“Well, you have said yourself that this is a fortress. An hour ago, perhaps, Lupin was resolved to enter this room, but is he now?”
“I see what you mean,” said the Duke, in a tone of disappointment.
“Yes; you see that now it needs the devil’s own courage. He must risk everything to gain everything, and throw off the mask. Is Lupin going to throw himself into the wolf’s jaws? I dare not think it. What do you think about it?”
Guerchard’s husky voice had hardened to a rough harshness; there was a ring of acute anxiety in it, and under the anxiety a faint note of challenge, of a challenge that dare not make itself too distinct. His anxious, challenging eyes burned on the face of the Duke, as if they strove with all intensity to pierce a mask.
The Duke looked at him curiously, as if he were trying to divine what he would be at, but with a careless curiosity, as if it were a matter of indifference to him what the detective’s object was; then he said carelessly: “Well, you ought to know better than I. You have known him for ten years ....” He paused, and added with just the faintest stress in his tone, “At least, by reputation.”
The anxiety in the detective’s face grew plainer, it almost gave him the air of being unnerved; and he said quickly, in a jerky voice: “Yes, and I know his way of acting too. During the last ten years I have learnt to unravel his intrigues—to understand and anticipate his manoeuvres.... Oh, his is a clever system! ... Instead of lying low, as you’d expect, he attacks his opponent ... openly.... He confuses him—at least, he tries to.” He smiled a half-confident, a half-doubtful smile, “It is a mass of entangled, mysterious combinations. I’ve been caught in them myself again and again. You smile?”
“It interests me so,” said the Duke, in a tone of apology.
“Oh, it interests me,” said Guerchard, with a snarl. “But this time I see my way clearly. No more tricks—no more secret paths ... We’re fighting in the light of day.” He paused, and said in a clear, sneering voice, “Lupin has pluck, perhaps, but it’s only thief’s pluck.”
“Oh, is it?” said the Duke sharply, and there was a sudden faint glitter in his eyes.
“Yes; rogues have very poor qualities,” sneered Guerchard.