92, a small, low-storied house, of which the ground-floor was occupied by the proprietor of a dram-shop, who stood smoking in his doorway, next to the entrance-passage. Lupin asked if Mr. Hargrove was at home.

“Mr. Hargrove went out about half-an-hour ago,” said the publican. “He seemed very much excited and took a taxi-cab, a thing he doesn’t often do.”

“And you don’t know …”

“Where he was going? Well, there’s no secret about it He shouted it loud enough! ‘Prefecture of Police’ is what he said to the driver …”

Lupin was himself just hailing a taxi, when he changed his mind; and I heard him mutter:

“What’s the good? He’s got too much start of us …”

He asked if any one called after Mr. Hargrove had gone.

“Yes, an old gentleman with a grey beard and spectacles. He went up to Mr. Hargrove’s, rang the bell, and went away again.”

“I am much obliged,” said Lupin, touching his hat.

He walked away slowly without speaking to me, wearing a thoughtful air. There was no doubt that the problem struck him as very difficult, and that he saw none too clearly in the darkness through which he seemed to be moving with such certainty.

He himself, for that matter, confessed to me:

“These are cases that require much more intuition than reflection. But this one, I may tell you, is well worth taking pains about.”

We had now reached the boulevards. Lupin entered a public reading-room and spent a long time consulting the last fortnight’s newspapers. Now and again, he mumbled:

“Yes … yes … of course … it’s only a guess, but it explains everything … Well, a guess that answers every question is not far from being the truth …”

It was now dark. We dined at a little restaurant and I noticed that Lupin’s face became gradually more animated. His gestures were more decided. He recovered his spirits, his liveliness. When we left, during the walk which he made me take along the Boulevard Haussmann, towards Baron Repstein’s house, he was the real Lupin of the great occasions, the Lupin who had made up his mind to go in and win.

We slackened our pace just short of the Rue de Courcelles. Baron Repstein lived on the left-hand side, between this street and the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, in a three-storied private house of which we could see the front, decorated with columns and caryatides.

“Stop!” said Lupin, suddenly.

“What is it?”

“Another proof to confirm my supposition …”

“What proof? I see nothing.”

“I do … That’s enough …”

He turned up the collar of his coat, lowered the brim of his soft hat and said:

“By Jove, it’ll be a stiff fight! Go to bed, my friend. I’ll tell you about my expedition to-morrow … if it doesn’t cost me my life.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, I know what I’m saying! I’m risking a lot. First of all, getting arrested, which isn’t much. Next, getting killed, which is worse. But …” He gripped my shoulder. “But there’s a third thing I’m risking, which is getting hold of two millions … And, once I possess a capital of two millions, I’ll show people what I can do! Good-night, old chap, and, if you never see me again …” He spouted Musset’s lines:

“Plant a willow by my grave,

The weeping willow that I love …”

I walked away. Three minutes later—I am continuing the narrative as he told it to me next day—three minutes later, Lupin rang at the door of the Hôtel Repstein.