Don Luis sprang from his hiding-place with a roar of terror.  He had suddenly realized the position:  The grotto, the accumulation of boulders, the piles of granite, everything was so placed that its equilibrium could be shattered at any moment, and that Florence ran the risk of being buried under the rubbish.  It was not a question, therefore, of slaying the villain, but of saving Florence on the spot.

He was halfway across in two or three seconds.  But here, in one of those mental flashes which are even quicker than the maddest rush, he became aware that the tracks of trampled grass did not cross the central circus and that the scoundrel had gone round it.  Why?  That was one of the questions which instinct, ever suspicious, puts, but which reason has not the time to answer.  Don Luis went straight ahead.  And he had no sooner set foot on the place than the catastrophe occurred.

It all happened with incredible suddenness, as though he had tried to walk on space and found himself hurled into it.  The ground gave way beneath him.  The clods of grass separated, and he fell.

He fell down a hole which was none other than the mouth of a well four feet wide at most, the curb of which had been cut down level with the ground.  Only this was what took place:  as he was running very fast, his impetus flung him against the opposite wall in such a way that his forearms lay on the outer ledge and his hands were able to clutch at the roots of plants.

So great was his strength that he might just have been able to drag himself up by his wrists.  But responding to the attack, the scoundrel had at once hurried to meet his assailant and was now standing at ten paces from Don Luis, threatening him with his revolver: 

“Don’t move!” he cried, “or I’ll smash you!”

Don Luis was thus reduced to helplessness, at the risk of receiving the enemy’s fire.

Their eyes met for a few seconds.  The cripple’s were burning with fever, like the eyes of a sick man.

Crawling along, watching Don Luis’s slightest movement, he came and squatted beside the well.  The revolver was levelled in his outstretched hand.  And his infernal chuckle rang out again: 

“Lupin!  Lupin!  That’s done it!  Lupin’s dive!...  What a mug you must be!  I warned you, you know, warned you in blood-red ink.  Remember my words:  ‘The place of your death is chosen.  The snare is laid.  Beware, Lupin!’ And here you are!  So you’re not in prison?  You warded off that stroke, you rogue, you!  Fortunately, I foresaw events and took my precautions.  What do you say to it?  What do you think of my little scheme?  I said to myself, ’All the police will come rushing at my heels.  But there’s only one who’s capable of catching me, and that’s Lupin.  So we’ll show him the way, we’ll lead him on the leash all along a little path scraped clean by the victim’s body.’