sville, entreating him to redouble
his watch in the Square Lamartine, so that no one should enter,
especially d'Albufex..."

"But Daubrecq?"

"He is wounded. He cannot have gone home."

"Ah, well," he said, "that's all right!... But you too were wounded..."

"A mere scratch on the shoulder."

Lupin was easier in his mind after these revelations. Nevertheless, he
was pursued by stubborn notions which he was unable either to drive from
his brain or to put into words. Above all, he thought incessantly of
that name of "Marie" which Daubrecq's sufferings had drawn from him.
What did the name refer to? Was it the title of one of the books on the
shelves, or a part of the title? Would the book in question supply the
key to the mystery? Or was it the combination word of a safe? Was it a
series of letters written somewhere: on a wall, on a paper, on a wooden
panel, on the mount of a drawing, on an invoice?

These questions, to which he was unable to find a reply, obsessed and
exhausted him.

One morning Arsene Lupin woke feeling a great deal better. The wound was
closed, the temperature almost normal. The doctor, a personal friend,
who came every day from Paris, promised that he might get up two days
later. And, on that day, in the absence of his accomplices and of
Mme. Mergy, all three of whom had left two days before, in quest of
information, he had himself moved to the open window.

He felt life return to him with the sunlight, with the balmy air that
announced the approach of spring. He recovered the concatenation of
his ideas; and facts once more took their place in his brain in their
logical sequence and in accordance with their relations one to the
other.

In the evening he received a telegram from Clarisse to say that things
were going badly and that she, the Growler and the Masher were all
staying in Paris. He was much disturbed by this wire and had a less
quiet night. What could the news be that had given rise to Clarisse's
telegram?

But, the next day, she arrived in his room looking very pale, her eyes
red with weeping, and, utterly worn out, dropped into a chair:

"The appeal has been rejected," she stammered.

He mastered his emotion and asked, in a voice of surprise:

"Were you relying on that?"

"No, no," she said, "but, all the same... one hopes in spite of one's
self."

"Was it rejected yesterday?"

"A week ago. The Masher kept it from me; and I have not dared to read
the papers lately."