The man, who was big and strong, tried to struggle away. He stifled a cry of pain: Lupin had twisted his wrist.
"Your name is Dominique . . . you live in the Rue de la Pompe, on the fourth floor, where you retired with a small fortune acquired in the service—listen to me, you fool, will you, or I'll break every bone in your body!—acquired in the service of Baron Altenheim, at whose house you were butler."
The other stood motionless, his face pallid with fear. Around them, the small room was empty. In the restaurant beside it, three gentlemen sat smoking and two couples were chatting over their liquors.
"You see, we are quiet . . . we can talk."
"Who are you? Who are you?"
"Don't you recollect me? Why, think of that famous luncheon in the Villa Dupont! . . . You yourself, you old flunkey, handed me the plate of cakes . . . and such cakes!"
"Prince. . . . Prince. . . ." stammered the other.
"Yes, yes, Prince Arsène, Prince Lupin in person. . . . Aha, you breathe again! . . . You're saying to yourself that you have nothing to fear from Lupin, isn't that it? Well, you're wrong, old chap, you have everything to fear." He took a card from his pocket and showed it to him. "There, look, I belong to the police now. Can't be helped: that's what we all come to in the end, all of us robber-kings and emperors of crime."
"Well?" said the head-waiter, still greatly alarmed.
"Well, go to that customer over there, who's calling you, get him what he wants and come back to me. And no nonsense, mind you: don't go trying to get away. I have ten men outside, with orders to keep their eyes on you. Be off."