Patrice had the key, but the little door which opened on to the garden of the lodge was bolted inside.

“Aha!” said Don Luis. “That shows that we’re warm. Meet me on the quay, captain. I shall run down to Berthou’s Wharf to have a look round.”

During the past few minutes a pale dawn had begun to mingle with the shades of night. The embankment was still deserted, however.

Don Luis observed nothing in particular at Berthou’s Wharf; but, when he returned to the quay above, Patrice showed him a ladder lying right at the end of the pavement which skirted the garden of the lodge; and Don Luis recognized the ladder as the one whose absence he had noticed from the recess in the yard. With that quick vision which was one of his greatest assets, he at once furnished the explanation:

“As Siméon had the key of the garden, it was obviously Ya-Bon who used the ladder to make his way in. Therefore he saw Siméon take refuge there on returning from his visit to old Vacherot and after coming to fetch Coralie. Now the question is, did Siméon succeed in fetching Little Mother Coralie, or did he run away before fetching her? That I can’t say. But, in any case . . .”

Bending low down, he examined the pavement and continued:

“In any case, what is certain is that Ya-Bon knows the hiding-place where the bags of gold are stacked and that it is there most likely that your Coralie was and perhaps still is, worse luck, if the enemy, giving his first thought to his personal safety, has not had time to remove her.”

“Are you sure?”

“Look here, captain, Ya-Bon always carries a piece of chalk in his pocket. As he doesn’t know how to write, except just the letters forming my name, he has drawn these two straight lines which, with the line of the wall, make a triangle . . . the golden triangle.”

Don Luis drew himself up:

“The clue is rather meager. But Ya-Bon looks upon me as a wizard. He never doubted that I should manage to find this spot and that those three lines would be enough for me. Poor Ya-Bon!”

“But,” objected Patrice, “all this, according to you, took place before our return to Paris, between twelve and one o’clock, therefore.”

“Yes.”

“Then what about the shot which we have just heard, four or five hours later?”

“As to that I’m not so positive. We may assume that Siméon squatted somewhere in the dark. Possibly at the first break of day, feeling easier and hearing nothing of Ya-Bon, he risked taking a step or two. Then Ya-Bon, keeping watch in silence, would have leaped upon him.”

“So you think . . .”

“I think that there was a struggle, that Ya-Bon was wounded and that Siméon . . .”

“That Siméon escaped?”

“Or else was killed. However, we shall know all about it in a few minutes.”

He set the ladder against the railing at the top of the wall. Patrice climbed over with Don Luis’ assistance. Then, stepping over the railing in his turn, Don Luis drew up the ladder, threw it into the garden and made a careful examination. Finally, they turned their steps, through the tall grasses and bushy shrubs, towards the lodge.

The daylight was increasing rapidly and the outlines of everything were becoming clearer. The two men walked round the lodge, Don Luis leading the way. When he came in sight of the yard, on the street side, he turned and said: “I was right.”

And he ran forward.

Outside the hall-door lay the bodies of the two adversaries, clutching each other in a confused heap. Ya-Bon had a horrible wound in the head, from which the blood was flowing all over his face. With his right hand he held Siméon by the throat.

Don Luis at once perceived that Ya-Bon was dead and Siméon Diodokis alive.

CHAPTER XVII
SIMÉON GIVES BATTLE

He thereupon applied himself to making a minute inspection of the scene of the struggle, after which he went back to Ya-Bon and then to Siméon, whose clothes and shoes he examined closely.

Patrice was face to face with his terrible enemy, whom he had propped against the wall of the lodge and was contemplating in silence, with a fixed stare of hatred. Siméon! Siméon Diodokis, the execrable demon who, two days before, had hatched the terrible plot and, bending over the skylight, had laughed as he watched their awful agony! Siméon Diodokis, who, like a wild beast, had hidden Coralie in some hole, so that he might go back and torture her at his ease!

He seemed to be in pain and to breathe with great difficulty. His wind-pipe had no doubt been injured by Ya-Bon’s clutch. His yellow spectacles had fallen off during the fight. A pair of thick, grizzled eyebrows lowered about his heavy lids.

“Search him, captain,” said Don Luis.

But, as Patrice seemed to shrink from the task, he himself felt in Siméon’s jacket and produced a pocket-book, which he handed to the officer.

It contained first of all a registration-card, in the name of Siméon Diodokis, Greek subject, with his photograph gummed to it. The photograph was a recent one, taken with the spectacles, the comforter and the long hair, and bore a police-stamp dated December, 1914. There was a collection of business documents, invoices and memoranda, addressed to Siméon as Essarès Bey’s secretary, and, among these papers, a letter from Amédée Vacherot, running as follows:

At the foot of the letter were a few words in Siméon’s hand, a sort of personal note:

“That’s your father’s writing, is it not?” asked Don Luis.

“Yes,” said Patrice, in bewilderment. “And it is also the writing of the letters which he addressed to his friend Vacherot. Oh, it’s too hideous to be true! What a man! What a scoundrel!”

Siméon moved. His eyes opened and closed repeatedly. Then, coming to himself entirely, he looked at Patrice, who at once, in a stifled voice, asked:

“Where’s Coralie?”

And, as Siméon, still dazed, seemed not to understand and sat gazing at him stupidly, he repeated, in a harsher tone:

“Where’s Coralie? What have you done with her? Where have you put her? She must be dying!”

Siméon was gradually recovering life and consciousness. He mumbled:

“Patrice. . . . Patrice. . . .”

He looked around him, saw Don Luis, no doubt remembered his fight to the death with Ya-Bon and closed his eyes again. But Patrice’s rage increased:

“Will you attend?” he shouted. “I won’t wait any longer! It’ll cost you your life if you don’t answer!”

The man’s eyes opened again, red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. He pointed to his throat to indicate his difficulty in speaking. At last, with a visible effort, he repeated:

“Patrice! Is it you? . . . I have been waiting for this moment so long! . . . And now we are meeting as enemies! . . .”

“As mortal enemies,” said Patrice, with emphasis. “Death stands between us: Ya-Bon’s death, Coralie’s perhaps. . . . Where is she? You must speak, or . . .”

“Patrice, is it really you?” the man repeated, in a whisper.

The familiarity exasperated the officer. He caught his adversary by the lapel of his jacket and shook him. But Siméon had seen the pocket-book which he held in his other hand and, without resisting Patrice’s roughness, whined:

“You wouldn’t hurt me, Patrice. You must have found some letters; and you now know the link that binds us together. Oh, how happy I should have been . . . !”

Patrice had released his hold and stood staring at him in horror. Sinking his voice in his turn, he said:

“Don’t dare to speak of that: I won’t, I won’t believe it!”

“It’s the truth, Patrice.”

“You lie! You lie!” cried the officer, unable to restrain himself any longer, while his grief distorted his face out of all recognition.

“Ah, I see you have guessed it! Then I need not explain . . .”

“You lie! You’re just a common scoundrel! . . . If what you say is true, why did you plot against Coralie and me? Why did you try to murder the two of us?”

“I was mad, Patrice. Yes, I go mad at times. All these tragedies have turned my head. My own Coralie’s death . . . and then my life in Essarès’ shadow . . . and then . . . and then, above all, the gold! . . . Did I really try to kill you both? I no longer remember. Or at least I remember a dream I had: it happened in the lodge, didn’t it, as before? Oh, madness! What a torture! I’m like a man in the galleys. I have to do things against my will! . . . Then it was in the lodge, was it, as before? And in the same manner? With the same implements? . . . Yes, in my dream, I went through all my agony over again . . . and that of my darling. . . . But, instead of being tortured, I was the torturer . . . What a torment!”

He spoke low, inside himself, with hesitations and intervals and an unspeakable air of suffering. Don Luis kept his eyes fixed on him, as though trying to discover what he was aiming at. And Siméon continued:

“My poor Patrice! . . . I was so fond of you! . . . And now you are my worst enemy! . . . How indeed could it be otherwise? . . . How could you forget? . . . Oh, why didn’t they lock me up after Essarès’ death? It was then that I felt my brain going. . . .”

“So it was you who killed him?” asked Patrice.

“No, no, that’s just it: somebody else robbed me of my revenge.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. . . . The whole business is incomprehensible to me. . . . Don’t speak of it. . . . It all pains me. . . . I have suffered so since Coralie’s death!”

“Coralie!” exclaimed Patrice.

“Yes, the woman I loved. . . . As for little Coralie, I’ve suffered also on her account. . . . She ought not to have married Essarès.”

“Where is she?” asked Patrice, in agony.

“I can’t tell you.”

“Oh,” cried Patrice, shaking with rage, “you mean she’s dead!”

“No, she’s alive, I swear it.”

“Then where is she? That’s the only thing that matters. All the rest belongs to the past. But this thing, a woman’s life, Coralie’s life . . .”

“Listen.”

Siméon stopped and gave a glance at Don Luis;

“Tell him to go away,” he said.

Don Luis laughed:

“Of course! Little Mother Coralie is hidden in the same place as the bags of gold. To save her means surrendering the bags of gold.”

“Well?” said Patrice, in an almost aggressive tone.

“Well, captain,” replied Don Luis, not without a certain touch of banter in his voice, “if this honorable gentleman suggested that you should release him on parole so that he might go and fetch your Coralie, I don’t suppose you’d accept?”

“No.”

“You haven’t the least confidence in him, have you? And you’re right. The honorable gentleman, mad though he may be, gave such proofs of mental superiority and balance, when he sent us trundling down the road to Mantes, that it would be dangerous to attach the least credit to his promises. The consequence is . . .”

“Well?”

“This, captain, that the honorable gentleman means to propose a bargain to you, which may be couched thus: ‘You can have Coralie, but I’ll keep the gold.’”

“And then?”

“And then? It would be a capital notion, if you were alone with the honorable gentleman. The bargain would soon be concluded. But I’m here . . . by Jupiter!”

Patrice had drawn himself up. He stepped towards Don Luis and said, in a voice which became openly hostile:

“I presume that you won’t raise any opposition. It’s a matter of a woman’s life.”

“No doubt. But, on the other hand, it’s a matter of three hundred million francs.”

“Then you refuse?”

“Refuse? I should think so!”

“You refuse when that woman is at her last gasp? You would rather she died? . . . Look here, you seem to forget that this is my affair, that . . . that . . .”

The two men were standing close together. Don Luis retained that chaffing calmness, that air of knowing more than he chose to say, which irritated Patrice. At heart Patrice, while yielding to Don Luis’ mastery, resented it and felt a certain embarrassment at accepting the services of a man with whose past he was so well acquainted.

“Then you actually refuse?” he rapped out, clenching his fists.

“Yes,” said Don Luis, preserving his coolness. “Yes, Captain Belval, I refuse this bargain, which I consider absurd. Why, it’s the confidence-trick! By Jingo! Three hundred millions! Give up a windfall like that? Never. But I haven’t the least objection to leaving you alone with the honorable gentleman. That’s what he wants, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, talk it over between yourselves. Sign the compact. The honorable gentleman, who, for his part, has every confidence in his son, will tell you the whereabouts of the hiding-place; and you shall release your Coralie.”

“And you? What about you?” snarled Patrice, angrily.

“I? I’m going to complete my little enquiry into the present and the past by revisiting the room where you nearly met your death. See you later, captain. And, whatever you do, insist on guarantees.”

Switching on his pocket-lamp, Don Luis entered the lodge and walked straight to the studio. Patrice saw the electric rays playing on the panels between the walled-up windows. He went back to where Siméon sat:

“Now then,” he said, in a voice of authority. “Be quick about it.”

“Are you sure he’s not listening?”

“Quite sure.”

“Be careful with him, Patrice. He means to take the gold and keep it.”

“Don’t waste time,” said Patrice, impatiently. “Get to Coralie.”

“I’ve told you Coralie was alive.”

“She was alive when you left her; but since then . . .”

“Yes, since then . . .”

“Since then, what? You seem to have your doubts.”

“It was last night, five or six hours ago, and I am afraid . . .”

Patrice felt a cold shudder run down his back. He would have given anything for a decisive word; and at the same time he was almost strangling the old man to punish him. He mastered himself, however:

“Don’t let’s waste time,” he repeated. “Tell me where to go.”

“No, we’ll go together.”

“You haven’t the strength.”

“Yes, yes, I can manage . . . it’s not far. Only, only, listen to me. . . .”

The old man seemed utterly exhausted. From time to time his breathing was interrupted, as though Ya-Bon’s hand were still clutching him by the throat, and he sank into a heap, moaning.

Patrice stooped over him:

“I’m listening,” he said. “But, for God’s sake, hurry!”

“All right,” said Siméon. “All right. She’ll be free in a few minutes. But on one condition, just one. . . . Patrice, you must swear to me on Coralie’s head that you will not touch the gold and that no one shall know . . .”

“I swear it on her head.”

“You swear it, yes; but the other one, your damned companion, he’ll follow us, he’ll see.”

“No, he won’t.”

“Yes, he will, unless you consent . . .”

“To what? Oh, in Heaven’s name, speak!”

“I’ll tell you. Listen. But remember, we must go to Coralie’s assistance . . . and that quickly . . . otherwise . . .”

Patrice hesitated, bending one leg, almost on his knees:

“Then come, do!” he said, modifying his tone. “Please come, because Coralie . . .”

“Yes, but that man . . .”

“Oh, Coralie first!”

“What do you mean? Suppose he sees us? Suppose he takes the gold from us?”

“What does that matter!”

“Oh, don’t say that, Patrice! . . . The gold! That’s the one thing! Since that gold has been mine, my life is changed. The past no longer counts . . . nor does hatred . . . nor love. . . . There’s only the gold, the bags of gold . . . I’d rather die . . . and let Coralie die . . . and see the whole world disappear . . .”

“But, look here, what is it you want? What is it you demand?”

Patrice had taken the two arms of this man who was his father and whom he had never detested with greater vehemence. He was imploring him with all the strength of his being. He would have shed tears had he thought that the old man would allow himself to be moved by tears.

“What is it?”

“I’ll tell you. Listen. He’s there, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“In the studio?”

“Yes.”

“In that case . . . he mustn’t come out. . . .”

“How do you mean?”

“No, he must stay there until we’ve done.”

“But . . .”

“It’s quite easy. Listen carefully. You’ve only to make a movement, to shut the door on him. The lock has been forced, but there are the two bolts; and those will do. Do you consent?”

Patrice rebelled:

“But you’re mad! I consent, I? . . . Why, the man saved my life! . . . He saved Coralie!”

“But he’s doing for her now. Think a moment: if he were not there, if he were not interfering, Coralie would be free. Do you accept?”

“No.”

“Why not? Do you know what that man is? A highway robber . . . a wretch who has only one thought, to get hold of the millions. And you have scruples! Come, it’s absurd, isn’t it? . . . Do you accept?”

“No and again no!”

“Then so much the worse for Coralie. . . . Oh, yes, I see you don’t realize the position exactly! It’s time you did, Patrice. Perhaps it’s even too late.”

“Oh, don’t say that!”

“Yes, yes, you must learn the facts and take your share of the responsibility. When that damned negro was chasing me, I got rid of Coralie as best I could, intending to release her in an hour or two. And then . . . and then you know what happened. . . . It was eleven o’clock at night . . . nearly eight hours ago. . . . So work it out for yourself . . .”

Patrice wrung his hands. Never had he imagined that a man could be tortured to such a degree. And Siméon continued, unrelentingly.

“She can’t breathe, on my soul she can’t! . . . Perhaps just a very little air reaches her, but that is all. . . . Then again I can’t tell that all that covers and protects her hasn’t given way. If it has, she’s suffocating . . . while you stand here arguing. . . . Look here, can it matter to you to lock up that man for ten minutes? . . . Only ten minutes, you know. And you still hesitate! Then it’s you who are killing her, Patrice. Think . . . buried alive!”

Patrice drew himself up. His resolve was taken. At that moment he would have shrunk from no act, however painful. And what Siméon asked was so little.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked. “Give your orders.”

“You know what I want,” said the other. “It’s quite simple. Go to the door, bolt it and come back again.”

The officer entered the lodge with a firm step and walked through the hall. The light was dancing up and down at the far end of the studio.

Without a word, without a moment’s hesitation, he slammed the door, shot both the bolts and hastened back. He felt relieved. The action was a base one, but he never doubted that he had fulfilled an imperative duty.

“That’s it,” he said, “Let’s hurry.”

“Help me up,” said the old man. “I can’t manage by myself.”

Patrice took him under the armpits and lifted him to his feet. But he had to support him, for the old man’s legs were swaying beneath him.

“Oh, curse it!” blurted Siméon. “That blasted nigger has done for me. I’m suffocating too, I can’t walk.”

Patrice almost carried him, while Siméon, in the last stage of weakness, stammered:

“This way. . . . Now straight ahead. . . .”

They passed the corner of the lodge and turned their steps towards the graves.

“You’re quite sure you fastened the door?” the old man continued. “Yes, I heard it slam. Oh, he’s a terrible fellow, that! You have to be on your guard with him! But you swore not to say anything, didn’t you? Swear it again, by your mother’s memory . . . no, better, swear it by Coralie. . . . May she die on the spot if you betray your oath!”

He stopped. A spasm prevented his going any further until he had drawn a little air into his lungs. Nevertheless he went on talking:

“I needn’t worry, need I? Besides, you don’t care about gold. That being so, why should you speak? Never mind, swear that you will be silent. Or, look here, give me your word of honor. That’s best. Your word, eh?”

Patrice was still holding him round the waist. It was a terrible, long agony for the officer, this slow crawl and this sort of embrace which he was compelled to adopt in order to effect Coralie’s release. As he felt the contact of the detested man’s body, he was more inclined to squeeze the life out of it. And yet a vile phrase kept recurring deep down within him:

“I am his son, I am his son. . . .”

“It’s here,” said the old man.

“Here? But these are the graves.”

“Coralie’s grave and mine. It’s what we were making for.”

He turned round in alarm:

“I say, the footprints! You’ll get rid of them on the way back, won’t you? For he would find our tracks otherwise and he would know that this is the place. . . .”

“Let’s hurry. . . . So Coralie is here? Down there? Buried? Oh, how horrible!”

It seemed to Patrice as if each minute that passed meant more than an hour’s delay and as if Coralie’s safety might be jeopardized by a moment’s hesitation or a single false step.

He took every oath that was demanded of him. He swore upon Coralie’s head. He pledged his word of honor. At that moment there was not an action which he would not have been ready to perform.

Siméon knelt down on the grass, under the little temple, pointing with his finger:

“It’s there,” he repeated. “Underneath that.”

“Under the tombstone?”

“Yes.”

“Then the stone lifts?” asked Patrice, anxiously. “I can’t lift it by myself. It can’t be done. It would take three men to lift that.”

“No,” said the old man, “the stone swings on a pivot. You’ll manage quite easily. All you have to do is to pull at one end . . . this one, on the right.”

Patrice came and caught hold of the great stone slab, with its inscription, “Here lie Patrice and Coralie,” and pulled.

The stone rose at the first endeavor, as if a counterweight had forced the other end down.

“Wait,” said the old man. “We must hold it in position, or it will fall down again. You’ll find an iron bar at the bottom of the second step.”

There were three steps running into a small cavity, barely large enough to contain a man stooping. Patrice saw the iron bar and, propping up the stone with his shoulder, took the bar and set it up.

“Good,” said Siméon. “That will keep it steady. What you must now do is to lie down in the hollow. This was where my coffin was to have been and where I often used to come and lie beside my dear Coralie. I would remain for hours, flat on the ground, speaking to her. . . . We both talked. . . . Yes, I assure you, we used to talk. . . . Oh, Patrice! . . .”

Patrice had bent his tall figure in the narrow space where he was hardly able to move.

“What am I to do?” he asked.

“Don’t you hear your Coralie? There’s only a partition-wall between you: a few bricks hidden under a thin layer of earth. And a door. The other vault, Coralie’s, is behind it. And behind that there’s a third, with the bags of gold.”

The old man was bending over and directing the search as he knelt on the grass:

“The door’s on the left. Farther than that. Can’t you find it? That’s odd. You mustn’t be too slow about it, though. Ah, have you got it now? No? Oh, if I could only go down too! But there’s not room for more than one.”

There was a brief silence. Then he began again:

“Stretch a bit farther. Good. Can you move?”

“Yes,” said Patrice.

“Then go on moving, my lad!” cried the old man, with a yell of laughter.

And, stepping back briskly, he snatched away the iron bar. The enormous block of stone came down heavily, slowly, because of the counterweight, but with irresistible force.

Though floundering in the newly-turned earth, Patrice tried to rise, at the sight of his danger. Siméon had taken up the iron bar and now struck him a blow on the head with it. Patrice gave a cry and moved no more. The stone covered him up. The whole incident had lasted but a few seconds.

Siméon did not lose an instant. He knew that Patrice, wounded as he was bound to be and weakened by the posture to which he was condemned, was incapable of making the necessary effort to lift the lid of his tomb. On that side, therefore, there was no danger.

He went back to the lodge and, though he walked with some difficulty, he had no doubt exaggerated his injuries, for he did not stop until he reached the door. He even scorned to obliterate his footprints and went straight ahead.

On entering the hall he listened. Don Luis was tapping against the walls and the partition inside the studio and the bedroom.

“Capital!” said Siméon, with a grin. “His turn now.”

It did not take long. He walked to the kitchen on the right, opened the door of the meter and, turning the key, released the gas, thus beginning again with Don Luis what he had failed to achieve with Patrice and Coralie.

Not till then did he yield to the immense weariness with which he was overcome and allow himself to lie back in a chair for two or three minutes.

His most terrible enemy also was now out of the way. But it was still necessary for him to act and ensure his personal safety. He walked round the lodge, looked for his yellow spectacles and put them on, went through the garden, opened the door and closed it behind him. Then he turned down the lane to the quay.

Once more stopping, in front of the parapet above Berthou’s Wharf, he seemed to hesitate what to do. But the sight of people passing, carmen, market-gardeners and others, put an end to his indecision. He hailed a taxi and drove to the Rue Guimard.

His friend Vacherot was standing at the door of his lodge.

“Oh, is that you, M. Siméon?” cried the porter. “But what a state you’re in!”

“Hush, no names!” he whispered, entering the lodge. “Has any one seen me?”

“No. It’s only half-past seven and the house is hardly awake. But, Lord forgive us, what have the scoundrels done to you? You look as if you had no breath left in your body!”

“Yes, that nigger who came after me . . .”

“But the others?”

“What others?”

“The two who were here? Patrice?”

“Eh? Has Patrice been?” asked Siméon, still speaking in a whisper.

“Yes, last night, after you left.”

“And you told him?”

“That he was your son.”

“Then that,” mumbled the old man, “is why he did not seem surprised at what I said.”

“Where are they now?”

“With Coralie. I was able to save her. I’ve handed her over to them. But it’s not a question of her. Quick, I must see a doctor; there’s no time to lose.”

“We have one in the house.”

“No, that’s no use. Have you a telephone-directory?”

“Here you are.”

“Turn up Dr. Géradec.”

“What? You can’t mean that?”

“Why not? He has a private hospital quite close, on the Boulevard de Montmorency, with no other house near it.”

“That’s so, but haven’t you heard? There are all sorts of rumors about him afloat: something to do with passports and forged certificates.”

“Never mind that.”

M. Vacherot hunted out the number in the directory and rang up the exchange. The line was engaged; and he wrote down the number on the margin of a newspaper. Then he telephoned again. The answer was that the doctor had gone out and would be back at ten.

“It’s just as well,” said Siméon. “I’m not feeling strong enough yet. Say that I’ll call at ten o’clock.”

“Shall I give your name as Siméon?”

“No, my real name, Armand Belval. Say it’s urgent, say it’s a surgical case.”

The porter did so and hung up the instrument, with a moan:

“Oh, my poor M. Siméon! A man like you, so good and kind to everybody! Tell me what happened?”

“Don’t worry about that. Is my place ready?”

“To be sure it is.”

“Take me there without any one seeing us.”

“As usual.”

“Be quick. Put your revolver in your pocket. What about your lodge? Can you leave it?”

“Five minutes won’t hurt.”

The lodge opened at the back on a small courtyard, which communicated with a long corridor. At the end of this passage was another yard, in which stood a little house consisting of a ground-floor and an attic.

They went in. There was an entrance-hall followed by three rooms, leading one into the other. Only the second room was furnished. The third had a door opening straight on a street that ran parallel with the Rue Guimard.

They stopped in the second room.

“Did you shut the hall-door after you?”

“Yes, M. Siméon.”

“No one saw us come in, I suppose?”

“Not a soul.”

“No one suspects that you’re here?”

“No.”

“Give me your revolver.”

“Here it is.”

“Do you think, if I fired it off, any one would hear?”

“No, certainly not. Who is there to hear? But . . .”

“But what?”

“You’re surely not going to fire?”

“Yes, I am.”

“At yourself, M. Siméon, at yourself? Are you going to kill yourself?”

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Well, who then?”

“You, of course!” chuckled Siméon.

Pressing the trigger, he blew out the luckless man’s brains. His victim fell in a heap, stone dead. Siméon flung aside the revolver and remained impassive, a little undecided as to his next step. He opened out his fingers, one by one, up to six, apparently counting the six persons of whom he had got rid in a few hours: Grégoire, Coralie, Ya-Bon, Patrice, Don Luis, old Vacherot!

His mouth gave a grin of satisfaction. One more endeavor; and his flight and safety were assured.

For the moment he was incapable of making the endeavor. His head whirled. His arms struck out at space. He fell into a faint, with a gurgle in his throat, his chest crushed under an unbearable weight.

But, at a quarter to ten, with an effort of will, he picked himself up and, mastering himself and disregarding the pain, he went out by the other door of the house.

At ten o’clock, after twice changing his taxi, he arrived at the Boulevard Montmorency, just at the moment when Dr. Géradec was alighting from his car and mounting the steps of the handsome villa in which his private hospital had been installed since the beginning of the war.

CHAPTER XVIII
SIMÉON’S LAST VICTIM

He gave his assistant some instructions. A long aluminum tube was inserted in the patient’s wind-pipe. The doctor, who had absented himself meanwhile, returned and, after removing the tube, examined the patient, who was already beginning to breathe with greater ease.

“That’s over,” said Dr. Géradec, “and much quicker than I expected. There was evidently in your case an inhibition which caused the throat to shrink. Go home now; and, when you’ve had a rest, you’ll forget all about it.”

Siméon asked what the fee was and paid it. But, as the doctor was seeing him to the door, he stopped and, without further preface, said:

“I am a friend of Mme. Albonin’s.”

The doctor did not seem to understand what he meant.

“Perhaps you don’t recognize the name,” Siméon insisted. “When I tell you, however, that it conceals the identity of Mme. Mosgranem, I have no doubt that we shall be able to arrange something.”

“What about?” asked the doctor, while his face displayed still greater astonishment.

“Come, doctor, there’s no need to be on your guard. We are alone. You have sound-proof, double doors. Sit down and let’s talk.”

He took a chair. The doctor sat down opposite him, looking more and more surprised. And Siméon proceeded with his statement:

“I am a Greek subject. Greece is a neutral; indeed, I may say, a friendly country; and I can easily obtain a passport and leave France. But, for personal reasons, I want the passport made out not in my own name but in some other, which you and I will decide upon together and which will enable me, with your assistance, to go away without any danger.”

The doctor rose to his feet indignantly.

Siméon persisted:

“Oh, please don’t be theatrical! It’s a question of price, is it not? My mind is made up. How much do you want?”

The doctor pointed to the door.

Siméon raised no protest. He put on his hat. But, on reaching the door, he said:

“Twenty thousand francs? Is that enough?”

“Do you want me to ring?” asked the doctor, “and have you turned out?”

Siméon laughed and quietly, with a pause after each figure:

“Thirty thousand?” he asked. “Forty? . . . Fifty? . . . Oh, I see, we’re playing a great game, we want a round sum. . . . All right. Only, you know, everything must be included in the price we settle. You must not only fix me up a passport so genuine that it can’t be disputed, but you must guarantee me the means of leaving France, as you did for Mme. Mosgranem, on terms not half so handsome, by Jove! However, I’m not haggling. I need your assistance. Is it a bargain? A hundred thousand francs?”

Dr. Géradec bolted the door, came back, sat down at his desk and said, simply:

“We’ll talk about it.”

“I repeat the question,” said Siméon, coming closer. “Are we agreed at a hundred thousand?”

“We are agreed,” said the doctor, “unless any complications appear later.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that the figure of a hundred thousand francs forms a suitable basis for discussion, that’s all.”

Siméon hesitated a second. The man struck him as rather greedy. However, he sat down once more; and the doctor at once resumed the conversation:

“Your real name, please.”

“You mustn’t ask me that. I tell you, there are reasons . . .”

“Then it will be two hundred thousand francs.”

“Eh?” said Siméon, with a start. “I say, that’s a bit steep! I never heard of such a price.”

“You’re not obliged to accept,” replied Géradec, calmly. “We are discussing a bargain. You are free to do as you please.”

“But, look here, once you agree to fix me up a false passport, what can it matter to you whether you know my name or not?”

“It matters a great deal. I run an infinitely greater risk in assisting the escape—for that’s the only word—of a spy than I do in assisting the escape of a respectable man.”

“I’m not a spy.”

“How do I know? Look here, you come to me to propose a shady transaction. You conceal your name and your identity; and you’re in such a hurry to disappear from sight that you’re prepared to pay me a hundred thousand francs to help you. And, in the face of that, you lay claim to being a respectable man! Come, come! It’s absurd! A respectable man does not behave like a burglar or a murderer.”

Old Siméon did not wince. He slowly wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. He was evidently thinking that Géradec was a hardy antagonist and that he would perhaps have done better not to go to him. But, after all, the contract was a conditional one. There would always be time enough to break it off.

“I say, I say!” he said, with an attempt at a laugh. “You are using big words!”

“They’re only words,” said the doctor. “I am stating no hypothesis. I am content to sum up the position and to justify my demands.”

“You’re quite right.”

“Then we’re agreed?”

“Yes. Perhaps, however—and this is the last observation I propose to make—you might let me off more cheaply, considering that I’m a friend of Mme. Mosgranem’s.”

“What do you suggest by that?” asked the doctor.

“Mme. Mosgranem herself told me that you charged her nothing.”

“That’s true, I charged her nothing,” replied the doctor, with a fatuous smile, “but perhaps she presented me with a good deal. Mme. Mosgranem was one of those attractive women whose favors command their own price.”

There was a silence. Old Siméon seemed to feel more and more uncomfortable in his interlocutor’s presence. At last the doctor sighed:

“Poor Mme. Mosgranem!”

“What makes you speak like that?” asked Siméon.

“What! Haven’t you heard?”

“I have had no letters from her since she left.”

“I see. I had one last night; and I was greatly surprised to learn that she was back in France.”

“In France! Mme. Mosgranem!”

“Yes. And she even gave me an appointment for this morning, a very strange appointment.”

“Where?” asked Siméon, with visible concern.

“You’ll never guess. On a barge, yes, called the Nonchalante, moored at the Quai de Passy, alongside Berthou’s Wharf.”

“Is it possible?” said Siméon.

“It’s as I tell you. And do you know how the letter was signed? It was signed Grégoire.”

“Grégoire? A man’s name?” muttered the old man, almost with a groan.

“Yes, a man’s name. Look, I have the letter on me. She tells me that she is leading a very dangerous life, that she distrusts the man with whom her fortunes are bound up and that she would like to ask my advice.”

“Then . . . then you went?”

“Yes, I was there this morning, while you were ringing up here. Unfortunately . . .”

“Well?”

“I arrived too late. Grégoire, or rather Mme. Mosgranem, was dead. She had been strangled.”

“So you know nothing more than that?” asked Siméon, who seemed unable to get his words out.

“Nothing more about what?”

“About the man whom she mentioned.”

“Yes, I do, for she told me his name in the letter. He’s a Greek, who calls himself Siméon Diodokis. She even gave me a description of him. I haven’t read it very carefully.”

He unfolded the letter and ran his eyes down the second page, mumbling:

“A broken-down old man. . . . Passes himself off as mad. . . . Always goes about in a comforter and a pair of large yellow spectacles. . . .”

Dr. Géradec ceased reading and looked at Siméon with an air of amazement. Both of them sat for a moment without speaking. Then the doctor said:

“You are Siméon Diodokis.”

The other did not protest. All these incidents were so strangely and, at the same time, so naturally interlinked as to persuade him that lying was useless.

“This alters the situation,” declared the doctor. “The time for trifling is past. It’s a most serious and terribly dangerous matter for me, I can tell you! You’ll have to make it a million.”

“Oh, no!” cried Siméon, excitedly. “Certainly not! Besides, I never touched Mme. Mosgranem. I was myself attacked by the man who strangled her, the same man—a negro called Ya-Bon—who caught me up and took me by the throat.”

“Ya-Bon? Did you say Ya-Bon?”

“Yes, a one-armed Senegalese.”

“And did you two fight?”

“Yes.”

“And did you kill him?”

“Well . . .”

The doctor shrugged his shoulders with a smile:

“Listen, sir, to a curious coincidence. When I left the barge, I met half-a-dozen wounded soldiers. They spoke to me and said that they were looking for a comrade, this very Ya-Bon, and also for their captain, Captain Belval, and a friend of this officer’s and a lady, the lady they were staying with. All these people had disappeared; and they accused a certain person . . . wait, they told me his name. . . . Oh, but this is more and more curious! The man’s name was Siméon Diodokis. It was you they accused! . . . Isn’t it odd? But, on the other hand, you must confess that all this constitutes fresh facts and therefore . . .”

There was a pause. Then the doctor formulated his demand in plain tones:

“I shall want two millions.”

This time Siméon remained impassive. He felt that he was in the man’s clutches, like a mouse clawed by a cat. The doctor was playing with him, letting him go and catching him again, without giving him the least hope of escaping from this grim sport.

“This is blackmail,” he said, quietly.

The doctor nodded:

“There’s no other word for it,” he admitted. “It’s blackmail. Moreover, it’s a case of blackmail in which I have not the excuse of creating the opportunity that gives me my advantage. A wonderful chance comes within reach of my hand. I grab at it, as you would do in my place. What else is possible? I have had a few differences, which you know of, with the police. We’ve signed a peace, the police and I. But my professional position has been so much injured that I cannot afford to reject with scorn what you so kindly bring me.”

“Suppose I refuse to submit?”

“Then I shall telephone to the headquarters of police, with whom I stand in great favor at present, as I am able to do them a good turn now and again.”

Siméon glanced at the window and at the door. The doctor had his hand on the receiver of the telephone. There was no way out of it.

“Very well,” he declared. “After all, it’s better so. You know me; and I know you. We can come to terms.”

“On the basis suggested?”

“Yes. Tell me your plan.”

“No, it’s not worth while. I have my methods; and there’s no object in revealing them beforehand. The point is to secure your escape and to put an end to your present danger. I’ll answer for all that.”

“What guarantee have I. . . ?”

“You will pay me half the money now and the other half when the business is done. There remains the matter of the passport, a secondary matter for me. Still, we shall have to make one out. In what name is it to be?”

“Any name you like.”

The doctor took a sheet of paper and wrote down the description, looking at Siméon between the phrases and muttering:

“Gray hair. . . . Clean-shaven. . . . Yellow spectacles. . . .”

Then he stopped and asked:

“But how do I know that I shall be paid the money? That’s essential, you know. I want bank-notes, real ones.”

“You shall have them.”

“Where are they?”

“In a hiding-place that can’t be got at.”

“Tell me where.”

“I have no objection. Even if I give you a clue to the general position, you’ll never find it.”

“Well, go on.”

“Grégoire had the money in her keeping, four million francs. It’s on board the barge. We’ll go there together and I’ll count you out the first million.”

“You say those millions are on board the barge?”

“Yes.”

“And there are four of those millions?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t accept any of them in payment.”

“Why not? You must be mad!”

“Why not? Because you can’t pay a man with what already belongs to him.”

“What’s that you’re saying?” cried Siméon, in dismay.

“Those four millions belong to me, so you can’t offer them to me.”

Siméon shrugged his shoulders:

“You’re talking nonsense. For the money to belong to you, it must first be in your possession.”

“Certainly.”

“And is it?”

“It is.”

“Explain yourself, explain yourself at once!” snarled Siméon, beside himself with anger and alarm.

“I will explain myself. The hiding-place that couldn’t be got at consisted of four old books, back numbers of Bottin’s directory for Paris and the provinces, each in two volumes. The four volumes were hollow inside, as though they had been scooped out; and there was a million francs in each of them.”

“You lie! You lie!”

“They were on a shelf, in a little lumber-room next the cabin.”

“Well, what then?”

“What then? They’re here.”

“Here?”

“Yes, here, on that bookshelf, in front of your nose. So, in the circumstances, you see, as I am already the lawful owner, I can’t accept . . .”

“You thief! You thief!” shouted Siméon, shaking with rage and clenching his fist. “You’re nothing but a thief; and I’ll make you disgorge. Oh, you dirty thief!”

Dr. Géradec smiled very calmly and raised his hand in protest:

“This is strong language and quite unjustified! quite unjustified! Let me remind you that Mme. Mosgranem honored me with her affection. One day, or rather one morning, after a moment of expansiveness, ‘My dear friend,’ she said—she used to call me her dear friend—‘my dear friend, when I die’—she was given to those gloomy forebodings—‘when I die, I bequeath to you the contents of my home!’ Her home, at that moment, was the barge. Do you suggest that I should insult her memory by refusing to obey so sacred a wish?”

Old Siméon was not listening. An infernal thought was awakening in him; and he turned to the doctor with a movement of affrighted attention.

“We are wasting precious time, my dear sir,” said the doctor. “What have you decided to do?”

He was playing with the sheet of paper on which he had written the particulars required for the passport. Siméon came up to him without a word. At last the old man whispered:

“Give me that sheet of paper. . . . I want to see . . .”

He took the paper out of the doctor’s hand, ran his eyes down it and suddenly leapt backwards:

“What name have you put? What name have you put? What right have you to give me that name? Why did you do it?”

“You told me to put any name I pleased, you know.”

“But why this one? Why this one?”

“Can it be your own?”

The old man started with terror and, bending lower and lower over the doctor, said, in a trembling voice:

“One man alone, one man alone was capable of guessing . . .”

There was a long pause. Then the doctor gave a little chuckle:

“I know that only one man was capable of it. So let’s take it that I’m the man.”

“One man alone,” continued the other, while his breath once again seemed to fail him, “one man alone could find the hiding-place of the four millions in a few seconds.”

The doctor did not answer. He smiled; and his features gradually relaxed.

In a sort of terror-stricken tone Siméon hissed out:

“Arsène Lupin! . . . Arsène Lupin! . . .”

“You’ve hit it in one,” exclaimed the doctor, rising.

He dropped his eye-glass, took from his pocket a little pot of grease, smeared his face with it, washed it off in a basin in a recess and reappeared with a clear skin, a smiling, bantering face and an easy carriage.

“Arsène Lupin!” repeated Siméon, petrified. “Arsène Lupin! I’m in for it!”

“Up to the neck, you old fool! And what a silly fool you must be! Why, you know me by reputation, you feel for me the intense and wholesome awe with which a decent man of my stamp is bound to inspire an old rascal like you . . . and you go and imagine that I should be ass enough to let myself be bottled up in that lethal chamber of yours! Mind you, at that very moment I could have taken you by the hair of the head and gone straight on to the great scene in the fifth act, which we are now playing. Only my fifth act would have been a bit short, you see; and I’m a born actor-manager. As it is, observe how well the interest is sustained! And what fun it was seeing the thought of it take birth in your old Turkish noddle! And what a lark to go into the studio, fasten my electric lamp to a bit of string, make poor, dear Patrice believe that I was there and go out and hear Patrice denying me three times and carefully bolting the door on . . . what? My electric lamp! That was all first-class work, don’t you think? What do you say to it? I can feel that you’re speechless with admiration. . . . And, ten minutes after, when you came back, the same scene in the wings and with the same success. Of course, you old Siméon, I was banging at the walled-up door, between the studio and the bedroom on the left. Only I wasn’t in the studio: I was in the bedroom; and you went away quietly, like a good kind landlord. As for me, I had no need to hurry. I was as certain as that twice two is four that you would go to your friend M. Amédée Vacherot, the porter. And here, I may say, old Siméon, you committed a nice piece of imprudence, which got me out of my difficulty. No one in the porter’s lodge: that couldn’t be helped; but what I did find was a telephone-number on a scrap of newspaper. I did not hesitate for a moment. I rang up the number, coolly: ‘Monsieur, it was I who telephoned to you just now. Only I’ve got your number, but not your address.’ Back came the answer: ‘Dr. Géradec, Boulevard de Montmorency.’ Then I understood. Dr. Géradec? You would want your throat tubed for a bit, then the all-essential passport; and I came off here, without troubling about your poor friend M. Vacherot, whom you murdered in some corner or other to escape a possible give-away on his side. And I saw Dr. Géradec, a charming man, whose worries have made him very wise and submissive and who . . . lent me his place for the morning. I had still two hours before me. I went to the barge, took the millions, cleared up a few odds and ends and here I am!”

He came and stood in front of the old man:

“Well, are you ready?” he asked.

Siméon, who seemed absorbed in thought, gave a start.

“Ready for what?” said Don Luis, replying to his unspoken question. “Why, for the great journey, of course! Your passport is in order. Your ticket’s taken: Paris to Hell, single. Non-stop hearse. Sleeping-coffin. Step in, sir!”

The old man, tottering on his legs, made an effort and stammered:

“And Patrice?”

“What about him?”

“I offer you his life in exchange for my own.”

Don Luis folded his arms across his chest:

“Well, of all the cheek! Patrice is a friend; and you think me capable of abandoning him like that? Do you see me, Lupin, making more or less witty jokes upon your imminent death while my friend Patrice is in danger? Old Siméon, you’re getting played out. It’s time you went and rested in a better world.”

He lifted a hanging, opened a door and called out:

“Well, captain, how are you getting on? Ah, I see you’ve recovered consciousness! Are you surprised to see me? No, no thanks, but please come in here. Our old Siméon’s asking for you.”

Then, turning to the old man, he said:

“Here’s your son, you unnatural father!”

Patrice entered the room with his head bandaged, for the blow which Siméon had struck him and the weight of the tombstone had opened his old wounds. He was very pale and seemed to be in great pain.

At the sight of Siméon Diodokis he gave signs of terrible anger. He controlled himself, however. The two men stood facing each other, without stirring, and Don Luis, rubbing his hands, said, in an undertone:

“What a scene! What a splendid scene? Isn’t it well-arranged? The father and the son! The murderer and his victim! Listen to the orchestra! . . . A slight tremolo. . . . What are they going to do? Will the son kill his father or the father kill his son? A thrilling moment. . . . And the mighty silence! Only the call of the blood is heard . . . and in what terms! Now we’re off! The call of the blood has sounded; and they are going to throw themselves into each other’s arms, the better to strangle the life out of each other!”

Patrice had taken two steps forward; and the movement suggested by Don Luis was about to be performed. Already the officer’s arms were flung wide for the fight. But suddenly Siméon, weakened by pain and dominated by a stronger will than his own, let himself go and implored his adversary:

“Patrice!” he entreated. “Patrice! What are you thinking of doing?”

Stretching out his hands, he threw himself upon the other’s pity; and Patrice, arrested in his onrush, stood perplexed, staring at the man to whom he was bound by so mysterious and strange a tie:

“Coralie,” he said, without lowering his hands, “Coralie . . . tell me where she is and I’ll spare your life.”

The old man started. His evil nature was stimulated by the remembrance of Coralie; and he recovered a part of his energy at the possibility of wrong-doing. He gave a cruel laugh:

“No, no,” he answered. “Coralie in one scale and I in the other? I’d rather die. Besides, Coralie’s hiding-place is where the gold is. No, never! I may just as well die.”

“Kill him then, captain,” said Don Luis, intervening. “Kill him, since he prefers it.”

Once more the thought of immediate murder and revenge sent the red blood rushing to the officer’s face. But the same hesitation unnerved him.

“No, no,” he said, in a low voice, “I can’t do it.”

“Why not?” Don Luis insisted. “It’s so easy. Come along! Wring his neck, like a chicken’s, and have done with it!”

“I can’t.”

“But why? Do you dislike the thought of strangling him? Does it repel you? And yet, if it were a Boche, on the battlefield . . .”

“Yes . . . but this man . . .”

“Is it your hands that refuse? The idea of taking hold of the flesh and squeezing? . . . Here, captain, take my revolver and blow out his brains.”

Patrice accepted the weapon eagerly and aimed it at old Siméon. The silence was appalling. Old Siméon’s eyes had closed and drops of sweat were streaming down his livid cheeks.

At last the officer lowered his arm:

“I can’t do it,” he said.

“Nonsense,” said Don Luis. “Get on with the work.”

“No. . . . No. . . .”

“But, in Heaven’s name, why not?”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t? Shall I tell you the reason? You are thinking of that man as if he were your father.”

“Perhaps it’s that,” said the officer, speaking very low. “There’s a chance of it, you know.”

“What does it matter, if he’s a beast and a blackguard?”

“No, no, I haven’t the right. Let him die by all means, but not by my hand. I haven’t the right.”

“You have the right.”

“No, it would be abominable! It would be monstrous!”

Don Luis went up to him and, tapping him on the shoulder, said, gravely:

“You surely don’t believe that I should stand here, urging you to kill that man, if he were your father?”

Patrice looked at him wildly:

“Do you know something? Do you know something for certain? Oh, for Heaven’s sake . . . !”

Don Luis continued:

“Do you believe that I would even encourage you to hate him, if he were your father?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Patrice. “Do you mean that he’s not my father?”

“Of course he’s not!” cried Don Luis, with irresistible conviction and increasing eagerness. “Your father indeed! Why, look at him! Look at that scoundrelly head. Every sort of vice and violence is written on the brute’s face. Throughout this adventure, from the first day to the last, there was not a crime committed but was his handiwork: not one, do you follow me? There were not two criminals, as we thought, not Essarès, to begin the hellish business, and old Siméon, to finish it. There was only one criminal, one, do you understand, Patrice? Before killing Coralie and Ya-Bon and Vacherot the porter and the woman who was his own accomplice, he killed others! He killed one other in particular, one whose flesh and blood you are, the man whose dying cries you heard over the telephone, the man who called you Patrice and who only lived for you! He killed that man; and that man was your father, Patrice; he was Armand Belval! Now do you understand?”