“You must stay to dinner.”
“No, thank you, I am sorry, but I have an appointment to dine with some friends at a restaurant.”
“Come, to-morrow, then, Clotilde, you must urge him to come to-morrow. Ah! my dear Maxime.... I thought of you many times during your absence.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I went through all my old papers in that cupboard, and found our last statement of account.”
“What account?”
“Relating to the avenue Henri-Martin.”
“Ah! do you keep such papers? What for?”
Then the three of them left the room, and continued their conversation in a small parlor which adjoined the library.
“Is it Lupin?” Sholmes asked himself, in a sudden access of doubt. Certainly, from all appearances, it was he; and yet it was also someone else who resembled Arsène Lupin in certain respects, and who still maintained his own individuality, features, and color of hair. Sholmes could hear Lupin’s voice in the adjoining room. He was relating some stories at which Mon. Destange laughed heartily, and which even brought a smile to the lips of the melancholy Clotilde. And each of those smiles appeared to be the reward which Arsène Lupin was seeking, and which he was delighted to have secured. His success caused him to redouble his efforts and, insensibly, at the sound of that clear and happy voice, Clotilde’s face brightened and lost that cold and listless expression which usually pervaded it.