The man took no notice.
"Look here, my man, are you deaf? Or are you doing it on purpose?... This isn't where I told you to go.... Rue Pergolèse, do you hear!... Turn round at once and look sharp about it!"
Still no reply. The Englishman began to be alarmed. He looked at Clotilde: a queer smile was playing on the girl's lips.
"What are you laughing at?" he stormed. "This doesn't affect ... it has nothing to say to...."
"Nothing in the very least," she replied.
Suddenly, he was taken aback by an idea. Half rising from his seat, he attentively scrutinized the man on the box. His shoulders were slimmer, his movements easier.... A cold sweat broke out on Shears's forehead, his hands contracted, while the most hideous conviction forced itself upon his mind: the man was Arsène Lupin.
"Well, Mr. Shears, what do you think of this little drive?"
"It's delightful, my dear sir, really delightful," replied Shears.
Perhaps he had never in his life made a more tremendous effort than it cost him to utter those words without a tremor in his voice, without anything that could betray the exasperation that filled his whole being. But, the minute after, he was carried away by a sort of formidable reaction; and a torrent of rage and hatred burst its banks, overcame his will, and made him suddenly draw his revolver and point it at Mlle. Destange.