point! What do you think of the case? Do you hope to bring it to a satisfactory result?"

"To bring the case to a satisfactory result, I must first know what the case is."

"Don't you know?"

"No; and I will ask you to explain the matter fully, omitting nothing. What is it a case of?"

"It is a case of theft."

"On what day did it take place?"

"On Saturday," replied the baron. "On Saturday night or Sunday morning."

"Six days ago, therefore. Now, pray, go on."

"I must first tell you that my wife and I, though we lead the life expected of people in our position, go out very little. The education of our children, a few receptions, the beautifying of our home: these make up our existence; and all or nearly all our evenings are spent here, in this room, which is my wife's boudoir and in which we have collected a few pretty things. Well, on Saturday last, at about eleven o'clock, I switched off the electric light and my wife and I retired, as usual, to our bedroom."

"Where is that?"

"The next room: that door over there. On the following morning, that is to say, Sunday, I rose early. As Suzanne--my wife--was still asleep, I came into this room as gently as possible, so as not to awake her. Imagine my surprise at finding the window open, after we had left it closed the evening before!"

"A servant... ?"

"Nobody enters this room in the morning before we ring. Besides, I always take the precaution of bolting that other door, which leads to the hall. Therefore the window must have been opened from the outside. I had a proof of it, besides: the second pane of the right-hand casement, the one next to the latch, had been cut out."

"And the window?"

"The window, as you perceive, opens on a little balcony surrounded by a stone balustrade. We are on the first floor here and you can see the garden at the back of the house and the railings that separate it from the Parc Monceau. It is certain, therefore, that the man came from the Parc Monceau, climbed the railings by means of a ladder and got up to the balcony."

"It is certain, you say?"

"On either side of the railings, in the soft earth of the borders, we found holes left by the two uprights of the ladder; and there were two similar holes below the balcony. Lastly, the balustrade shows two slight scratches, evidently caused by the contact of the ladder."

"Isn't the Parc Monceau closed at night?"

"Closed? No. But, in any case, there is a house building at No. 14. It would have been easy to effect an entrance that way."

Holmlock Shears reflected for a few moments and resumed:

"Let us come to the theft. You say it was committed in the room where we now are?"

"Yes. Just here, between this twelfth-century Virgin and that chased-silver tabernacle, there was a little Jewish lamp. It has disappeared."

"And is that all?"

"That is all."

"Oh! ... And what do you call a Jewish lamp?"

"It is one of those lamps which they used to employ in the old days, consisting of a stem and of a receiver to contain the oil. This receiver had two or more burners, which held the wicks."

"When all is said, objects of no great value."

"Just so. But the one in question formed a hiding-place in which we had made it a practice to keep a magnificent antique jewel, a chimera in gold, set with rubies and emeralds and worth a great deal of money."

"What was your reason for this practice?"

"Upon my word, Mr. Shears, I should find it difficult to tell you! Perhaps we just thought it amusing to have a hiding-place of this kind."

"Did nobody know of it?"

"Nobody."

"Except, of course, the thief," objected Shears. "But for that, he would not have taken the trouble to steal the Jewish lamp."

"Obviously. But how could he know of it, seeing that it was by an accident that we discovered the secret mechanism of the lamp?"

"The same accident may have revealed it to somebody else: a servant ... a visitor to the house ... But let us continue: have you informed the police?"

"Certainly. The examining-magistrate has made his inquiry. The journalistic detectives attached to all the big newspapers have made theirs. But, as I wrote to you, it does not seem as though the problem had the least chance of ever being solved."

Shears rose, went to the window, inspected the casement, the balcony, the balustrade, employed his lens to study the two scratches on the stone and asked M. d'Imblevalle to take him down to the garden.

When they were outside, Shears simply sat down in a wicker chair and contemplated the roof of the house with a dreamy eye. Then he suddenly walked toward two little wooden cases with which, in order to preserve the exact marks, they had covered the holes which the uprights of the ladder had left in the ground, below the balcony. He removed the cases, went down on his knees and, with rounded back and his nose six inches from the ground, searched and took his measurements. He went through the same performance along the railing, but more quickly.

That was all.

They both returned to the boudoir, where Madame d'Imblevalle was waiting for them.

Shears was silent for a few minutes longer and then spoke these words:

"Ever since you began your story, monsieur le baron, I was struck by the really too simple side of the offence. To apply a ladder, remove a pane of glass, pick out an object and go away: no, things don't happen so easily as that. It is all too clear, too plain."

"You mean to say... ?"

"I mean to say that the theft of the Jewish lamp was committed under the direction of Arsene Lupin."

"Arsene Lupin!" exclaimed the baron.

"But it was committed without Arsene Lupin's presence and without anybody's entering the house ... Perhaps a servant slipped down to the balcony from his garret, along a rain-spout which I saw from the garden."

"But what evidence have you?"

"Arsene Lupin would not have left the boudoir empty-handed."

"Empty-handed! And what about the lamp?"

"Taking the lamp would not have prevented him from taking this snuff-box, which, I see, is studded with diamonds, or this necklace of old opals. It would require but two movements more. His only reason for not making those movements was that he was not here to make them."

"Still, the marks of the ladder?"

"A farce! Mere stage-play to divert suspicions!"

"The scratches on the balustrade?"

"A sham! They were made with sandpaper. Look, here are a few bits of paper which I picked up."

"The marks left by the uprights of the ladder?"

"Humbug! Examine the two rectangular holes below the balcony and the two holes near the railings. The shape is similar, but, whereas they are parallel here, they are not so over there. Measure the space that separates each hole from its neighbour: it differs in the two cases. Below the balcony, the distance is nine inches. Beside the railings, it is eleven inches."

"What do you conclude from that?"

"I conclude, since their outline is identical, that the four holes were made with one stump of wood, cut to the right shape."

"The best argument would be the stump of wood itself."

"Here it is," said Shears. "I picked it up in the garden, behind a laurel-tub."

The baron gave in. It was only forty minutes since the Englishman had entered by that door; and not a vestige remained of all that had been believed so far on the evidence of the apparent facts themselves. The reality, a different reality, came to light, founded upon something much more solid: the reasoning faculties of a Holmlock Shears.

"It is a very serious accusation to bring against our people, Mr. Shears," said the baroness. "They are old family servants and not one of them is capable of deceiving us."

"If one of them did not deceive you, how do you explain that this letter was able to reach me on the same day and by the same post as the one you sent me?"

And he handed her the letter which Arsene Lupin had written to him.

Madame d'Imblevalle was dumbfounded:

"Arsene Lupin! ... How did he know?"

"Did you tell no one of your letter?"

"No one," said the baron. "The idea occurred to us the other evening, at dinner."

"Before the servants?"

"There were only our two children. And even then ... no, Sophie and Henrietta were not at table, were they Suzanne?"

Madame d'Imblevalle reflected and declared:

"No, they had gone up to mademoiselle."

"Mademoiselle?" asked Shears.

"The governess, Alice Demun."

"Doesn't she have her meals with you?"

"No, she has them by herself, in her room."

Wilson had an idea:

"The letter written to my friend Holmlock Shears was posted?"

"Naturally."

"Who posted it?"

"Dominique, who has been with me as my own man for twenty years," replied the baron. "Any search in that direction would be waste of time."

"Time employed in searching is never wasted," stated Wilson, sententiously.

This closed the first inquiries and Shears asked leave to withdraw.

An hour later, at dinner, he saw Sophie and Henrietta, the d'Imblevalles' children, two pretty little girls of eight and six respectively. The conversation languished. Shears replied to the pleasant remarks of the baron and his wife in so surly a tone that they thought it better to keep silence. Coffee was served. Shears swallowed the contents of his cup and rose from his chair.

At that moment, a servant entered with a telephone message for him. Shears opened it and read:

"Accept my enthusiastic admiration. Results obtained by you in so short a time make my head reel. I feel quite giddy.

"ARSENE LUPIN."

He could not suppress a gesture of annoyance and, showing the telegram to the baron:

"Do you begin to believe," he said, "that your walls have eyes and ears?"

"I can't understand it," murmured M. d'Imblevalle, astounded.

"Nor I. But what I do understand is that not a movement takes place here unperceived by him. Not a word is spoken but he hears it."

That evening, Wilson went to bed with the easy conscience of a man who has done his duty and who has no other business before him than to go to sleep. So he went to sleep very quickly and was visited by beautiful dreams, in which he was hunting down Lupin all by himself and just on the point of arresting him with his own hand; and the feeling of the pursuit was so lifelike that he woke up.

Some one was touching his bed. He seized his revolver:

"Another movement, Lupin, and I shoot!"

"Steady, old chap, steady on!"

"Hullo, is that you, Shears? Do you want me?"

"I want your eyes. Get up..."

He led him to the window:

"Look over there ... beyond the railings..."

"In the park?"

"Yes. Do you see anything?"

"No, nothing."

"Try again; I am sure you see something."

"Oh, so I do: a shadow ... no, two!"

"I thought so: against the railings ... See, they're moving ... Let's lose no time."

Groping and holding on to the banister, they made their way down the stairs and came to a room that opened on to the garden steps. Through the glass doors, they could see the two figures still in the same place.

"It's curious," said Shears. "I seem to hear noises in the house."

"In the house? Impossible! Everbody's asleep."

"Listen, though..."

At that moment, a faint whistle sounded from the railings and they perceived an undecided light that seemed to come from the house.

"The d'Imblevalles must have switched on their light," muttered Shears. "It's their room above us."

"Then it's they we heard, no doubt," said Wilson. "Perhaps they are watching the railings."

A second whistle, still fainter than the first.

"I can't understand, I can't understand," said Shears, in a tone of vexation.

"No more can I," confessed Wilson.

Shears turned the key of the door, unbolted it and softly pushed it open.

A third whistle, this time a little deeper and in a different note. And, above their heads, the noise grew louder, more hurried.

"It sounds rather as if it were on the balcony of the boudoir," whispered Shears.

He put his head between the glass doors, but at once drew back with a stifled oath. Wilson looked out in his turn. Close to them, a ladder rose against the wall, leaning against the balustrade of the balcony.

"By Jove!" said Shears. "There's some one in the boudoir. That's what we heard. Quick, let's take away the ladder!"

But, at that moment, a form slid from the top to the bottom, the ladder was removed and the man who carried it ran swiftly toward the railings, to the place where his accomplices were waiting. Shears and Wilson had darted out. They came up with the man as he was placing the ladder against the railings. Two shots rang out from the other side.

"Wounded?" cried Shears.

"No," replied Wilson.

He caught the man around the body and tried to throw him. But the man turned, seized him with one hand and, with the other, plunged a knife full into his chest. Wilson gave a sigh, staggered and fell.

"Damnation!" roared Shears. "If they've done for him, I'll do for them!"

He laid Wilson on the lawn and rushed at the ladder. Too late: the man had run up it and, in company with his accomplices, was fleeing through the shrubs.

"Wilson, Wilson, it's not serious, is it? Say it's only a scratch!"

The doors of the house opened suddenly. M. d'Imblevalle was the first to appear, followed by the men-servants carrying candles.

"What is it?" cried the baron. "Is Mr. Wilson hurt?"

"Nothing; only a scratch," repeated Shears, endeavouring to delude himself into the belief.

Wilson was bleeding copiously and his face was deathly pale. Twenty minutes later, the doctor declared that the point of the knife had penetrated to within a quarter of an inch of the heart.

"A quarter of an inch! That Wilson was always a lucky dog!" said Shears, summing up the situation, in an envious tone.

"Lucky ... lucky..." grunted the doctor.

"Why, with his strong constitution, he'll be all right..."

"After six weeks in bed and two months' convalescence."

"No longer?"

"No, unless complications ensue."

"Why on earth should there be any complications?"

Fully reassured, Shears returned to M. d'Imblevalle in the boudoir. This time, the mysterious visitor had not shown the same discretion. He had laid hands without shame on the diamond-studded snuff-box, on the opal necklace and, generally, on anything that could find room in the pockets of a self-respecting burglar.

The window was still open, one of the panes had been neatly cut out and a summary inquiry held at daybreak showed that the ladder came from the unfinished house and that the burglars must have come that way.

"In short," said M. d'Imblevalle, with a touch of irony in his voice, "it is an exact repetition of the theft of the Jewish lamp."

"Yes, if we accept the first version favoured by the police."

"Do you still refuse to adopt it? Doesn't this second theft shake your opinion as regards the first?"

"On the contrary, it confirms it."

"It seems incredible! You have the undoubted proof that last night's burglary was committed by somebody from the outside and you still maintain that the Jewish lamp was stolen by one of our people?"

"By some one living in the house."