They drove to the Place de Clichy. As Lupin entered the house he passed two men who were just leaving the porter’s box. He was too much engrossed to notice them. They were Prasville’s inspectors.
“No telegram?” he asked his servant.
“No, governor,” replied Achille.
“No news of the Masher and the Growler?”
“No, governor, none.”
“That’s all right,” he said to Clarisse, in a casual tone. “It’s only seven o’clock and we mustn’t reckon on seeing them before eight or nine. Prasville will have to wait, that’s all. I will telephone to him to wait.”
He did so and was hanging up the receiver, when he heard a moan behind him. Clarisse was standing by the table, reading an evening-paper. She put her hand to her heart, staggered and fell.
“Achille, Achille!” cried Lupin, calling his man. “Help me put her on my bed.... And then go to the cupboard and get me the medicine-bottle marked number four, the bottle with the sleeping-draught.”
He forced open her teeth with the point of a knife and compelled her to swallow half the bottle:
“Good,” he said. “Now the poor thing won’t wake till to-morrow . . . after.”