“Yes, I am,” he said dryly.
They were silent. She gazed deep into his eyes and murmured:
“I’m a thief, am I not? That’s what you mean, isn’t it? A thief?”
“Yes.”
She smiled and said:
“And what about you?”
And as he started back she caught him firmly by the arm, tried to shake him, and cried imperiously:
“Yes, what about you, my young friend? What are you? The time has come for you to lay your cards on the table also. Who are you?”
“My name is Ralph d’Andresy.”
“Rubbish! Your name is Arsène Lupin. Your father Theophrastus Lupin, who combined the occupation of professor of boxing and gymnastics with the more lucrative profession of crook, was convicted and imprisoned in the United States, and died there. Your mother resumed her maiden name and lived as a poor relation at the house of a distant cousin, the Duke of Dreux-Soubise. One day the Duchess discovered that jewels of the greatest historical value, nothing less, in fact, than the famous necklace of Queen Marie Antoinette, had disappeared. In spite of the most exhaustive attempts to discover it no one ever knew who was the author of this theft, executed with a diabolical daring and cleverness. But I, I do know. It was you. You were six years old.”