"Really?"
"Yes, I was arranging my old papers, in that cupboard, and I came across our last account."
"Which one?"
"The Avenue Henri-Martin account."
"Do you mean to say you keep all that waste paper? What for?"
The three moved into a little drawing-room which was connected with the round library by a wide recess.
"Is it Lupin?" thought Shears, seized with a sudden doubt.
All the evidence pointed to him, but it was another man as well; a man who resembled Arsène Lupin in certain respects and who, nevertheless, preserved his distinct individuality, his own features, look and complexion.
Dressed for the evening, with a white tie and a soft-fronted shirt following the lines of his body, he talked gaily, telling stories which made M. Destange laugh aloud and which brought a smile to Clotilde's lips. And each of these smiles seemed a reward which Arsène Lupin coveted and which he rejoiced at having won. His spirits and gaiety increased and, imperceptibly, at the sound of his clear and happy voice, Clotilde's face brightened up and lost the look of coldness that tended to spoil it.
"They are in love," thought Shears. "But what on earth can Clotilde Destange and Maxime Bermond have in common? Does she know that Maxime is Arsène Lupin?"