“They’re running to the two men watching the house ... they’re telling them something. Oh, hang it, they’re all running down the street.”
“This way? ... Are they coming this way?” cried Victoire faintly; and she pressed her hand to her side.
“They are!” cried Charolais. “They are!” And he dropped the curtain with an oath.
“And he isn’t here! Suppose they come.... Suppose he comes to the front door! They’ll catch him!” cried Victoire.
There came a startling peal at the front-door bell. They stood frozen to stone, their eyes fixed on one another, staring.
The bell had hardly stopped ringing, when there was a slow, whirring noise. The doors of the lift flew open, and the Duke stepped out of it. But what a changed figure from the admirably dressed dandy who had walked through the startled detectives and out of the house of M. Gournay-Martin at midnight! He was pale, exhausted, almost fainting. His eyes were dim in a livid face; his lips were grey. He was panting heavily. He was splashed with mud from head to foot: one sleeve of his coat was torn along half its length. The sole of his left-hand pump was half off; and his cut foot showed white and red through the torn sock.
“The master! The master!” cried Charolais in a tone of extravagant relief; and he danced round the room snapping his fingers.
“You’re wounded?” cried Victoire.
“No,” said Arsène Lupin.
The front-door bell rang out again, startling, threatening, terrifying.