ier this time than on the day when
I had the pleasure of seeing you, last year--I congratulate you."

I was alluding to his last visit, the visit following on the famous
adventure of the diadem,[1] his interrupted marriage, his flight with
Sonia Kirchnoff and the Russian girl's horrible death. On that day, I
had seen an Arsene Lupin whom I did not know, weak, down-hearted, with
eyes tired with weeping, seeking for a little sympathy and affection.

[1] Arsene Lupin, play in three acts and four scenes, by Maurice
Leblanc and Francis de Croisset.

"Be quiet," he said. "The past is far away."

"It was a year ago," I observed.

"It was ten years ago," he declared. "Arsene Lupin's years count for
ten times as much as another man's."

I did not insist and, changing the conversation:

"How did you get in?"

"Why, how do you think? Through the door, of course. Then, as I saw
nobody, I walked across the drawing room and out by the balcony, and
here I am."

"Yes, but the key of the door--?"

"There are no doors for me, as you know. I wanted your flat and I came
in."

"It is at your disposal. Am I to leave you?"

"Oh, not at all! You won't be in the way. In fact, I can promise you an
interesting evening."

"Are you expecting some one?"

"Yes. I have given him an appointment here at ten o'clock." He took out
his watch. "It is ten now. If the telegram reached him, he ought to be
here soon."

The front-door bell rang.

"What did I tell you? No, don't trouble to get up: I'll go."

With whom on earth could he have made an appointment? And what sort of
scene was I about to assist at: dramatic or comic? For Lupin himself to
consider it worthy of interest, the situation must be somewhat
exceptional.

He returned in a moment and stood back to make way for a young man,
tall and thin and very pale in the face.

Without a word and with a certain solemnity about his movements that
made me feel ill at ease. Lupin switched on all the electric lamps, one
after the other, till the room was flooded with light. Then the two men
looked at each other, exchanged profound and penetrating glances, as
if, with all the effort of their gleaming eyes, they were trying to
pierce into each other's souls.

It was an impressive sight to see them thus, grave and silent. But who
could the newcomer be?

I was on the point of guessing the truth, through his resemblance to a
photograph which had recently appeared in the papers, when Lu