"Aha, my dear sir, you breathe again! Arsène Lupin is a delicate, squeamish burglar. He loathes bloodshed, he has never committed a more serious crime than that of annexing other people's property . . . a mere peccadillo, eh? And what you're saying to yourself is that he is not going to burden his conscience with a useless murder. Quite so. . . . But will your destruction be so useless as all that? Everything depends on the answer. And I assure you that I'm not larking at present. Come on, old chap!" He drew up his chair beside the arm-chair, removed the prisoner's gag and, speaking very plainly: "Mr. Kesselbach," he said, "on the day when you arrived in Paris you entered into relations with one Barbareux, the manager of a confidential inquiry agency; and, as you were acting without the knowledge of your secretary, Chapman, it was arranged that the said Barbareux, when communicating with you by letter or telephone, should call himself 'the Colonel.' I hasten to tell you that Barbareux is a perfectly honest man. But I have the good fortune to number one of his clerks among my own particular friends. That is how I discovered the motive of your application to Barbareux and how I came to interest myself in you and to make a search or two here, with the assistance of a set of false keys . . . in the course of which search or two, I may as well tell you, I did not find what I was looking for." He lowered his voice and, with his eyes fixed on the eyes of his prisoner, watching his expression, searching his secret thoughts, he uttered these words: "Mr. Kesselbach, your instructions to Barbareux were that he should find a man hidden somewhere in the slums of Paris who bears or used to bear the name of Pierre Leduc. The man answers to this brief description: height, five feet nine inches; hair and complexion, fair; wears a moustache. Special mark: the tip of the little finger of the left hand is missing, as the result of a cut. Also, he has an almost imperceptible scar on the right cheek. You seem to attach enormous importance to this man's discovery, as though it might lead to some great advantage to yourself. Who is the man?" "I don't know." The answer was positive, absolute. Did he know or did he not know? It made little difference. The great thing was that he was determined not to speak. "Very well," said his adversary, "but you have fuller particulars about him than those with which you furnished Barbareux." "I have not." "You lie, Mr. Kesselbach. Twice, in Barbareux's presence, you consulted papers contained in the morocco case." "I did." "And the case?" "Burnt." Lupin quivered with rage. The thought of torture and of the facilities which it used to offer was evidently passing through his mind again. "Burnt? But the box? . . . Come, own up . . . confess that the box is at the Crédit Lyonnais." "Yes." "And what's inside it?" "The finest two hundred diamonds in my private collection."