And then the original mystery still remained, the unfathomable mystery of the marks of teeth in the apple.  M. Fauville’s posthumous confession acquitted Marie.  And yet it was undoubtedly Marie’s teeth that had marked the apple.  The teeth that had been called the teeth of the tiger were certainly hers.  Well, then!

In short, as Mazeroux said, everybody was groping in the dark, so much so that the Prefect, who was called upon by the will to assemble the Mornington heirs at a date not less than three nor more than four months after the testator’s decease, suddenly decided that the meeting should take place in the course of the following week and fixed it for the ninth of June.

He hoped in this way to put an end to an exasperating case in which the police displayed nothing but uncertainty and confusion.  They would decide about the inheritance according to circumstances and then close the proceedings.  And gradually people would cease to talk about the wholesale slaughter of the Mornington heirs; and the mystery of the teeth of the tiger would be gradually forgotten.

It was strange, but these last days, which were restless and feverish like all the days that come before great battles—­and every one felt that this last meeting meant a great battle—­were spent by Don Luis in an armchair on his balcony in the Rue de Rivoli, where he sat quietly smoking cigarettes, or blowing soap-bubbles which the wind carried toward the garden of the Tuileries.

Mazeroux could not get over it.

“Chief, you astound me!  How calm and careless you look!”

“I am calm and careless, Alexandre.”

“But what do you mean?  Doesn’t the case interest you?  Don’t you intend to avenge Mme. Fauville and Sauverand?  You are openly accused and you sit here blowing soap-bubbles!”

“There’s no more delightful pastime, Alexandre.”

“Shall I tell you what I think, Chief?  You’ve discovered the solution of the mystery!”

“Perhaps I have, Alexandre, and perhaps I haven’t.”

Nothing seemed to excite Don Luis.  Hours and hours passed; and he did not stir from his balcony.  The sparrows now came and ate the crumbs which he threw to them.  It really seemed as if the case was coming to an end for him and as if everything was turning out perfectly.

But, on the day of the meeting, Mazeroux entered with a letter in his hand and a scared look on his face.

“This is for you, Chief.  It was addressed to me, but with an envelope inside it in your name.  How do you explain that?”

“Quite easily, Alexandre.  The enemy is aware of our cordial relations; and, as he does not know where I am staying—­”

“What enemy?”

“I’ll tell you to-morrow evening.”

Don Luis opened the envelope and read the following words, written in red ink: 

“There’s still time, Lupin.  Retire from the contest.  If not, it means your death, too.  When you think that your object is attained, when your hand is raised against me and you utter words of triumph, at that same moment the ground will open beneath your feet.  The place of your death is chosen.  The snare is laid.  Beware, Lupin.”