“Well, what do you know?”
“Everything.”
“Everything? Come, be precise.”
His voice contained no longer that polite, if ironical, tone, which he had affected when speaking to the Englishman. Now, his voice had the imperious tone of a master accustomed to command and accustomed to be obeyed—even by a Herlock Sholmes. They measured each other by their looks, enemies now—open and implacable foes. Lupin spoke again, but in a milder tone:
“I have grown weary of your pursuit, and do not intend to waste any more time in avoiding the traps you lay for me. I warn you that my treatment of you will depend on your reply. Now, what do you know?”
“Everything, monsieur.”
Arsène Lupin controlled his temper and said, in a jerky manner:
“I will tell you what you know. You know that, under the name of Maxime Bermond, I have ... improved fifteen houses that were originally constructed by Monsieur Destange.”
“Yes.”
“Of those fifteen houses, you have seen four.”