"Im-possible!"
Ganimard made a sign. Two men seized Lupin under the arms and lifted him from the floor. But they dropped him at once with howls of pain: with his two hands, Arsène Lupin had dug two long needles into their flesh.
Maddened with rage, the others rushed upon him, wreaking their hatred at last, burning to avenge their comrades and themselves for the numberless affronts put upon them, and they rained a shower of blows upon his body. One blow, more violent than the rest, struck him on the temple. He fell to the floor.
"If you hurt him," growled Ganimard, angrily, "you'll have me to deal with."
He bent over Lupin, prepared to assist him. But, finding that he was breathing freely, he told the men to take Lupin by the head and feet, while he himself supported his hips.
"Slowly, now, gently!... Don't jolt him!... Why, you brutes, you might have killed him. Well, Lupin, how do you feel?"
Lupin opened his eyes and stammered:
"Not up to much, Ganimard.... You shouldn't have let them knock me about."
"Dash it, it's your own fault ... with your obstinacy!" replied Ganimard, in real distress. "But you're not hurt?"
They reached the landing. Lupin moaned: