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And the form bent over him.

He made the incredible effort needed to raise his
eyelids and look … or, at least, he imagined that he did. Was he dreaming? Was he awake? He asked himself the question in despair.

A further sound …

He took up the box of matches by his bedside:

“Let’s have a light on it,” he said, with a great sense of elation.

He struck a match and lit the candle.

Lupin felt the perspiration stream over his skin, from head to foot, while his heart ceased beating, stopped with terror. 
The man was there.

Was it possible? No, no … and yet he 
saw
… Oh, the fearsome sight! … The man, the monster, was there …

“He shall not … he shall not,” stammered Lupin madly.

The man, the monster was there, dressed in black, with a mask on his face and with his felt hat pulled down over his fair hair.

“Oh, I am dreaming … I am dreaming!” said Lupin, laughing. “It’s a nightmare! …”

Exerting all his strength and all his will-power, he tried to make a movement, one movement, to drive away the vision.

He could not.

And, suddenly, he remembered: the coffee! The taste of it … similar to the taste of the coffee which he had drunk at Veldenz!

He gave a cry, made a last effort and fell back exhausted. But, in his delirium, he felt that the man was unfastening the top button of his pajama-jacket and baring his neck, felt that the man was raising his arm, saw that the hand was clutching the handle of a dagger, a little steel dagger similar to that which had struck Kesselbach, Chapman, Altenheim and so many others …

A few hours later, Lupin woke up, shattered with fatigue, with a scorched palate.

He lay for several minutes collecting his thoughts and, suddenly, remembering, made an instinctive defensive movement, as though he were being attacked:

“Fool that I am!” he cried, jumping out of bed. “It was a nightmare, an hallucination. It only needs a little reflection. Had it been ‘he,’ had it really been a man, in flesh and blood, who lifted his hand against me last night, he would have cut my throat like a rabbit’s. ‘He’ doesn’t hesitate. Let’s be logical. Why should he spare me? For the sake of my good looks? No, I have been dreaming, that’s all …”

He began to whistle and dressed himself, assuming the greatest calmness, but his brain never ceased working and his eyes sought about …

On the floor, on the window-ledge, not a trace. As his room was on the ground-floor and as he slept with his window open, it was evident that his assailant would have entered that way.

Well, he discovered nothing; and nothing either at the foot of the wall outside, or on the gravel of the path that ran round the chalet.

“Still … still …” he repeated, between his teeth …

He called Octave:

“Where did you make the coffee which you gave me last night?”

“At the castle, governor, like the rest of the things. There is no range here.”

“Did you drink any of it?”

“No.”

“Did you throw away what was left in the coffee-pot?”

“Why, yes, governor. You said it was so bad. You only took a few mouthfuls.”

“Very well. Get the motor ready. We’re leaving.”

Lupin was not the man to remain in doubt. He wanted to have a decisive explanation with Dolores. But, for this, he must first clear up certain points that seemed to him obscure and see Jean Doudeville who had sent him some rather curious information from Veldenz.

He drove, without stopping, to the grand-duchy, which he reached at two o’clock. He had an interview with Count de Waldemar, whom he asked, upon some pretext, to delay the journey of the delegates of the Regency to Bruggen. Then he went in search of Doudeville, in a tavern at Veldenz.

Doudeville took him to another tavern, where he introduced him to a shabbily-dressed little gentleman, Herr Stockli, a clerk in the department of births, deaths and marriages. They had a long conversation. They went out together and all three passed stealthily through the offices of the town-hall. At seven o’clock, Lupin dined and set out again. At ten o’clock he arrived at Bruggen Castle and asked for Geneviève, so that she might take him to Mrs. Kesselbach’s room.

He was told that Mlle. Ernemont had been summoned back to Paris by a telegram from her grandmother.

“Ah!” he said. “Could I see Mrs. Kesselbach?”

“Mrs. Kesselbach went straight to bed after dinner. She is sure to be asleep.”

“No, I saw a light in her boudoir. She will see me.”

He did not even wait for Mrs. Kesselbach to send out an answer. He walked into the boudoir almost upon the maid’s heels, dismissed her and said to Dolores:

“I have to speak to you, madame, on an urgent matter … Forgive me … I confess that my behavior must seem importunate … But you will understand, I am sure …”

He was greatly excited and did not seem much disposed to put off the explanation, especially as, before entering the room, he thought he heard a sound.

Yet Dolores was alone and lying down. And she said, in her tired voice:

“Perhaps we might … to-morrow …”

He did not answer, suddenly struck by a smell that surprised him in that boudoir, a smell of tobacco. And, at once, he had the intuition, the certainty, that there was a man there, at the moment when he himself arrived, and that perhaps the man was there still, hidden somewhere …

Pierre Leduc? No, Pierre Leduc did not smoke. Then who?

Dolores murmured:

“Be quick, please.”

“Yes, yes, but first … would it be possible for you to tell me …?”

He interrupted himself. What was the use of asking her? If there were really a man in hiding, would she be likely to tell?

Then he made up his mind and, trying to overcome the sort of timid constraint that oppressed him at the sense of a strange presence, he said, in a very low voice, so that Dolores alone should hear:

“Listen, I have learnt something … which I do not understand … and which perplexes me greatly. You will answer me, will you not, Dolores?”

He spoke her name with great gentleness and as though he were trying to master her by the note of love and affection in his voice.

“What have you learnt?” she asked.

“The register of births at Veldenz contains three names which are those of the last descendants of the family of Malreich, which settled in Germany …”

“Yes, you have told me all that …”

“You remember, the first name is Raoul de Malreich, better known under his 
alias
 of Altenheim, the scoundrel, the swell hooligan, now dead … murdered.”

“Yes.”

“Next comes Louis de Malreich, the monster, this one, the terrible murderer who will be beheaded in a few days from now.”

“Yes.”

“Then, lastly, Isilda, the mad daughter …”

“Yes.”

“So all that is quite positive, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” said Lupin, leaning over her more closely than before, “I have just made an investigation which showed to me that the second of the three Christian names, or rather a part of the line on which it is written, has at some time or other, been subjected to erasure. The line is written over, in a new hand, with much fresher ink; but the writing below is not quite effaced, so that …”

“So that …?” asked Mrs. Kesselbach, in a low voice.

“So that, with a good lens and particularly with the special methods which I have at my disposal, I was able to revive some of the obliterated syllables and, without any possibility of a mistake, in all certainty, to reconstruct the old writing. I then found not Louis de Malreich, but …”

“Oh, don’t, don’t! …”

Suddenly shattered by the strain of her prolonged effort of resistance, she lay bent in two and, with her head in her hands, her shoulders shaken with convulsive sobs, she wept.

Lupin looked for long seconds at this weak and listless creature, so pitifully helpless. And he would have liked to stop, to cease the torturing questions which he was inflicting upon her. But was it not to save her that he was acting as he did? And, to save her, was it not necessary that he should know the truth, however painful?

He resumed:

“Why that forgery?”

“It was my husband,” she stammered, “it was my husband who did it. With his fortune, he could do everything; and he bribed a junior clerk to have the Christian name of the second child altered for him on the register.”

“The Christian name and the sex,” said Lupin.

“Yes,” she said.

“Then,” he continued, “I am not mistaken: the original Christian name, the real one, was Dolores?”

“Yes.”

“But why did your husband …?”

She whispered in a shame-faced manner, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Don’t you understand?”

“No.”

“But think,” she said, shuddering, “I was the sister of Isilda, the mad woman, the sister of Altenheim, the ruffian. My husband—or rather my affianced husband—would not have me remain that. He loved me. I loved him too, and I consented. He suppressed Dolores de Malreich on the register, he bought me other papers, another personality, another birth-certificate; and I was married in Holland under another maiden name, as Dolores Amonti.”

Lupin reflected for a moment and said, thoughtfully:

“Yes … yes … I understand … But then Louis de Malreich does not exist; and the murderer of your husband, the murderer of your brother and sister, does not bear that name … His name …”

She sprang to a sitting posture and, eagerly:

“His name! Yes, that is his name … yes, it is his name nevertheless … Louis de Malreich … L. M … Remember … Oh, do not try to find out … it is the terrible secret … Besides, what does it matter? … They have the criminal … He is the criminal … I tell you he is. Did he defend himself when I accused him, face to face? Could he defend himself, under that name or any other? It is he … it is he … He committed the murders … He struck the blows … The dagger … The steel dagger … Oh, if I could only tell all I know! … Louis de Malreich … If I could only …”

She fell back on the sofa in a fit of hysterical sobbing; and her hand clutched Lupin’s and he heard her stammering, amid inarticulate words:

“Protect me … protect me … You alone, perhaps … Oh, do not forsake me … I am so unhappy! … Oh, what torture … what torture! … It is hell! …”

With his free hand, he stroked her hair and forehead with infinite gentleness; and, under his caress, she gradually relaxed her tense nerves and became calmer and quieter.

Then he looked at her again and long, long asked himself what there could be behind that fair, white brow, what secret was ravaging that mysterious soul. She also was afraid. But of whom? Against whom was she imploring him to protect her?

Once again, he was obsessed by the image of the man in black, by that Louis de Malreich, the sinister and incomprehensible enemy, whose attacks he had to ward off without knowing whence they came or even if they were taking place.

He was in prison, watched day and night. Tush! Did Lupin not know by his own experience that there are beings for whom prison does not exist and who throw off their chains at the given moment? And Louis de Malreich was one of those.

Yes, there was some one in the Santé prison, in the condemned man’s cell. But it might be an accomplice or some victim of Malreich … while Malreich himself prowled around Bruggen Castle, slipped in under cover of the darkness, like an invisible spectre, made his way into the chalet in the park and, at night, raised his dagger against Lupin asleep and helpless.

And it was Louis de Malreich who terrorized Dolores, who drove her mad with his threats, who held her by some dreadful secret and forced her into silence and submission.

And Lupin imagined the enemy’s plan: to throw Dolores, scared and trembling, into Pierre Leduc’s arms, to make away with him, Lupin, and to reign in his place, over there, with the grand-duke’s power and Dolores’s millions.

It was a likely supposition, a certain supposition, which fitted in with the facts and provided a solution of all the problems.

“Of all?” thought Lupin. “Yes … But then, why did he not kill me, last night, in the chalet? He had but to wish …
and he did not wish
. One movement and I was dead. He did not make that movement. Why?”

Dolores opened her eyes, saw him and smiled, with a pale smile:

“Leave me,” she said:

He rose, with some hesitation. Should he go and see if the enemy was behind the curtain or hidden behind the dresses in a cupboard?

She repeated, gently:

“Go … I am so sleepy …”

He went away.

But, outside, he stopped behind some trees that formed a dark cluster in front of the castle. He saw a light in Dolores’ boudoir. Then the light passed into the bedroom. In a few minutes, all was darkness.

He waited. If the enemy was there, perhaps he would come out of the castle …

An hour elapsed … Two hours … Not a sound …

“There’s nothing to be done,” thought Lupin. “Either he is burrowing in some corner of the castle … or else he has gone out by a door which I cannot see from here. Unless the whole thing is the most ridiculous supposition on my part …”

He lit a cigarette and walked back to the chalet.

As he approached it, he saw, at some distance from him, a shadow that appeared to be moving away.

He did not stir, for fear of giving the alarm.

The shadow crossed a path. By the light of the moon, he seemed to recognize the black figure of Malreich.

He rushed forward.

The shadow fled and vanished from sight.

“Come,” he said, “it shall be for to-morrow. And, this time …”

Lupin went to Octave’s, his chauffeur’s, room, woke him and said:

“Take the motor and go to Paris. You will be there by six o’clock in the morning. See Jacques Doudeville and tell him two things: first, to give me news of the man under sentence of death; and secondly, as soon as the post-offices open, to send me a telegram which I will write down for you now …”

He worded the telegram on a scrap of paper and added:

“The moment you have done that, come back, but this way, along the wall of the park. Go now. No one must suspect your absence.”