“But I thought,” observed Prasville, “that your intention, on leaving me, was to drag Daubrecq’s secret from him at all costs.”
“Certainly. But Daubrecq was not in Paris.”
“Oh?”
“No. He was on his way to Paris in a motor-car.”
“Have you a motor-car, M. Nicole?”
“Yes, when I need it: an out-of-date concern, an old tin kettle of sorts. Well, he was on his way to Paris in a motor-car, or rather on the roof of a motor-car, inside a trunk in which I packed him. But, unfortunately, the motor was unable to reach Paris until after the execution. Thereupon....”
Prasville stared at M. Nicole with an air of stupefaction. If he had retained the least doubt of the individual’s real identity, this manner of dealing with Daubrecq would have removed it. By Jingo! To pack a man in a trunk and pitch him on the top of a motor-car!... No one but Lupin would indulge in such a freak, no one but Lupin would confess it with that ingenuous coolness!
“Thereupon,” echoed Prasville, “you decided what?”
“I cast about for another method.”
“What method?”