Suddenly he stopped. A few yards from the house, at the foot of a tree standing beside the slanting path, a man lay back in a wicker long-chair, with his face in the shade and his legs in the sun. He was sleeping, with his head fallen forward and an open book upon his knees. Then and not till then did Patrice clearly understand that he and Coralie had escaped being killed, that they were both really alive and that they owed their safety to this man whose sleep suggested a state of absolute security and satisfied conscience. Patrice studied the stranger's appearance. He was slim of figure, but broad-shouldered, with a sallow complexion, a slight mustache on his lips and hair beginning to turn gray at the temples. His age was probably fifty at most. The cut of his clothes pointed to dandyism. Patrice leant forward and read the title of the book: _The Memoirs of Benjamin Franklin_. He also read the initials inside a hat lying on the grass: "L. P." "It was he who saved me," said Patrice to himself, "I recognize him. He carried us both out of the studio and looked after us. But how was the miracle brought about? Who sent him?" He tapped him on the shoulder. The man was on his feet at once, his face lit up with a smile: "Pardon me, captain, but my life is so much taken up that, when I have a few minutes to myself, I use them for sleeping, wherever I may be . . . like Napoleon, eh? Well, I don't object to the comparison. . . . But enough about myself. How are you feeling now? And madame--'Little Mother Coralie'--is she better? I saw no use in waking you, after I had opened the doors and taken you outside. I had done what was necessary and felt quite easy. You were both breathing. So I left the rest to the good pure air." He broke off, at the sight of Patrice's disconcerted attitude; and his smile made way for a merry laugh: "Oh, I was forgetting: you don't know me! Of course, it's true, the letter I sent you was intercepted. Let me introduce myself. Don Luis Perenna,[3] a member of an old Spanish family, genuine patent of nobility, papers all in order. . . . But I can see that all this tells you nothing," he went on, laughing still more gaily. "No doubt Ya-Bon described me differently when he wrote my name on that street-wall, one evening a fortnight ago. Aha, you're beginning to understand! . . . Yes, I'm the man you sent for to help you. Shall I mention the name, just bluntly? Well, here goes, captain! . . . Arsène Lupin, at your service." [Footnote 3: _The Teeth of the Tiger._ By Maurice Leblanc. Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos. "Luis Perenna" is one of several anagrams of "Arsène Lupin."]