Naturally timid and impressed by all these events, she spontaneously sought at my side the protection which I was happy to offer her.

In my heart, I blessed Arsène Lupin. Was it not he who had brought us together? Was it not to him that I owed the right to abandon myself to my fondest dreams? Dreams of love and dreams more practical: why not confess it? The d’Andrézys are of good Poitevin stock, but the gilt of their blazon is a little worn; and it did not seem to me unworthy of a man of family to think of restoring the lost lustre of his name.

Nor, I was convinced, did these dreams offend Nellie. Her smiling eyes gave me leave to indulge them. Her soft voice bade me hope.

And we remained side by side until the last moment, with our elbows resting on the bulwark rail, while the outline of the American coast grew more and more distinct.

The search had been abandoned. All seemed expectation. From the first-class saloon to the steerage, with its swarm of emigrants, every one was waiting for the supreme moment when the insoluble riddle would be explained. Who was Arsène Lupin? Under what name, under what disguise was the famous Arsène Lupin lurking?

The supreme moment came. If I live to be a hundred, never shall I forget its smallest detail.

“How pale you look, Nellie!” I said, as she leaned, almost fainting, on my arm.

“And you, too. Oh, how you have changed!” she replied.

“Think what an exciting minute this is and how happy I am to pass it at your side. I wonder, Nellie, if your memory will sometimes linger…”

All breathless and fevered, she was not listening. The gangplank was lowered. But, before we were allowed to cross it, men came on board: custom-house officers, men in uniform, postmen.

Nellie murmured:

“I shouldn’t be surprised even if we heard that Arsène Lupin had escaped during the crossing!”

“He may have preferred death to dishonor, and plunged into the Atlantic rather than submit to arrest!”

“Don’t jest about it,” said she, in a tone of vexation.

Suddenly I gave a start and, in answer to her question, I replied:

“Do you see that little old man standing by the gang-plank?”

“The one in a green frock-coat with an umbrella?”

“That’s Ganimard.”

“Ganimard?”

“Yes, the famous detective who swore that he would arrest Arsène Lupin with his own hand. Ah, now I understand why we received no news from this side of the ocean. Ganimard was here, and he does not care to have any one interfering in his little affairs.”

“So Arsène Lupin is sure of being caught?”

“Who can tell? Ganimard has never seen him, I believe, except made-up and disguised. Unless he knows the name under which he is travelling…”

“Ah,” she said, with a woman’s cruel curiosity, “I should love to see the arrest!”

“Have patience,” I replied. “No doubt Arsène Lupin has already observed his enemy’s presence. He will prefer to leave among the last, when the old man’s eyes are tired.”

The passengers began to cross the gang-plank. Leaning on his umbrella with an indifferent air, Ganimard seemed to pay no attention to the throng that crowded past between the two hand-rails. I noticed that one of the ship’s officers, standing behind him, whispered in his ear from time to time.

The Marquis de Raverdan, Major Rawson, Rivolta, the Italian, went past, and others and many more. Then I saw Rozaine approaching.

Poor Rozaine! He did not seem to have recovered from his misadventures!

“It may be he, all the same,” said Nellie. “What do you think?”

“I think it would be very interesting to have Ganimard and Rozaine in one photograph. Would you take the camera? My hands are so full.”

I gave it to her, but too late for her to use it. Rozaine crossed. The officer bent over to Ganimard’s ear; Ganimard gave a shrug of the shoulders; and Rozaine passed on.

But then who, in Heaven’s name, was Arsène Lupin?

“Yes,” she said, aloud, “who is it?”

There were only a score of people left. Nellie looked at them, one after the other, with the bewildered dread that he was not one of the twenty.

I said to her:

“We cannot wait any longer.”

She moved on. I followed her. But we had not taken ten steps when Ganimard barred our passage.

“What does this mean?” I exclaimed.

“One moment, sir. What’s your hurry?”

“I am escorting this young lady.”

“One moment,” he repeated, in a more mysterious voice.

He stared hard at me, and then, looking me straight in the eyes, said:

“Arsène Lupin, I believe.”

I gave a laugh.

“No, Bernard d’Andrézy, simply.”

“Bernard d’Andrézy died in Macedonia, three years ago.”

“If Bernard d’Andrézy were dead I could not be here. And it’s not so. Here are my papers.”

“They are his papers.