That afternoon, the two friends embarked at Dover. The passage was a delightful one. In the train from Calais to Paris, Sholmes had three hours sound sleep, while Wilson guarded the door of the compartment.
Sholmes awoke in good spirits. He was delighted at the idea of another duel with Arsène Lupin, and he rubbed his hands with the satisfied air of a man who looks forward to a pleasant vacation.
“At last!” exclaimed Wilson, “we are getting to work again.”
And he rubbed his hands with the same satisfied air.
At the station, Sholmes took the wraps and, followed by Wilson, who carried the valises, he gave up his tickets and started off briskly.
“Fine weather, Wilson.... Blue sky and sunshine! Paris is giving us a royal reception.”
“Yes, but what a crowd!”
“So much the better, Wilson, we will pass unnoticed. No one will recognize us in such a crowd.”
“Is this Monsieur Sholmes?”
He stopped, somewhat puzzled. Who the deuce could thus address him by his name? A woman stood beside him; a young girl whose simple dress outlined her slender form and whose pretty face had a sad and anxious expression. She repeated her enquiry: