“Well?”
“Well, Wilson, to overcome an enemy so well prepared and so thoroughly equipped requires the infinite shrewdness of ... of a Herlock Sholmes. And yet, as you have seen, Wilson, I have lost the first round.”
At six o’clock the Echo de France published the following article in its evening edition:
“This morning Mon. Thenard, commissary of police in the sixteenth district, released Herlock Sholmes and his friend Wilson, both of whom had been locked in the house of the late Baron d’Hautrec, where they spent a very pleasant night—thanks to the thoughtful care and attention of Arsène Lupin.”
“In addition to their other troubles, these gentlemen have been robbed of their valises, and, in consequence thereof, they have entered a formal complaint against Arsène Lupin.”
“Arsène Lupin, satisfied that he has given them a mild reproof, hopes these gentlemen will not force him to resort to more stringent measures.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Herlock Sholmes, crushing the paper in his hands, “that is only child’s play! And that is the only criticism I have to make of Arsène Lupin: he plays to the gallery. There is that much of the fakir in him.”
“Ah! Sholmes, you are a wonderful man! You have such a command over your temper. Nothing ever disturbs you.”
“No, nothing disturbs me,” replied Sholmes, in a voice that trembled from rage; “besides, what’s the use of losing my temper?... I am quite confident of the final result; I shall have the last word.”