It was at the time when Lupin, though already famous, had not yet fought his biggest battles; the time that preceded the great adventures of _The Hollow Needle_ and _813_. He had not yet dreamt of annexing the accumulated treasures of the French Royal House[A] nor of changing the map of Europe under the Kaiser's nose[B]: he contented himself with milder surprises and humbler profits, making his daily effort, doing evil from day to day and doing a little good as well, naturally and for the love of the thing, like a whimsical and compassionate Don Quixote. [A] _The Hollow Needle._ By Maurice Leblanc. Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos (Eveleigh Nash). [B] _813._ By Maurice Leblanc. Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos (Mills & Boon). He was silent; and I insisted: "Lupin, I wish you would!" To my astonishment, he replied: "Take a sheet of paper, old fellow, and a pencil." I obeyed with alacrity, delighted at the thought that he at last meant to dictate to me some of those pages which he knows how to clothe with such vigour and fancy, pages which I, unfortunately, am obliged to spoil with tedious explanations and boring developments. "Are you ready?" he asked. "Quite." "Write down, 20, 1, 11, 5, 14, 15." "What?" "Write it down, I tell you." He was now sitting up, with his eyes turned to the open window and his fingers rolling a Turkish cigarette. He continued: "Write down, 21, 14, 14, 5...." He stopped. Then he went on: "3, 5, 19, 19 ..." And, after a pause: "5, 18, 25 ..." Was he mad? I looked at him hard and, presently, I saw that his eyes were no longer listless, as they had been a little before, but keen and attentive and that they seemed to be watching, somewhere, in space, a sight that apparently captivated them. Meanwhile, he dictated, with intervals between each number: "18, 9, 19, 11, 19 ..." There was hardly anything to be seen through the window but a patch of blue sky on the right and the front of the building opposite, an old private house, whose shutters were closed as usual. There was nothing particular about all this, no detail that struck me as new among those which I had had before my eyes for years.... "1, 2...." And suddenly I understood ... or rather I thought I understood, for how could I admit that Lupin, a man so essentially level-headed under his mask of frivolity, could waste his time upon such childish nonsense? What he was counting was the intermittent flashes of a ray of sunlight playing on the dingy front of the opposite house, at the height of the second floor! "15, 22 ..." said Lupin. The flash disappeared for a few seconds and then struck the house again, successively, at regular intervals, and disappeared once more. I had instinctively counted the flashes and I said, aloud: "5...." "Caught the idea? I congratulate you!" he replied, sarcastically.