erve the entire posterior
line of the bush, and he cannot escape without you seeing him, except by
that ravine, and I shall watch it. If he does not come out voluntarily,
I will enter and drive him out toward one or the other of you. You have
simply to wait. Ah! I forgot: in case I need you, a pistol shot."

Massol and Delivet walked away to their respective posts. As soon as
they had disappeared, I entered the grove with the greatest precaution
so as to be neither seen nor heard. I encountered dense thickets,
through which narrow paths had been cut, but the overhanging boughs
compelled me to adopt a stooping posture. One of these paths led to a
clearing in which I found footsteps upon the wet grass. I followed them;
they led me to the foot of a mound which was surmounted by a deserted,
dilapidated hovel.

"He must be there," I said to myself. "It is a well-chosen retreat."

I crept cautiously to the side of the building. A slight noise informed
me that he was there; and, then, through an opening, I saw him. His back
was turned toward me. In two bounds, I was upon him. He tried to fire
a revolver that he held in his hand. But he had no time. I threw him to
the ground, in such a manner that his arms were beneath him, twisted and
helpless, whilst I held him down with my knee on his breast.

"Listen, my boy," I whispered in his ear. "I am Arsene Lupin. You are
to deliver over to me, immediately and gracefully, my pocketbook and the
lady's jewels, and, in return therefore, I will save you from the police
and enroll you amongst my friends. One word: yes or no?"

"Yes," he murmured.

"Very good. Your escape, this morning, was well planned. I congratulate
you."

I arose. He fumbled in his pocket, drew out a large knife and tried to
strike me with it.

"Imbecile!" I exclaimed.

With one hand, I parried the attack; with the other, I gave him a sharp
blow on the carotid artery. He fell--stunned!

In my pocketbook, I recovered my papers and bank-notes. Out of
curiosity, I took his. Upon an envelope, addressed to him, I read his
name: Pierre Onfrey. It startled me. Pierre Onfrey, the assassin of the
rue Lafontaine at Auteuil! Pierre Onfrey, he who had cut the throats of
Madame Delbois and her two daughters. I leaned over him. Yes, those were
the features which, in the compartment, had evoked in me the memory of a
face I could not then recall.

But time was passing. I placed in an envelope two bank-notes of one
hundred