At eight o'clock in the evening, Arsène Lupin and Jean Doudeville walked into Caillard's, the fashionable restaurant, Lupin in evening-clothes, but dressed like an artist, with rather wide trousers and a rather loose tie, and Doudeville in a frock-coat, with the serious air and appearance of a magistrate. They sat down in that part of the restaurant which is set back and divided from the big room by two columns. A head-waiter, perfectly dressed and supercilious in manner, came to take their orders, note-book in hand. Lupin selected the dinner with the nice thought of an accomplished epicure: "Certainly," he said, "the prison ordinary was quite acceptable; but, all the same, it is nice to have a carefully-ordered meal." He ate with a good appetite and silently, contenting himself with uttering, from time to time, a short sentence that marked his train of thought: "Of course, I shall manage . . . but it will be a hard job. . . . Such an adversary! . . . What staggers me is that, after six months' fighting, I don't even know what he wants! . . . His chief accomplice is dead, we are near the end of the battle and yet, even now, I can't understand his game. . . . What is the wretch after? . . . My own plan is quite clear: to lay hands on the grand-duchy, to shove a grand-duke of my own making on the throne, to give him Geneviève for a wife . . . and to reign. That is what I call lucid, honest and fair. But he, the low fellow, the ghost in the dark: what is he aiming at?" He called: "Waiter!" The head-waiter came up: "Yes, sir?" "Cigars." The head-waiter stalked away, returned and opened a number of boxes. "Which do you recommend?" "These Upmanns are very good, sir." Lupin gave Doudeville an Upmann, took one for himself and cut it. The head-waiter struck a match and held if for him. With a sudden movement, Lupin caught him by the wrist: "Not a word. . . . I know you. . . . Your real name is Dominique Lecas!" The man, who was big and strong, tried to struggle away. He stifled a cry of pain: Lupin had twisted his wrist. "Your name is Dominique . . . you live in the Rue de la Pompe, on the fourth floor, where you retired with a small fortune acquired in the service--listen to me, you fool, will you, or I'll break every bone in your body!--acquired in the service of Baron Altenheim, at whose house you were butler." The other stood motionless, his face pallid with fear. Around them, the small room was empty. In the restaurant beside it, three gentlemen sat smoking and two couples were chatting over their liquors. "You see, we are quiet . . . we can talk." "Who are you? Who are you?" "Don't you recollect me? Why, think of that famous luncheon in the Villa Dupont! . . . You yourself, you old flunkey, handed me the plate of cakes . . . and such cakes!" "Prince. . . . Prince. . . ." stammered the other.