“Well, I’m worse off than you are; and I’m not making a fuss. If the police come they’ll arrest me,” said Victoire. “Perhaps they’ve arrested him,” said Bernard, in his shaky voice. “Don’t talk like that,” said Victoire fretfully. “Isn’t it bad enough to wait and wait, without your croaking like a scared crow?” She started again her pacing up and down the room, twisting her hands, and now and again moistening her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. Presently she said: “Are those two plain-clothes men still there watching?” And in her anxiety she came a step nearer the window. “Keep away from the window!” snapped Charolais. “Do you want to be recognized, you great idiot?” Then he added, more quietly, “They’re still there all right, curse them, in front of the cafe.... Hullo!” “What is it, now?” cried Victoire, starting. “A copper and a detective running,” said Charolais. “They are running for all they’re worth.” “Are they coming this way?” said Victoire; and she ran to the door and caught hold of the handle. “No,” said Charolais. “Thank goodness!” said Victoire. “They’re running to the two men watching the house ... they’re telling them something. Oh, hang it, they’re all running down the street.” “This way? ... Are they coming this way?” cried Victoire faintly; and she pressed her hand to her side. “They are!” cried Charolais. “They are!” And he dropped the curtain with an oath. “And he isn’t here! Suppose they come.... Suppose he comes to the front door! They’ll catch him!” cried Victoire. There came a startling peal at the front-door bell. They stood frozen to stone, their eyes fixed on one another, staring. The bell had hardly stopped ringing, when there was a slow, whirring noise. The doors of the lift flew open, and the Duke stepped out of it. But what a changed figure from the admirably dressed dandy who had walked through the startled detectives and out of the house of M. Gournay-Martin at midnight! He was pale, exhausted, almost fainting. His eyes were dim in a livid face; his lips were grey. He was panting heavily. He was splashed with mud from head to foot: one sleeve of his coat was torn along half its length. The sole of his left-hand pump was half off; and his cut foot showed white and red through the torn sock. “The master! The master!” cried Charolais in a tone of extravagant relief; and he danced round the room snapping his fingers. “You’re wounded?” cried Victoire. “No,” said Arsène Lupin. The front-door bell rang out again, startling, threatening, terrifying. The note of danger seemed to brace Lupin, to spur him to a last effort. He pulled himself together, and said in a hoarse but steady voice: “Your waistcoat, Charolais.... Go and open the door ... not too quickly ... fumble the bolts.... Bernard, shut the book-case. Victoire, get out of sight, do you want to ruin us all? Be smart now, all of you. Be smart!”