O miracle!  A real flame came from the match!  O incomparable marvel!  Clouds of smoke rose from the cigarette, real smoke, of which the cripple at once knew the particular smell!

He hid his head in his hands.  He refused to see more.  Whether ghost or optical illusion, an emanation from another world, or an image born of his remorse and proceeding from himself, it should torture his eyes no longer.

But he heard the sound of a step approaching him, growing more and more distinct as it came closer!  He felt a strange presence moving near him!  An arm was stretched out!  A hand fell on his shoulder!  That hand clutched his flesh with an irresistible grip!  And he heard words spoken by a voice which, beyond mistake, was the human and living voice of Arsene Lupin!

“Why, my dear sir, what a state we’re getting ourselves into!  Of course, I understand that my sudden return seems an unusual and even an inconvenient proceeding, but still it does not do to be so uncontrollably impressed.  Men have seen much more extraordinary things than that, such as Joshua staying the sun, and more sensational disasters, such as the Lisbon earthquake of 1755.

“The wise man reduces events to their proper proportions and judges them, not by their action upon his own destiny, but by the way in which they influence the fortunes of the world.  Now confess that your little mishap is purely individual and does not affect the equilibrium of the solar system.  You know what Marcus Aurelius says, on page 84, of Charpentier’s edition—­”

The cripple had plucked up courage to raise his head; and the real state of things now became so obviously apparent that he could no longer get away from the undeniable fact:  Arsene Lupin was not dead!  Arsene Lupin whom he had hurled into the bowels of the earth and crushed as surely as an insect is crushed with a hammer; Arsene Lupin was not dead!

How to explain so astounding a mystery the cripple did not even stop to wonder.  One thing alone mattered:  Arsene Lupin was not dead.  Arsene Lupin looked and spoke as a living man does.  Arsene Lupin was not dead.  He breathed, he smiled, he talked, he lived!

And it was so certainly life that the scoundrel saw before him that, obeying a sudden impulse of his nature and of his hatred for life, he flattened himself to his full length, reached his revolver, seized it, and fired.

He fired; but it was too late.  Don Luis had caused the weapon to swerve with a kick of his boot.  Another kick sent it flying out of the cripple’s hand.

The villain ground his teeth with fury and at once began hurriedly to fumble in his pockets.

“Is this what you’re looking for, sir?” asked Don Luis, holding up a hypodermic syringe filled with a yellow fluid.  “Excuse me, but I was afraid lest you should prick yourself by mistake.  That would have been a fatal prick, would it not?  And I should never have forgiven myself.”