“That’ll do, Sébastiani,” said the marquis. “Our friend seems favourably disposed and understands the need for coming to terms. That’s so, Daubrecq, is it not? You prefer to have done with it? And you’re quite right!”
The two men were leaning over the sufferer, Sébastiani with his hand on the stick, d’Albufex holding the lamp so as to throw the light on Daubrecq’s face: “His lips are moving . . . he’s going to speak. Loosen the rope a little, Sébastiani: I don’t want our friend to be hurt.... No, tighten it: I believe our friend is hesitating.... One turn more . . . stop!... That’s done it! Oh, my dear Daubrecq, if you can’t speak plainer than that, it’s no use! What? What did you say?”
Arsène Lupin muttered an oath. Daubrecq was speaking and he, Lupin, could not hear a word of what he said! In vain, he pricked up his ears, suppressed the beating of his heart and the throbbing of his temples: not a sound reached him.
“Confound it!” he thought. “I never expected this. What am I to do?”
He was within an ace of covering Daubrecq with his revolver and putting a bullet into him which would cut short any explanation. But he reflected that he himself would then be none the wiser and that it was better to trust to events in the hope of making the most of them.
Meanwhile the confession continued beneath him, indistinctly, interrupted by silences and mingled with moans. D’Albufex clung to his prey:
“Go on!... Finish, can’t you?...”
And he punctuated the sentences with exclamations of approval:
“Good!... Capital!... Oh, how funny!... And no one suspected?... Not even Prasville?... What an ass!... Loosen a bit, Sébastiani: don’t you see that our friend is out of breath?... Keep calm, Daubrecq . . . don’t tire yourself.... And so, my dear fellow, you were saying....”
That was the last. There was a long whispering to which d’Albufex listened without further interruption and of which Arsène Lupin could not catch the least syllable. Then the marquis drew himself up and exclaimed, joyfully: