The Englishman looked about him, as if in search of assistance.
“No use,” said Lupin. “Besides, are you quite sure you can place your hand on me? Come, now, show me that you are a real Englishman and, therefore, a good sport.”
This advice seemed to commend itself to the detective, for he partially rose and said, very formally:
“Monsieur Wilson, my friend and assistant—Monsieur Arsène Lupin.”
Wilson’s amazement evoked a laugh. With bulging eyes and gaping mouth, he looked from one to the other, as if unable to comprehend the situation. Herlock Sholmes laughed and said:
“Wilson, you should conceal your astonishment at an incident which is one of the most natural in the world.”
“Why do you not arrest him?” stammered Wilson.
“Have you not observed, Wilson, that the gentleman is between me and the door, and only a few steps from the door. By the time I could move my little finger he would be outside.”
“Don’t let that make any difference,” said Lupin, who now walked around the table and seated himself so that the Englishman was between him and the door—thus placing himself at the mercy of the foreigner.
Wilson looked at Sholmes to find out if he had the right to admire this act of wanton courage. The Englishman’s face was impenetrable; but, a moment later, he called: