“Yes, he telephoned from Versailles.  It’s a deep-yellow car, belonging to the Compagnie des Cometes.  The driver’s seat is on the left.  He’s wearing a gray cloth cap with a black leather peak.”

“Thank you, Monsieur le Prefet.”

And he left the house.

* * * * *

An inconceivable thing had happened.  Don Luis was free.  Half an hour’s conversation had given him the power of acting and of fighting the decisive battle.

He went off at a run.  At the Trocadero he jumped into a taxi.

“Go to Issy-les-Moulineaux!” he cried.  “Full speed!  Forty francs!”

The cab flew through Passy, crossed the Seine and reached the Issy-les-Moulineaux aviation ground in ten minutes.

None of the aeroplanes was out, for there was a stiff breeze blowing.  Don Luis ran to the sheds.  The owners’ names were written over the doors.

“Davanne,” he muttered.  “That’s the man I want.”

The door of the shed was open.  A short, stoutish man, with a long red face, was smoking a cigarette and watching some mechanics working at a monoplane.  The little man was Davanne himself, the famous airman.

Don Luis took him aside and, knowing from the papers the sort of man that he was, opened the conversation so as to surprise him from the start: 

“Monsieur,” he said, unfolding his map of France, “I want to catch up some one who has carried off the woman I love and is making for Nantes by motor.  The abduction took place at midnight.  It is now about eight o’clock.  Suppose that the motor, which is just a hired taxi with a driver who has no inducement to break his neck, does an average of twenty miles an hour, including stoppages—­in twelve hours’ time—­that is to say, at twelve o’clock—­our man will have covered two hundred and forty miles and reached a spot between Angers and Nantes, at this point on the map.”

“Les Ponts-de-Drive,” agreed Davanne, who was quietly listening.

“Very well.  Suppose, on the other hand, that an aeroplane were to start from Issy-les-Moulineaux at eight o’clock in the morning and travel at the rate of sixty miles an hour, without stopping—­in four hours’ time—­that is to say, at twelve o’clock—­it would reach Les Ponts-de-Drive at the exact same moment as the motor.  Am I right?”

“Perfectly.”

“In that case, if we agree, all is well.  Does your machine carry a passenger?”

“Sometimes she does.”

“We’ll start at once.  What are your terms?”

“It depends.  Who are you?”

“Arsene Lupin.”

“The devil you are!” exclaimed Davanne, a little taken aback.

“I am Arsene Lupin.  You must know the best part of what has happened from reading about it in the papers.  Well, Florence Levasseur was kidnapped last night.  I want to save her.  What’s your price?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s too much!”