“What’s the matter?” asked the prefect of police.
“Nothing, nothing, monsieur le préfet,” declared Prasville, who did not wish to share with another the honour of seeing this business through. “Nothing . . . an unexpected visit.... I hope soon to have the pleasure of telling you the result.”
And he walked away, mumbling, with an air of amazement:
“Well, upon my word! What a nerve the beggar has! What a nerve!”
The visiting-card which he held in his hand bore these words:
M. Nicole,
Master of Arts, Private Tutor.
CHAPTER XIII
THE LAST BATTLE
When Prasville returned to his office he saw M. Nicole sitting on a bench in the waiting-room, with his bent back, his ailing air, his gingham umbrella, his rusty hat and his single glove:
“It’s he all right,” said Prasville, who had feared for a moment that Lupin might have sent another M. Nicole to see him. “And the fact that he has come in person proves that he does not suspect that I have seen through him.” And, for the third time, he said, “All the same, what a nerve!”