The Duke told him all that he could remember about the millionaire’s servants—and, under the clever questioning of the detective, he was surprised to find how much he did remember—all kinds of odd details about them which he had scarcely been aware of observing. The two of them, as they talked, afforded an interesting contrast: the Duke, with his air of distinction and race, his ironic expression, his mobile features, his clear enunciation and well-modulated voice, his easy carriage of an accomplished fencer—a fencer with muscles of steel—seemed to be a man of another kind from the slow-moving detective, with his husky voice, his common, slurring enunciation, his clumsily moulded features, so ill adapted to the expression of emotion and intelligence. It was a contrast almost between the hawk and the mole, the warrior and the workman. Only in their eyes were they alike; both of them had the keen, alert eyes of observers. Perhaps the most curious thing of all was that, in spite of the fact that he had for so much of his life been an idler, trifling away his time in the pursuit of pleasure, except when he had made his expedition to the South Pole, the Duke gave one the impression of being a cleverer man, of a far finer brain, than the detective who had spent so much of his life sharpening his wits on the more intricate problems of crime. When Guerchard came to the end of his questions, the Duke said: “You have given me a very strong feeling that it is going to be a deuce of a job to catch Lupin. I don’t wonder that, so far, you have none of you laid hands on him.” “But we have!” cried Guerchard quickly. “Twice Ganimard has caught him. Once he had him in prison, and actually brought him to trial. Lupin became another man, and was let go from the very dock.” “Really? It sounds absolutely amazing,” said the Duke. “And then, in the affair of the Blue Diamond, Ganimard caught him again. He has his weakness, Lupin—it’s women. It’s a very common weakness in these masters of crime. Ganimard and Holmlock Shears, in that affair, got the better of him by using his love for a woman—‘the fair-haired lady,’ she was called—to nab him.” “A shabby trick,” said the Duke. “Shabby?” said Guerchard in a tone of utter wonder. “How can anything be shabby in the case of a rogue like this?” “Perhaps not—perhaps not—still—” said the Duke, and stopped. The expression of wonder faded from Guerchard’s face, and he went on, “Well, Holmlock Shears recovered the Blue Diamond, and Ganimard nabbed Lupin. He held him for ten minutes, then Lupin escaped.” “What became of the fair-haired lady?” said the Duke. “I don’t know. I have heard that she is dead,” said Guerchard. “Now I come to think of it, I heard quite definitely that she died.” “It must be awful for a woman to love a man like Lupin—the constant, wearing anxiety,” said the Duke thoughtfully.