“Well, then, speak madame, speak, I implore you! Those revelations are of exceptional importance. Speak, I beg of you: minutes lost are never recovered. The Hollow Needle—” “Oh, it’s quite simple. The Hollow Needle means—” At that moment, a footman entered the room: “A letter for madame.” “Oh, but the postman has passed!” “A boy brought it.” Mme. de Villemon opened the letter, read it, and put her hand to her heart, turning suddenly livid and terrified, ready to faint. The paper had slipped to the floor. Beautrelet picked it up and, without troubling to apologize, read: Not a word! If you say a word, your son will never wake again. “My son—my son!” she stammered, too weak even to go to the assistance of the threatened child. Beautrelet reassured her: “It is not serious—it’s a joke. Come, who could be interested?” “Unless,” suggested Massiban, “it was Arsène Lupin.” Beautrelet made him a sign to hold his tongue. He knew quite well, of course, that the enemy was there, once more, watchful and determined; and that was just why he wanted to tear from Mme. de Villemon the decisive words, so long awaited, and to tear them from her on the spot, that very moment: “I beseech you, madame, compose yourself. We are all here. There is not the least danger.” Would she speak? He thought so, he hoped so. She stammered out a few syllables. But the door opened again. This time, the nurse entered. She seemed distraught: “M. Georges—madame—M. Georges—!” Suddenly, the mother recovered all her strength. Quicker than any of them, and urged by an unfailing instinct, she rushed down the staircase, across the hall and on to the terrace. There lay little Georges, motionless, on a wicker chair. “Well, what is it? He’s asleep!—” “He fell asleep suddenly, madame,” said the nurse. “I tried to prevent him, to carry him to his room. But he was fast asleep and his hands—his hands were cold.” “Cold!” gasped the mother. “Yes—it’s true. Oh dear, oh dear—_if he only wakes up!_” Beautrelet put his hand in his trousers pocket, seized the butt of his revolver, cocked it with his forefinger, then suddenly produced the weapon and fired at Massiban. Massiban, as though he were watching the boy’s movements, had avoided the shot, so to speak, in advance. But already Beautrelet had sprung upon him, shouting to the servants: “Help! It’s Lupin!” Massiban, under the weight of the impact, fell back into one of the wicker chairs. In a few seconds, he rose, leaving Beautrelet stunned, choking; and, holding the young man’s revolver in his hands: “Good!—that’s all right!—don’t stir—you’ll be like that for two or three minutes—no more. But, upon my word, you took your time to recognize me! Was my make-up as old Massiban so good as all that?” He was now standing straight up on his legs, his body squared, in a formidable attitude, and he grinned as he looked at the three petrified footmen and the dumbfounded baron: