“Don Luis Perenna, late of the Foreign Legion.”

“Enough of that, Monsieur—­”

“Medaled and decorated with a stripe on every seam.”

“Once more, Monsieur, enough of that; and come along with me to the Prefect.”

“But, let me finish, hang it!  I was saying, late private in the Foreign Legion....  Late hero....  Late prisoner of the Surete....  Late Russian prince....  Late chief of the detective service....  Late—­”

“But you’re mad!” snarled the sergeant.  “What’s all this story?”

“It’s a true story, Sergeant, and quite genuine.  You ask me who I am; and I’m telling you categorically.  Must I go farther back?  I have still more titles to offer you:  marquis, baron, duke, archduke, grand-duke, petty-duke, superduke—­the whole ‘Almanach de Gotha,’ by Jingo!  If any one told me that I had been a king, by all that’s holy, I shouldn’t dare swear to the contrary!”

Sergeant Mazeroux put out his own hands, accustomed to rough work, seized the seemingly frail wrists of the man addressing him and said: 

“No nonsense, now.  I don’t know whom I’ve got hold of, but I shan’t let you go.  You can say what you have to say at the Prefect’s.”

“Don’t speak so loud, Alexandre.”

The two frail wrists were released with unparalleled ease; the sergeant’s powerful hands were caught and rendered useless; and Don Luis grinned: 

“Don’t you know me, you idiot?”

Sergeant Mazeroux did not utter a word.  His eyes started still farther from his head.  He tried to understand and remained absolutely dumfounded.

The sound of that voice, that way of jesting, that schoolboy playfulness allied with that audacity, the quizzing expression of those eyes, and lastly that Christian name of Alexandre, which was not his name at all and which only one person used to give him, years ago.  Was it possible?

“The chief!” he stammered.  “The chief!”

“Why not?”

“No, no, because—­”

“Because what?”

“Because you’re dead.”

“Well, what about it?  D’you think it interferes with my living, being dead?”

And, as the other seemed more and more perplexed, he laid his hand on his shoulder and said: 

“Who put you into the police office?”

“The Chief Detective, M. Lenormand.”

“And who was M. Lenormand?”

“The chief.”

“You mean Arsene Lupin, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Alexandre, don’t you know that it was much more difficult for Arsene Lupin to be Chief Detective—­and a masterly Chief Detective he was—­than to be Don Luis Perenna, to be decorated in the Foreign Legion, to be a hero, and even to be alive after he was dead?”

Sergeant Mazeroux examined his companion in silence.  Then his lacklustre eyes brightened, his drab features turned scarlet and, suddenly striking the table with his fist, he growled, in an angry voice: