He was a young man with strongly-marked features, long, fair hair and a short, tawny beard, divided into two points. His dress suggested the dark clothes of an English clergyman; and his whole person, for that matter, wore an air of austerity and gravity that inspired respect. “Who are you?” I asked. And, as he did not reply, I repeated, “Who are you? How did you get in? What are you here for?” He looked at me and said: “Don’t you know me?” “No—no!” “Oh, that’s really curious! Just search your memory—one of your friends—a friend of a rather special kind—however—” I caught him smartly by the arm: “You lie! You lie! No, you’re not the man you say you are—it’s not true.” “Then why are you thinking of that man rather than another?” he asked, with a laugh. Oh, that laugh! That bright and clear young laugh, whose amusing irony had so often contributed to my diversion! I shivered. Could it be? “No, no,” I protested, with a sort of terror. “It cannot be.” “It can’t be I, because I’m dead, eh?” he retorted. “And because you don’t believe in ghosts.” He laughed again. “Am I the sort of man who dies? Do you think I would die like that, shot in the back by a girl? Really, you misjudge me! As though I would ever consent to such a death as that!” “So it is you!” I stammered, still incredulous and yet greatly excited. “So it is you! I can’t manage to recognize you.” “In that case,” he said, gaily, “I am quite easy. If the only man to whom I have shown myself in my real aspect fails to know me to-day, then everybody who will see me henceforth as I am to-day is bound not to know me either, when he sees me in my real aspect—if, indeed, I have a real aspect—” I recognized his voice, now that he was no longer changing its tone, and I recognized his eyes also and the expression of his face and his whole attitude and his very being, through the counterfeit appearance in which he had shrouded it: “Arsène Lupin!” I muttered. “Yes, Arsène Lupin!” he cried, rising from his chair. “The one and only Arsène Lupin, returned from the realms of darkness, since it appears that I expired and passed away in a crypt! Arsène Lupin, alive and kicking, in the full exercise of his will, happy and free and more than ever resolved to enjoy that happy freedom in a world where hitherto he has received nothing but favors and privileges!” It was my turn to laugh: “Well, it’s certainly you, and livelier this time than on the day when I had the pleasure of seeing you, last year—I congratulate you.” I was alluding to his last visit, the visit following on the famous adventure of the diadem,[1] his interrupted marriage, his flight with Sonia Kirchnoff and the Russian girl’s horrible death. On that day, I had seen an Arsène Lupin whom I did not know, weak, down-hearted, with eyes tired with weeping, seeking for a little sympathy and affection. [1] _Arsène Lupin_, play in three acts and four scenes, by Maurice Leblanc and Francis de Croisset.]