“He is sure to telephone,” Don Luis declared, stamping his foot.  “It doesn’t let him in for anything.  And at the same time, he would be running a big risk if he refused, especially as Valenglay must have been consulted about my arrest and is obviously kept informed of all that happens.”

He next asked himself what exactly Valenglay could do, once he was told.  For, after all, was it not too much to expect that the head of the government, that the Prime Minister, should put himself out to obey the injunctions and assist the schemes of M. Arsene Lupin?

“He will come!” he cried, with the same persistent confidence.  “Valenglay doesn’t care a hang for form and ceremony and all that nonsense.  He will come, even if it is only out of curiosity, to learn what the Kaiser’s friend can have to say to him.  Besides, he knows me!  I am not one of those beggars who inconvenience people for nothing.  There’s always something to be gained by meeting me.  He’ll come!”

But another question at once presented itself to his mind.  Valenglay’s coming in no way implied his consent to the bargain which Perenna meant to propose to him.  And even if Don Luis succeeded in convincing him, what risks remained!  How many doubtful points to overcome!  And then the possibilities of failure!

Would Weber pursue the fugitive’s motor car with the necessary decision and boldness?  Would he get on the track again?  And, having got on the track, would he be certain not to lose it?

And then—­and then, even supposing that all the chances were favourable, was it not too late?  Taking for granted that they hunted down the wild beast, that they drove him to bay, would he not meanwhile have killed his prey?  Knowing himself beaten, would a monster of that kind hesitate to add one more murder to the long list of his crimes?

And this, to Don Luis, was the crowning terror.  After all the difficulties which, in his stubbornly confident imagination, he had managed to surmount, he was brought face to face with the horrible vision of Florence being sacrificed, of Florence dead!

“Oh, the torture of it!” he stammered.  “I alone could have succeeded; and they shut me up!”

He hardly put himself out to inquire into the reasons for which M. Desmalions, suddenly changing his mind, had consented to his arrest, thus bringing back to life that troublesome Arsene Lupin with whom the police had not hitherto cared to hamper themselves.  No, that did not interest him.  Florence alone mattered.  And the minutes passed; and each minute wasted brought Florence nearer to her doom.

He remembered a similar occasion when, some years before, he waited in the same way for the door of his cell to open and the German Emperor to appear.  But how much greater was the solemnity of the present moment!  Before, it was at the very most his liberty that was at stake.  This time it was Florence’s life which fate was about to offer or refuse him.