“An inch and a half of the heart! Wilson always was lucky!” said Sholmes, in an envious tone.
“Lucky ... lucky....” muttered the doctor.
“Of course! Why, with his robust constitution he will soon be out again.”
“Six weeks in bed and two months of convalescence.”
“Not more?”
“No, unless complications set in.”
“Oh! the devil! what does he want complications for?”
Fully reassured, Sholmes joined the baron in the boudoir. This time the mysterious visitor had not exercised the same restraint. Ruthlessly, he had laid his vicious hand upon the diamond snuff-box, upon the opal necklace, and, in a general way, upon everything that could find a place in the greedy pockets of an enterprising burglar.
The window was still open; one of the window-panes had been neatly cut; and, in the morning, a summary investigation showed that the ladder belonged to the house then in course of construction.
“Now, you can see,” said Mon. d’Imblevalle, with a touch of irony, “it is an exact repetition of the affair of the Jewish lamp.”