Seeing nobody, he came along, supporting himself on his crutch.  He walked without the least sound of his feet or of the crutch, which probably had a rubber shoe at the end of it.  His raised right hand held a revolver.  His finger was on the trigger.  The least effort of his will, or even less than that, a spontaneous injunction of his instinct, was enough to put a bullet into the enemy.

He turned to the left.  On this side, between the extreme end of the laurels and the first fallen rocks, there was a little brick path which was more likely the top of a buried wall.  The cripple followed this path, by which the enemy might have reached the shrub on which the jacket hung without leaving any traces.

The last branches of the laurels were in his way, and he pushed them aside.  There was a tangled mass of bushes.  To avoid this, he skirted the foot of the mound, after which he took a few more steps, going round a huge rock.  And then, suddenly, he started back and almost lost his balance, while his crutch fell to the ground and his revolver slipped from his hand.

What he had seen, what he saw, was certainly the most terrifying sight that he could possibly have beheld.  Opposite him, at ten paces distance, with his hands in his pockets, his feet crossed, and one shoulder resting lightly against the rocky wall, stood not a man:  it was not a man, and could not be a man, for this man, as the cripple knew, was dead, had died the death from which there is no recovery.  It was therefore a ghost; and this apparition from the tomb raised the cripple’s terror to its highest pitch.

He shivered, seized with a fresh attack of fever and weakness.  His dilated pupils stared at the extraordinary phenomenon.  His whole being, filled with demoniacal superstition and dread, crumpled up under the vision to which each second lent an added horror.

Incapable of flight, incapable of defence, he dropped upon his knees.  And he could not take his eyes from that dead man, whom hardly an hour before he had buried in the depths of a well, under a shroud of iron and granite.

Arsene Lupin’s ghost!

A man you take aim at, you fire at, you kill.  But a ghost!  A thing which no longer exists and which nevertheless disposes of all the supernatural powers!  What was the use of struggling against the infernal machinations of that which is no more?  What was the use of picking up the fallen revolver and levelling it at the intangible spirit of Arsene Lupin?

And he saw an incomprehensible thing occur:  the ghost took its hands out of its pockets.  One of them held a cigarette-case; and the cripple recognized the same gun-metal case for which he had hunted in vain.  There was therefore not a doubt left that the creature who had ransacked the jacket was the very same who now opened the case, picked out a cigarette and struck a match taken from a box which also belonged to the cripple!