"No. She seemed so happy at meeting a friend of her husband's. But you will speak to her about it, will you not? You will protect her. . . . I don't know what he is preparing against her, against myself. . . . Now that M. Lenormand is no longer there, he has nothing to fear, he does as he pleases. Who can unmask him?" "I can. I will be responsible for everything. But not a word to anybody." They had reached the porter's lodge. The gate was opened. The prince said: "Good-bye, Geneviève, and be quite easy in your mind. I am there." He shut the gate, turned round and gave a slight start. Opposite him stood the man with the eye-glass, Baron Altenheim, with his head held well up, his broad shoulders, his powerful frame. They looked at each other for two or three seconds, in silence. The baron smiled. Then the baron said: "I was waiting for you, Lupin." For all his self-mastery, Sernine felt a thrill pass over him. He had come to unmask his adversary; and his adversary had unmasked him at the first onset. And, at the same time, the adversary was accepting the contest boldly, brazenly, as though he felt sure of victory. It was a swaggering thing to do and gave evidence of no small amount of pluck. The two men, violently hostile one to the other, took each other's measure with their eyes. "And what then?" asked Sernine. "What then? Don't you think we have occasion for a meeting?" "Why?" "I want to talk to you." "What day will suit you?" "To-morrow. Let us lunch together at a restaurant." "Why not at your place?" "You don't know my address." "Yes, I do." With a swift movement, the prince pulled out a newspaper protruding from Altenheim's pocket, a paper still in its addressed wrapper, and said: "No. 29, Villa Dupont." "Well played!" said the other. "Then we'll say, to-morrow, at my place." "To-morrow, at your place. At what time?" "One o'clock." "I shall be there. Good-bye." They were about to walk away. Altenheim stopped: "Oh, one word more, prince. Bring a weapon with you." "Why?" "I keep four men-servants and you will be alone." "I have my fists," said Sernine. "We shall be on even terms." He turned his back on him and then, calling him back: "Oh, one word more, baron. Engage four more servants." "Why?" "I have thought it over. I shall bring my whip." * * * * * At one o'clock the next day, precisely, a horseman rode through the gate of the so-called Villa Dupont, a peaceful, countrified private road, the only entrance to which is in the Rue Pergolèse, close to the Avenue du Bois. It is lined with gardens and handsome private houses; and, right at the end, it is closed by a sort of little park containing a large old house, behind which runs the Paris circular railway. It was here, at No. 29, that Baron Altenheim lived. Sernine flung the reins of his horse to a groom whom he had sent on ahead and said: "Bring him back at half-past two."