CHAPTER 9: SHERLOCK HOLMES ARRIVES
TOO LATE

t's really curious, your likeness to Arsène Lupin, my dear Velmont."

"Do you know him?"

"Oh, just as everybody does--by his photographs, not one of which in the least resembles the others; but they all leave the impression of the same face . . . which is undoubtedly yours."

Horace Velmont seemed rather annoyed.

"I suppose you're right Devanne. You're not the first to tell me of it, I assure you."

"Upon my word," persisted Devanne, "if you had not been introduced to me by my cousin d'Estavan, and if you were not the well-known painter whose charming sea-pieces I admire so much, I'm not sure but that I should have informed the police of your presence at Dieppe."

The sally was received with general laughter. There were gathered, in the great dining-room of Thibermesnil Castle, in addition to Velmont, the Abbé Gélis, rector of the village, and a dozen officers whose regiments were taking part in the manoevers in the neighborhood, and who jad accepted the invitation of Georges Devanne, the banker, and his mother. One of them exclaimed:

"But, I say, wasn't Arsène Lupin seen on the coast after his famous performance in the train between Paris and Le Havre?"

"Just so, three months ago; and the week after I made the acquaintance, at the Casino, of our friend Velmont here, who has since honored me with a few visits: an agreeable preliminary to a more serious call which I presume he means to pay me one of these days . . . or, rather, one of these nights!"

The company laughed once more, and moved into the old guard-room--a huge, lofty hall which occupies the whole of the lower portion of the Tower Guillaume, and which Georges Devanne has arranged all the incomparable treasures accumulated through the centuries by the lords of Thibermesnil. It is filled and adorned with old chests and credence-tables, fire-dogs and candelabra. Splendid tapestries hand on the stonewalls. The deep embrasures of the four windows are furnished with seats and end in pointed casements with leaded panes. Between the door and the window on the left stands a monumental Renaissance book-case, on the pediment of which is inscribed, in gold letters, the word "THIBERMESNIL" and underneath it is the proud motto of the family: "Fais ce que veux." [Do what thou wilt]

And as they were lighting their cigars, Devanne added:

"But you will have to hurry, Velmont, for this is the last night on which you will have a chance."

"And why the last night?" said the painter, who certainly took the jest in very good part.

Devanne was about to reply when his mother made signs to him. But the excitement of the dinner and the wish to interest his guests were too much for him:

"Pooh!" he muttered. "Why shouldn't I tell them? There's no indiscretion to be feared now."

They sat round him, filled with a lively curiosity, and he declared, with the self-satisfied air of a man announcing a great piece of news:

"To-morrow, at four o'clock in the afternoon, I shall have here, as my guest, Sherlock Holmes, the great English detective, for whom no mystery exists, the most extraordinary solver of riddles that has ever been known, the wonderful individual who might have been the creation of a novelist's brain."

There was a general exclamation. Sherlock Holmes at Thibermesnil! The thing was serious, then? Was Arsene Lupin really in the district?

"Arsene Lupin and his gang are not very far away. Without counting Baron Cahorn's mishap, to whom are we to ascribe the daring burglaries at Montigny and Gruchet and Crasville if not to our national thief? To-day it's my turn."

"And have you had a warning, like Baron Cahorn?"

"The same trick does not succeed twice."

"Then? . . ."

"Look here."

He rose, and, pointing to a little empty space between two tall folios on one of the shelves of the bookcase, said:

"There was a book here -- a sixteenth-century book, entitled *The Chronicles of Thibermesnil -- which was the history of the castle since the time of its construction by Duke Rollo, on the site of a feudal fortress. It contained three engraved plates. One of the presented a general view of the domain as a whole; the second a plan of the building; and the third -- I call your special attention to this -- the sketch of an underground passage, one of whose outlets opens outside the first line of the ramparts, while the other ends here -- yes, in this very hall where we are sitting. Now this book disappeared last month."

"By Jove!" said Velmont, "that's a bad sign. Only it's not enough to justify the intervention of Sherlock Holmes."

"Certainly it would not have been enough if another fact had not come to give its full significance to that which I have just told you. There as a second copy of the chronicle in the Bibliothèque Nationale, and the two copies differed in certain details concerning the underground passage, such as the addition of a sectional drawing, and a scale and a number of notes, not printed, but written in ink and more or less obliterated. I knew of these particulars, and I knew that the definite sketch could not be reconstructed except by carefully comparing the two plans. Well, on the day after that on which my copy disappeared the one in the Bibliothèque Nationale was applied for by a reader who carried it off without any clue as to the manner in which the theft had been effected."

These words were greeted with many exclamations.

"This time the affair grows serious."

"Yes; and this time," said Devanne, "the police were roused, and there was a double inquiry which, however, led to no result.

"Like all those aimed at Arsene Lupin."

"Exactly. It then occurred to me to write and ask for the help of Sherlock Holmes, who replied that he had the keenest wish to come into contact with Arsène Lupin."

"What an honor for Arsene Lupin!" said Velmont. "But if our national thief, as you call him, should not be contemplating a project upon Thibermesnil, then there will be nothing for Sherlock Holmes to do but twiddle his thumbs."

"There is another matter which is sure to interest him: the discovery of the underground passage."

"Why, you told us that one end opened in the fields and the other here, in the guard-room!"

"Yes, but in what part of it?" The line that represents the tunnel on the plans finishes, at one end, at a little circle accompanied by the initials T. G., which, of course, stands for Tower Guillaume. But it's a round tower, and who can decide at which point in the circle the line in the drawing touches?"

Devanne lit a second cigar, and poured himself out a glass of Benedictine. The others pressed him with questions. He smiled with pleasure at the interest which he had aroused. At last, he said:

"The secret is lost. Not a person in the world knows it. The story says that the high and mighty lords handed it down to one another, on their death-beds, from father to son, until the day when Geoffrey, the last of the name, lost his head on the scaffold, on the seventh of Thermidor, Year Second, in the nineteenth year of his age."

"Yes, but more than a century has passed since then; and it must have been looked for."

"It has been looked for, but in vain. I myself, after I bought the castle from the great-grand-nephew of Leribourg of the National Convention, had excavations made. What was the good? Remember that this tower is surrounded by water on every side, and only joined to the castle by a bridge, and that, consequently, the tunnel must pass under the old moats. The plan in the Bibliothèque Nationale shows a series of four staircases, comprising forty-eight steps, which allows for a depth of over ten yards, and the scale annexed to the other plans fixes the length at two hundred yards. As a matter of fact, the whole problem lies here, between this floor, that ceiling, and these walls; and, upon my word, I do not feel inclined to have them pulled down."

"And is there no clue?"

"Not one."

The Abbé Gélis objected.

"Monsieur Devanne, we have to reckon with two quotations . . ."

"Oh," cried Devanne, laughing, "the rector is a great rummager of family papers, a great reader of memoirs, and he fondly loves everything that has to do with Thibermesnil. But the explanation to which he refers only serves to confuse matters."

"But tell us what it is."

"Do you really care to hear?"

"Immensely."

"Well, you must know that, as a result of his reading, he has discovered that two kings of France held the key to the riddle."

"Two kings of France?"

"Henry IV and Louis the XVI."

"Two famous men. And how did the rector find out?"

"Oh, it's very simple," continued Devanne. "Two days before the battle of Arques, King Henry IV came to sup and sleep in the castle. At eleven o'clock, Louise de Tonquerville, the prettiest lady in Normandy, was brought into the castle through the subterranian passage by Duke Edgar, who at the same time confided the secret to the King. This secret Henry IV revealed later to Sully, his minister, who tells the story in his *Royales Economies d'État, without adding any comment besides this incomprehensible phrase: 'Turn one eye on the bee that shakes, the other eye will lead to God.'

A silence followed, and Velmont laughed:

"It's not as clear as daylight, is it?"

"That's what I say. The rector maintains that Sully set down the key to the puzzle by means of those words, without betraying the secret to the scribes to whom he dictated his memoirs."

"It's an ingenious supposition."

"True. But what is the eye that turns? What is the bee that shakes?"

"And who goes to God?"

"Goodness knows!"

"And what about our good King Louis XVI.? Was it also to receive a lady that he caused the passage to be opened?" asked Velmont.

"I don't know," said M. Devanne. "All I can say is Louis XVI. stayed at Thibermesnil in 1784, and the famous Iron Cupboard discovered at the Louvre on the information of the Gamain, the locksmith, contained a paper with these words written in the king's hand: 'Thibermesnil, 3-4-11.'" (4)

[4. see endnotes]

Horace Velmont laughed aloud.

"Victory! The darkness is dispelled!"

"Laugh as you please, sir," said the rector. "Those two quotations contain the solution for all that, and one of these days some one will come along who knows how to interpret them."

"Sherlock Holmes is the man," said Devanne, "unless Arsène Lupin forestalls him. What do you think, Velmont?"

Velmont rose, laid his hand on Devanne's shoulder, and declared:

"I think that the data supplied by your book and the copy in the Bibliothèque Nationale lacked just one link of the highest importance, and that you have been kind enough to supply it. I am much obliged to you."

"Well? . . ."

"Well, now that the eye has turned and the bee has shaken, all I have to do is set to work."

"Without losing a minute?"

"Without losing a second! You see, I must rob your castle to-night, that is to say, before Sherlock Holmes arrives."

"You're quite right; you have only just got time. Would you like me to drive you?"

"To Dieppe?"

"Yes, I may as well fetch Monsieur and Madame d'Androl and a young lady friend of theirs, who are arriving by the midnight train."

Then, turning to the officers:

"We shall all meet here at lunch to-morrow, sha'n't we, gentlemen? I rely upon you, for the castle is to be invested by your regiments and taken by assault at eleven in the morning."

The invitation was accepted, the officers took their leave, and a minute later a powerful motorcar was carrying Devanne and Velmont along the Dieppe road. Devanne dropped the painter at the Casino, and went on to the station.

His friends arrived at midnight, and at half-past twelve the motor passed through the gates of Thibermesnil. At one o'clock, after a light supper served in the drawing-room, every one went to bed. The lights were extinguished one by one. The deep silence of the night enshrouded the castle.

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But the moon pierced the coulds that veiled it, and, throught two of the windows, filled the hall with the light of its white beams. This lasted for but a moment. Soon the moon was hidden behind the curtain of the hills, and all was darkness. The silence increased as the shadows thickened. At most it was disturbed, from time to time, by the creaking of the furniture or the rustling of the reeds in the pond which bathes the old walls with its green waters.

The clock told the endless ticks of its seconds. It struck two. Then once more the seconds fell hastily and monotonously in the heavy stillness of the night. Then three struck. And suddenly something gave a clash, like the arm of a railway-signal that drops as a train passes, and a thin streak of light crossed the hall from one end to the other, like an arrow, leaving a glittering track behind it. It issued from the central groove of a pilaster against which the pediment of the bookcase rests upon the right. It lingered upon the opposite panel ina dazzling circle, next wandered on every side like a restless glance searching the darkness, and then faded away, only to appear once more, while the whole of one section of the bookcase turned upon its axis, and revealed a wide opening shaped like a vault.

A man entered, holding an electric lantern in his hand. Another man and a third emerged, carrying a coil of rope and differrent implements. The first man looked round the room, listened, and said:

"Call the others."

Eight men came out ofthe underground passage -- eight strapping fellows, with determined faces. And the removal began.

It did not take long. Arsène Lupin passed from one piece to another, exmined it, and, according to its size or its artistic value, spared it or gave an order:

"Take it away."

And the piece in question was removed, swallowed byy the yawning mouth of the tunnel, and sent down into the bowels of the earth.

And thus were juggled away six Louis XV. armchairs and as many occasional chairs, a number of Aubusson tapestries, some candelabra signed by Gouthière, two Fragonards and a Nattier, a bust byy Houdon, and some statuettes. At times Arsène Lupin would stop before a magnificent oak chest or a splendid picture and sigh:

"That's to heavy . . . Too big . . . What a pity!"

And he would continue his expert survey.

In forty minutes the hall was "cleared," to use Arsène's expression. And all this was accomplished in an admirably orderly manner, without the least noise, as though all the objects which the men were handling hadbeen wrapped in thick wadding.

To the last man who was leaving, crrying a clock signed by Boule, he said:

"You need not come back. You understand, don't you, that as soon as the motor-van is loaded you're to make for the barn at Roquefort?"

"What about yourself, govenor?"

"Leave me the motor-cycle."

When the man had gone he pushed the movable section of the bookcase back into its place, and, after clearing away the traces of the removal and the footmarks, he raised a curtain and entered a gallery which served as a communication between the tower and the castle. Half-way down the gallery stood a glass case, and it was because of this case that Arsène Lupin had continued his investigations.

It contained marvels: an unique collection of watches, snuff-boxes, rings, chatelaines, miniatures of the most exquisite workmanship. He forced the lock with a jimmy, and it was an unspeakable pleasure to him to finger those gems of gold and silver,thos precious and dainty little works of art.

Hanging round his neck was a large canvas bag specially contrived to hold these windfalls. He filled it. He also filled the pockets of his jacket, waistcoat, and trousers. And he was stuffing under his left arm a heap of those pearl reticules beloved of our ancestors and so eagerly sought after by our present fashion . . . when a slight sound fell upon his ear.

He listened; he was not mistaken; the noise became clearer.

And suddenly he remembered. At the end of the gallery an inner staircase led to a room which had been hitherto unoccupied, but which had been allotted that evening to the young girl whom Devanne hd gone to meet at Dieppe with his friends the d'Androls

With a quick movement he pressed the spring of his lantern and extinguished it. He had just time to hide in the recess of a window when the door at the top of the staircase opened and the gallery was lit by a faint gleam.

He had a feeling -- for, half-hidden behind a curtain, he could not see -- that a figure was cautiously descending the top stairs. He hoped that it would come no farther. It continued, however, and took several steps into the gallery. But it gave a cry. It must have caught sight of the broken case, three-quarters emptied of its contents.

By the scent he recognized the presence of a woman. Her dress almost touched the curtain that concealed him, and he seemed to hear her heart beating, while she must needs herself perceive the presence of another person behind her in the dark, within reachof her hand. He said to himself:

"She's frightened . . . she'll go back . . . she is bound to go back."

She did not go back. The candle shaking in her hand became steadier. She turned round, hesitated for a moment, appeared to be listening to the alarming silence, and then, with a sudden movement, pulled back the curtain.

Their eyes met.

Arsène mrmured, in confusion:

"You . . . you . . . Miss Nellie!"

It was Nellie Underdown, the passenger on the Provence, the girl who had mingled her dreams with his during that never-to-be-forgotten crossing, who had witnessed his arrest, and who, rather than betray him, had generously flung into the sea the kodak in which he had hidden the stolen jewels and bank-notes! . . . It was Nellie Underdown, the dear, sweet girl whose image had so often saddened or gladdened his long hours spent in prison!

So extraordinary was their chance meeting in this castle and at that hour of the night that they did not stir, did not utter a word, dumfounded and, as it were, hypnotized by the fantastic apparition which each of them presented to the other's eyes.

Nellie, shattered with emotion, staggered to a seat.

He remained standing in front of her. And gradually, as the interminable seconds passed, he became aware of the impression which he must be making at that moment, with his arms loaded with curiosities, his pockets stuffed, his bag filled to bursting. A great sense of confusion mastered him, and he blushed to find himself there in the mean plight of a thief caught in the act. To her henceforth, come what may, he was the thief, the man who puts his hand into other men's pockets, the man who picks locks and enters doors by stealth.

One of the watches rolled upon the carpet, followed by another. And more things came slipping from under his arms, which were unable to retain them. Then, quickly making up his mind, he dropped a part of his booty into a chair, emptied his pockets, and took off his bag.

He now felt easier in Nellie's presence, and took a step towards her, with the intention of speaking to her. But she made a movement of recoil and rose quickly, as though seized with fright, and ran to the guard-room. The curtain fell behind her. He followed her. She stood there, trembling and speechless, and her eyes gazed in terror upon the great devastated hall.

Without a moment's hesitation, he said:

"At three o'clock tomorrow everything shall be restored to its place. . . . The things shall be brought back."

She did not reply; and he repeated:

"At three o'clock tomorrow, I give you my solemn pledge. . . . No power on earth shall prevent me from keeping my promise. . . . . At three o'clock tomorrow."

A long silence weighed upon them both. He dared not break it, and the girl's emotion made him suffer in every nerve. Softly, without a word, he moved away.

And he thought to himself:

"She must go! . . . She must feel that she is free to go! . . . She must not be afraid of me! . . ."

But suddenly she started, and stammered:

"Hark! . . . Footsteps! . . . I hear someone coming . . ."

He looked at her with surprise. She appeared distraught, as though at the approach of danger.

"I hear nothing," he said, "and even so . . ."

"Why, you must fly! . . . Quick, fly! . . ."

"Fly . . . why?"

"You must! . . . you must! . . . Ah, don't stay!"

She rushed to the entrance to the gallery and listened. No, there was no one there. Perhaps the sound had come from the outside. . . . She waited a second, and then, reassured, turned round.

Arsène Lupin had disappeared.

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Devanne's first thought, on ascertaining that his castle had been pillaged, found expression in the words which he spoke to himself:

"This is Velmont's work, and Velmont is none other than Arsène Lupin."

All was explained by this means, and nothing could be explained by any other. And yet the idea only just passed through his mind, for it seemed almost impossible that Velmont should not be Velmont -- that is to say, the well-known painter, the club friend of his cousin d'Estavan. And when the sergeant of gendarmes had been sent for and arrived, Devanne did not even think of telling him of this absurd conjecture.

The whole of that morning was spent, at Thibermesnil, in an indescribable hubbub. The gendarmes, the rural police, the commisry of police from Dieppe, the inhabitants of the village thronged the passages, the park, the approaches to the castle. The arrival of the troops taking part in the manoevres and the crack of the rifles added to the picturesqueness of the scene.

The early investigations furnished no clue. The windows had not been broken nor the doors smashed in. There was no doubt but that the removal had been effected through the secret passage. And yet there was no trace of footsteps on the carpet, no unusual mark upon the walls.

There was one unexpected thing, however, which clearly pointed to the fanciful methods of Arsène Lupin: the famous sixteenth-century chronicle had been restored to its old place in the bookcase, and beside it stood a similar volume, which was none other than the copy stolen from the Biliothèque Nationale.

The officers arrived at eleven. Devanne received them gayly; however annoyed he might feel at the loss of his artistic treasures, his fortune was large enough to enable him to bear it without showing ill-humor. His friends the d'Androls and Nellie came down from their rooms, and the officers were introduced.

One of the guests was missing: Horace Velmont. Was he not coming? He walked in upon the stroke of twelve, and Devanne exclaimed:

"Good! There you are at last!"

"Am I late?"

"No, but you might have been . . . after such an exciting night! You have heard the news, I suppose?"

"What news?"

"You robbed the castle last night."

"Nonsense!"

"I tell you, you did. But give your arm to Miss Underdown, and let us go in to lunch . . . Miss Underdown, let me introduce . . ."

He stopped, struck by the confusion on the girl's features. Then, seized with a sudden recollection, he said:

"Ah, of course, you once travelled on the same ship with Arsène Lupin . . . before his arrest. . . . You are surprised by the likeness, no doubt?"

She did not reply. Velmont stood before her, smiling. He bowed; she took his arm. He led her to her place, and sat down opposite to her. . . .

During lunch they talked of nothing but Arsène Lupin, the stolen furniture, the underground passage, and Sherlock Holmes. Not until the end of the meal, when other subjects were broached, did Velmont join in the conversation. He was amusing and serious, eloquent and witty, by turns. And whatever he said he appeared to say with the sole object of interesting Nellie. She, wholly engrossed in her own thoughts, seemed not to hear him.

Coffee was served on the terrace overlooking the court-yard and the French garden in front of the castle. The regimental band played on the lawn, and a crowd of peasants and soldiers strolled about the walks in the park.

Nellie was thinking of Arsène Lupin's promise:

"At three o'clock everything will be returned. I give you my solemn pledge."

At three o'clock! And the hands of the great clock in the right wing pointed to twenty to three. In spite of herself, she kept looking at it. And she also looked at Velmont, who was swinging peacefully in a comfortable rocking chair.

Ten minutes to three . . . five minutes to three . . . A sort of impatience, mingled with a sense of equisite pain, racked the young girl's mind. Was it possible for the miracle to be accomplished and to be accomplished atthe fixed time, when the castle, the court-yard, and the country around were filled with people, and when, at that very moment, the public prosecutor and the examining magistrate were pursuing their investigations?

And still . . . still, Arsène Lupin had given such a solemn promise!

"It will happen just as he said," she thought, impressed by all the man's energy, authority, and certainty.

And it seemed to her no longer a miracle, but a natural event that was bound to take place in the ordinary course of things.

For a second their eyes met. She blushed, and turned her head away.

Three o'clock. . . . The first stroke rang out, the second, the third. . . . Horace Velmont took out his watch, glanced up at the clock, and put his watch back in his pocket. A few seconds elapsed. And then the crowd opened out around the lawn to make way for two carriages that had just passed through the park gates, each drawn by two horses. They were two of those regimental wagons which carry the cooking-utensils of the officers' mess and the soldier's kits. They stopped in front of the steps. A quarter-master sergeant jumped down from the box of the first wagon and asked for M. Devanne.

Devanne ran down the steps. Under the awnings, carefully packed and wrapped up, were his pictures, his furniture, his works of art of all kinds.

The sergeant replied to the questions put to him by producing the order which the adjutant on duty had given him, and which the adjutant himself received that morning in the orderly room. The order stated that No. 2 company of the fourth battalion was to see that the goods and chattels deposited at the Halleux cross-roads, in the Foret of Arques, were delivered at three o'clock to M. Georges Devanne, the owner of Thibermesnil Castle. It bore the signature of Colonel Beauvel.

"I found everything ready for us at the crossroads," added the sergeant, "laid out on the grass, under the charge of . . . any one passing. That struck me as queer, but . . . well, sir, the order was plain enough!"

One of the officers examined the signature: it was a good copy, but forged.

The band had stopped. The wagons were emptied, and the furniture carried indoors.

In the midst of this excitement Nellie Underdown was left standing alone at one end of the terrace. She was grave and anxious, full of vague thoughts, which she did not seek to formulate. Suddenly she saw Velmont coming up to her. She wished to avoid him, but the corner of the balustrade that borders the terrace hemmed her in on two sides, and a row of great tubs of shrubs-- orange-trees, laurels, and bamboos -- left her no other way of escape than that by which Velmont was approaching. She did not move. A ray of sunlight quivered on her golden hair, shaken by the frail leaves of a bamboo-plant. She heard a soft voice say:

"Have I not kept my promise I made you last night?"

Arsène Lupin tood by her side, and there was no one else near them.

He repeated, in a hesitating attitude and a timid voice:

"Have I not kept my promise I made you last night?"

He expected a word of thanks, a gesture at least, to prove the interest which she took in his action. She was silent.

Her scorn irritated Arsène Lupin, and at the same time he received a profound sense of all that separated him from Nellie, now that she knew the truth. He would have liked to exonerate himself, to seek excuses, to show his life in its bolder and greater aspects. But the words jarred upon him before they were uttered, and he felt the absurity and the impertinence of any explanation. Then, overcome by a flood of memories, he murmured, sadly:

"How distant the past seems! Do you remember the long hours on the deck of the Provence? . . . Ah, stay . . . one day you had a rose in your hand, as you have today, a pale rose, like this one. . . . I asked you for it . . . you seemed not to hear. . . . However, when you had gone below, I found the rose . . . you had dropped it, no doubt . . . I have kept it ever since. . . ."

She still made no reply. She seemed very far fro him. He continued:

"For the sake of those dear hours, do not think of what you know. Let the past be joined to the present! Let me not be the man whom you saw last night, but your fellow-passenger on that voyage!"

She raised her eyes and looked at him as he had requested. Then, without saying a word, she pointed to a ring he was wearing on his forefinger. Only the ring was visible; but the setting, which was turned toward the palm of his hand, consisted of a magnificent ruby. Arsène Lupin blushed. The ring belonged to Georges Devanne. He smiled bitterly, and said:

"You are right. Nothing can be changed. Arsène Lupin is now and always will be Arsène Lupin. To you, he cannot be even so much as a memory. Pardon me . . . I should have known that any attention I may now offer you is simply an insult. Forgive me."

He stepped aside, hat in hand. Nelly passed before him. He was inclined to detain her and beseech her forgiveness. But his courage failed, and he contented himself by following her with his eyes, as he had done when she descended the gangway tot he pier at New York. She mounted the steps leading to the door, and disappeared within the house. He saw her no more.

A cloud obscured the sun. Arsène Lupin stood watching the imprints of her tiny feet in the sand. Suddenly, he gave a start. Upon the box which contained the bamboo, beside which Nelly had been standing, he saw the rose, the white rose which he had so coveted but dared not ask for. Forgotten, no doubt, also! But how -- designedly or through distraction? He seized it eagerly. Some of its petals fell to the ground. He picked them up, one by one, like precious relics.

"Come!" he said to himself. "I have nothing more to do here. I must think of my safety, before Sherlock Holmes arrives."

The park was deserted, but some gendarmes were stationed at the park-gate. He entered a grove of pine trees, leaped over the wall, and, as a short cut to the railroad station, followed a path across the fields. After walking about ten minutes, he arrived at a spot where the road grew narrower and ran between two steep banks. In this ravine, he met a man travelling in the opposite direction. It was a man about fifty years of age, tall, smooth-shaven, and wearing clothes of a foreign cut. He carried a heavy cane, and a small satchel was strapped across his shoulder. When they met, the stranger spoke, with a slight English accent:

"Excuse me, monsieur, is this the way to the castle?"

"Yes, monsieur, straight ahead, and turn to the left when you come to the wall. They are expecting you."

"Ah!"

"Yes, my friend Devanne told us last night that you were coming, and I am delighted to be the first to welcome you. Sherlock Holmes has no more ardent admirer than . . . myself."

There was a touch of irony in his voice that he quickly regretted, for Sherlock Holmes scrutinized him from head to foot with such a keen, penetrating eye that Arsène Lupin experienced the sensation of being seized, imprisoned and registered by that look more thoroughly and precisely than he had ever been by a camera.

"My negative is taken now," he thought, "and it will be useless to use a disguise with that man. He would look right through it. But, I wonder, has he recognized me?"

They bowed to each other as if about to part. But, at that moment, they heard a sound of horses' feet, accompanied by a clinking of steel. It was the gendarmes. The two men were obliged to draw back against the embankment, amongst the bushes, to avoid the horses. The gendarmes passed by, but, as they followed each other at a considerable distance, they were several minutes in doing so. And Lupin was thinking:

"It all depends on that question: has he recognized me? If so, he will probably take advantage of the opportunity. It is a trying situation."

When the last horseman had passed, Sherlock Holmes stepped forth and brushed the dust from his clothes. His bag caught on a branch and Lupin leaned forward to help loose him. Then, for a moment, he and Arsène Lupin gazed at each other; and, if a person could have seen them at that moment, it would have been an interesting sight, and memorable as the first meeting of two remarkable men, so strange, so powerfully equipped, both of superior quality, and destined by fate, through their peculiar attributes, to hurl themselves one at the other like two equal forces that nature opposes, one against the other, in the realms of space.

Then the Englishman said: "Thank you, monsieur."

"You are quite welcome," replied Arsène Lupin.

They parted. Lupin went toward the railway station, and Sherlock Holmes continued on his way to the castle.

The local officers had given up the investigation after several hours of fruitless efforts, and the people at the castle were awaiting the arrival of the English detective with a lively curiosity. At first sight, they were a little disappointed on account of his commonplace appearance, which differed so greatly from the pictures they had formed of him in their own minds. He did not in any way resemble the romantic hero, the mysterious and diabolical personage that the name of Sherlock Holmes had evoked in their imaginations. However, M. Devanne exlaimed, with great gusto:

"Ah! Monsieur, you are here! I am delighted to see you. It is a long-deferred pleasure. Really, I scarcely regret what has happened, since it affords me the opportunity to meet you. But, how did you come?"

"By the train."

"But I sent my automobile to meet you at the station."

"An official reception, eh? With music and fireworks! Oh, no! Not for me. That is not the way I do business," grumbled the Englishman.

This speech disconcerted Devanne, who replied, with a forced smile:

"Fortunately, the business has been greatly simplified since I wrote to you."

"In what way?"

"The robbery took place last night."

"If you had not announced my intended visit, it is probable the robbery would not have been committed last night."

"When, then?"

"Tomorrow, or some other day."

"And in that case?"

"Lupin would have been trapped."

"And my furniture?"

"Would not have been carried away."

"Ah! But my goods are here. They were brought back at three o'clock."

"By Lupin?"

"By two army-wagons."

Sherlock Holmes put on his cap and adjusted his satchel. Devanne exclaimed anxiously:

"But, monsieur, what are you going to do?"

"I am going home."

"Why?"

"Your goods have been returned; Arsène Lupin is far away -- there is nothing for me to do."

"Yes, there is. I need your assistance. What happened yesterday may happen again tomorrow, as we do not know how he entered, or how he escaped, or why, a few hours later, he returned the goods."

"Ah! You don't know--"

The idea of a problem to be solved quickened the interest of Sherlock Holmes.

"Very well, let us make a search -- at once -- and alone, if possible."

Devanne understood, and conducted the Englishman to the salon. In a dry, crisp voice, in sentences that seemed to have been prepared in advance, Holmes asked a number of questions about the events of the preceding evening, and enquired also concerning the guests and the members of the household. Then he examined the two volumes of the "Chronique," compared the plans of the subterranean passage, requested a repetition of the sentences discovered by Father Gélis, and then asked:

"Was yesterday the first time you have spoken of those two sentences to anyone?"

"Yes."

"You have never communicated them to Horace Velmont?"

"No."

"Well, order the automobile. I must leave in an hour."

"In an hour?"

"Yes; within that time, Arsène Lupin solved the problem that you placed before him."

"I . . . I placed before him--"

"Yes, Arsène Lupin or Horace Velmont -- same thing."

"I thought so. Ah! The scoundrel!"

"Now, let us see," said Holmes, "last night at ten o'clock, you furnished Lupin with the information that he lacked, and that he had been seeking for many weeks. During the night, he found time to solve the problem, collect his men, and rob the castle. I shall be quite as expeditious."

He walked from end to end of the room, in deep thought, then sat down, crossed his long legs, and closed his eyes.

Devanne waited, quite embarrassed. Thought he:

"Is the man asleep? Or is he only meditating?"

However, he left the room to give some orders, and when he returned he found the detective on his knees scrutinizing the carpet at the foot of the stairs in the gallery.

"What is it?" he enquired.

"Look . . . there . . . spots from a candle."

"You are right -- and quite fresh."

"And you will also find them at the top of the stairs, and around the cabinet that Arsène Lupin broke into, and from which he took the knick-knacks that he afterwards placed in this armchair."

"What do you conclude from that?"

"Nothing. These facts would doubtless explain the cause for the restitution, but that is a side issue that I cannot wait to investigate. The main question is the secret passage. First, tell me, is there a chapel some two or three hundred metres from the castle?"

"Yes, a ruined chapel, containing the tomb of Duke Rollo."

"Tell your chauffeur to wait for us near the chapel."

"My chauffeur hasn't returned. If he had, they would have informed me. Do you think the secret passage runs to the chapel? What reason have--"

"I would ask you, monsieur," interrupted the detective, "to furnish me with a ladder and a lantern."

"What! Do you require a ladder and a lantern?"

"Certainly, or I shouldn't have asked for them."

Devanne, somewhat disconcerted by this crude logic, rang the bell. The two articles were brought. The succeeding orders were given with the sternness and precision of military commands.

"Place the ladder against the bookcase, to the left of the word Thibermesnil."

Devanne placed the ladder as directed, and the Englishman continued:

"More to the left . . . to the right . . . there! Now, climb up. . . . All the letters are in relief, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"First, turn the letter "I" one way or the other." (4)

[4. see endnotes]

"Which one?" There are two of them."

"The first one."

Devanne took hold of the letter, and exclaimed:

"Ah! Yes, it turns toward the right. Who told you that?"

Sherlock Holmes did not reply to the question, but continued his directions:

"Now, take the letter 'B'. Move it back and forth as you would a bolt."

Devanne did so, and, to his great surprise, it produced a clicking sound.

"Quite right," said Holmes. "Now, we will go to the other end of the word Thibermesnil, try the letter 'I', and see if it will open like a wicket."

With a certain degree of solemnity, Devanne seized the letter. It opened, but Devanne fell from the latdder, for the entire section of the bookcase, lying between the first and last letters of the word, turned on a pivot and disclosed the subterranean passage.

Sherlock Holmes said, coolly:

"You are not hurt?"

"No, no," said Devanne, as he rose to his feet, "not hurt, only bewildered. I can't understand how . . . those letters turn . . . the secret passage opens . . ."

"Certainly. Doesn't that agree exactly with the formula given by Sully? Turn one eye on the bee that shakes, the other eye will lead to God."

"But Louis XVI.?"

"Louis XVI. was a clever locksmith. I have read a book he wrote about combination locks. It was a good idea on the part of the owner of Thibermesnil to show to His Majesty a clever bit of mechanism. As an aid to his memory, the king wrote: 3--4--11, that is to say, the third, fourth, and eleventh letters of the word."

"Exactly. I understand that. It explains how Lupin got out of the room, but it does not explain how he entered. And it is certain that he came from the outside."

Sherlock Holmes lighted his lantern, and stepped into the passage.

"Look! All the mechanism is exposed here, like the works of a clock, and the reverse side of the letters can be reached. Lupin worked the combination from this side -- that is all."

"What proof is there of that?"

"Proof? Why, look at the puddle of oil. Lupin foresaw even that the wheels would require oiling."

"Did he know about the other entrance?"

"As well as I know it," said Holmes. "Follow me."

"Into that dark passage?"

"Are you afraid?"

"No, but are you sure you can find the way out?"

"With my eyes closed."

At first, they descended twelve steps, then twelve more, and, farther on, two other flights of twelve steps each. Then they walked through a long passageway, the brick walls of which showed the marks of successive restorations, and, in spots, were dripping with water. The earth, aslo, was very damp.

"We are passing under the pond," said Devanne, somewhat nervously.

At last, tehy came to a stairway of twelve steps, followed by three others of twelve steps each, which they mounted with difficulty, and then found themselves in a small cavity cut into the rock. They could go no farther.

"The deuce!" muttered Holmes, "nothing but bare walls. This is provoking."

"Let us go back," said Devanne. "I have seen enough to satisfy me."

But the Englishman raised his eyes and uttered a sigh of relief. There, he saw the same mechanism and the same word as before. He had merely to work the three letters. He did so, and a block of granite swung out of place. On the other side, this granite block formed the tombstone of Duke Rollo, and the word "Thibermesnil" was engraved on it in relief. Now, they were in the little ruined chapel, and the detective said:

"The other eye leads to God; that means, to the chapel."

"It is marvellous!" exclaimed Devanne, amazed at the clairvoyance and vivacity of the Englishman. "Can it be possible that those few words were sufficient for you?"

"Bah!" declared Holmes. "They weren't even necessary. In the chart in the book of the Bibliothéque Nationale, the drawing terminates at the left, as you know, in a circle, and at the right, as you do not know, in a cross. Now, that cross must refer to the chapel in which we now stand."

Poor Devanne could not believe his ears. It was all so new, so novel to him. He exclaimed:

"It is incredible, miraculous, and yet of a childish simplicity! How is it that no one has ever solved the mystery?"

"Because no one has ever united the essential elements, that is to say, the two books and the two sentences. No one, but Arsène Lupin and myself."

"But, Father Gélis and I knew all about those things, and, likewise--"

Holmes smiled, and said:

"Monsieur Devanne, not everybody can solve riddles."

"I have been trying for ten years to accomplish what you did in ten minutes."

"Bah! I am used to it."

They emerged from the chapel, and found an automobile.

"Ah! There's an auto waiting for us."

"Yes, it is mine," said Devanne.

"Yours? You said your chauffeur hadn't returned."

They approached the machine, and M. Devanne questioned the chauffeur:

"Edouard, who gave you orders to come here?"

"Why, it was Monsieur Velmont."

"M. Velmont? Did you meet him?"

"Near the railway station, and he told me to come to the chapel."

"To come to the chapel! What for?"

"To wait for you, monsieur, and your friend."

Devanne and Holmes exchanged looks, and M. Devanne said:

"He knew the mystery would be a simple one for you. It is a delicate compliment."

A smile of satisfaction lighted up the detective's serious features for a moment. The compliment pleased him. He shook his head, as he said:

"A clever man! I knew that when I saw him."

"Have you seen him?"

"I met him a short time ago -- on my way from the station."

"And you knew it was Horace Velmont -- I mean, Arsène Lupin?"

"No, but I supposed it was -- from a certain ironical speech he made."

"And you allowed him to escape?"

"Of course I did. And yet I had everything on my side, such as five gendarmes who passed us."

"Sacrebleu!" cried Devanne. "You should have taken advantage of the opportunity."

"Really, monsieur," said the Englishman, haughtily, "when I encounter an adversary like Arsène Lupin, I do not take advantage of chance opportunities, I create them."

But time pressed, and since Lupin had been so kind as to send the automobile, they resolved to profit by it. They seated themselves in the comfortable limousine; Edouard took his place at the wheel, and away they went toward the railway station. Suddenly, Devanne's eyes fell upon a small package in one of the pockets of the carriage.

"Ah! What is that? A package! Whose is it? Why, it is for you."

"For me?"

"Yes, it is addressed: 'Sherlock Holmes, from Arsène Lupin.'"

"The Englishman took the package, opened it, and found that it contained a watch.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, with an angry gesture.

"A watch, said Devanne. "How did it come there?"

The detective did not reply.

"Oh! It is your watch! Arsène Lupin returns your watch! But, in order to return it, he must have taken it. Ah! I see! He took your watch! That is a good one! Sherlock Holmes' watch stolen by Arsène Lupin! Mon Dieu! That is funny! Really . . . you must excuse me . . . I can't help it."

He roared with laughter, unable to control himself. After which, he said, in a tone of earnest conviction: "A clever man, indeed!"

The Englishman never moved a muscle. On the way to Dieppe, he never spoke a word, but fixed his gaze on the flying landscape. His silence was terrible, unfathomable, more violent than the wildest rage. At the railway station, he spoke calmly, but in a voice that impressed one with the vast energy and will power of that famous man. He said:

"Yes, he is a clever man, but some day I shall have the pleasure of placing on his shoulder the hand I now offer to you, Monsieur Devanne. And I believe that Arsène Lupin and Sherlock Holmes will meet again some day. Yes, the world is too small -- we will meet -- we must meet -- and then--"

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FOOTNOTES (be advised, it's best to finish the story before reading these translation notes)

[3. The translation here is changed almost entirely during this conversation to give the English reader a better understanding of how the story works. The other translation says:

'La hache tournoie dans l'air qui frémit, mais l'aile s'ouvre et l'on va jusqu' à Dieu.' (The axe turns on the air that shakes, but the wing opens and leads one to God.)

A silence followed, and Velmont laughed:

"It's not as clear as daylight, is it?"

"That's what I say. The rector maintains that Sully set down the key to the puzzle by means of those words, without betraying the secret to the scribes to whom he dictated his memoirs."

"It's an ingenious supposition."

"True. But what is the axe that turns? What bird is it whose wing opens?"

"And who goes to God?"

"Goodness knows!"

"And what about our good King Louis the Sixteenth? Was it also to receive a lady that he caused the passage to be opened?" asked Velmont.

"I don't know," said M. Devanne. "All I can say is Louis the Sixteenth stayed at Thibermesnil in 1784, and the famous Iron Cupboard discovered at the Louvre on the information of the Gamain, the locksmith, contained a paper with these words written in the king's hand: 'Thibermesnil, 2-6-12.'"

Horace Velmont laughed aloud.

"Victory! The darkness is dispelled. Twice six are twelve!"]

 

[4. The other translation continutes:

"First, turn the letter 'H' one way or the other."

Devanne took hold of the letter, and exclaimed:

"Ah! Yes, it turns toward the right. Who told you that?"

Sherlock Holmes did not reply to the question, but continued his directions:

"Now, take the letter 'R'. Move it back and forth as you would a bolt."

Devanne did so, and, to his great surprise, it produced a clicking sound.

"Quite right," said Holmes. "Now, we will go to the other end of the word Thibermesnil, try the letter 'L', and see if it will open like a wicket."

With a certain degree of solemnity, Devanne seized the letter. . . .

(Holmes:) "Doesn't that agree exactly with the formula given by Sully? La hache tournoie dans l'air qui frémit, mais l'aile s'ouvre et l'on va jusqu' à Dieu -- The axe turns on the air that shakes, but the wing opens and leads one to God."

(At this point, the explanation is more apparent. The French word 'hache', or axe, sounds like the French pronunciation of the letter 'H', the French word 'air', also air in English, sounds like the French pronunciation of the letter 'R', and the French word 'aile', or wing, sounds like the French pronunciation for the letter 'L'. The translation used here changed those letters and words to English equivalents in a pattern that still makes sense.)

"But Louis the Sixteenth?"

"Louis the Sixteenth was a clever locksmith. I have read a book he wrote about combination locks. It was a good idea on the part of the owner of Thibermesnil to show to His Majesty a clever bit of mechanism. As an aid to his memory, the king wrote: 2-6-12, that is to say, the second, sixth, and twelfth letters of the word."]

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