“Yes, I don’t see him.”
“Do you like him as well as you did at first?” she asked, as if she were not aware of the illness of the real secretary and his replacement by Stickmann.
“Oh! yes.”
Monsieur Destange’s head bobbed from one side to the other. He was asleep. The girl resumed her reading. A moment later one of the window curtains was pushed back, and the strange man emerged and glided along the wall toward the door, which obliged him to pass behind Mon. Destange but in front of Clotilde, and brought him into the light so that Herlock Sholmes obtained a good view of the man’s face. It was Arsène Lupin.
The Englishman was delighted. His forecast was verified; he had penetrated to the very heart of the mystery, and found Arsène Lupin to be the moving spirit in it.
Clotilde had not yet displayed any knowledge of his presence, although it was quite improbable that any movement of the intruder had escaped her notice. Lupin had almost reached the door and, in fact, his hand was already seeking the door-knob, when his coat brushed against a small table and knocked something to the floor. Monsieur Destange awoke with a start. Arsène Lupin was already standing in front of him, hat in hand, smiling.
“Maxime Bermond,” exclaimed Mon. Destange, joyfully. “My dear Maxime, what lucky chance brings you here?”
“The wish to see you and Mademoiselle Destange.”
“When did you return from your journey?”
“Yesterday.”