Gaston Sauverand continued: 

“It was against Arsene Lupin, therefore, that Florence, Marie’s terrified friend, engaged in the struggle.  It was to unmask Lupin that she wrote or rather inspired the article of which you found the original in a ball of string.  It was Lupin whom she spied upon, day by day, in this house.  It was Lupin whom she heard one morning telephoning to Sergeant Mazeroux and rejoicing in my imminent arrest.  It was to save me from Lupin that she let down the iron curtain in front of him, at the risk of an accident, and took a taxi to the corner of the Boulevard Richard-Wallace, where she arrived too late to warn me, as the detectives had already entered my house, but in time to screen me from their pursuit.

“Her mistrust and terror-stricken hatred of you were told to me in an instant,” Sauverand declared.  “During the twenty minutes which we employed in throwing our assailants off the scent, she hurriedly sketched the main lines of the business and described to me in a few words the leading part which you were playing in it; and we then and there prepared a counter-attack upon you, so that you might be suspected of complicity.

“While I was sending a message to the Prefect of Police, Florence went home and hid under the cushions of your sofa the end of the stick which I had kept in my hand without thinking.  It was an ineffective parry and missed its aim.  But the fight had begun; and I threw myself into it headlong.

“Monsieur, to understand my actions thoroughly, you must remember that I was a student, a man leading a solitary life, but also an ardent lover.  I would have spent all my life in work, asking no more from fate than to see Marie at her window from time to time at night.  But, once she was being persecuted, another man arose within me, a man of action, bungling, certainly, and inexperienced, but a man who was ready to stick at nothing, and who, not knowing how to save Marie Fauville, had no other object before him than to do away with that enemy of Marie’s to whom he was entitled to ascribe all the misfortunes that had befallen the woman he loved....  This started the series of my attempts upon your life.  Brought into your house, concealed in Florence’s own rooms, I tried—­unknown to her:  that I swear—­to poison you.”

He paused for an instant to mark the effect of his words, then went on: 

“Her reproaches, her abhorrence of such an act, would perhaps have moved me, but, I repeat, I was mad, quite mad; and your death seemed to me to imply Marie’s safety.  And, one morning, on the Boulevard Suchet, where I had followed you, I fired a revolver at you.

“The same evening your motor car, tampered with by myself—­remember, Florence’s rooms are close to the garage—­carried you, I hoped, to your death, together with Sergeant Mazeroux, your confederate....  That time again you escaped my vengeance.  But an innocent man, the chauffeur who drove you, paid for you with his life; and Florence’s despair was such that I had to yield to her entreaties and lay down my arms.