“A dead-goner, old chap; you just get that into your head.  Not as Arsene Lupin, ex-burglar, ex-convict, ex-anything you please—­I’m unattackable on that ground—­but as Don Luis Perenna, respectable man, residuary legatee, and the rest of it.  And it’s too stupid!  For, after all, who will find the murderers of Cosmo, Verot, and the two Fauvilles, if they go clapping me into jail?”

“Come, come, Chief—­”

“Shut up! ...  Listen!”

A motor car was stopping on the boulevard, followed by another.  It was evidently the Prefect and the magistrates from the public prosecutor’s office.

Don Luis took Mazeroux by the arm.

“There’s only one way out of it, Alexandre!  Don’t say you went to sleep.”

“I must, Chief.”

“You silly ass!” growled Don Luis.  “How is it possible to be such an ass!  It’s enough to disgust one with honesty.  What am I to do, then?”

“Discover the culprit, Chief.”

“What! ...  What are you talking about?”

Mazeroux, in his turn, took him by the arm and, clutching him with a sort of despair, said, in a voice choked with tears: 

“Discover the culprit, Chief.  If not, you’re done for ... that’s certain ... the Prefect told me so. ...  The police want a culprit ... they want him this evening....  One has got to be found....  It’s up to you to find him.”

“What you have, Alexandre, is a merry wit.”

“It’s child’s play for you, Chief.  You have only to set your mind to it.”

“But there’s not the least clue, you ass!”

“You’ll find one ... you must ...  I entreat you, hand them over somebody....  It would be more than I could bear if you were arrested.  You, the chief, accused of murder!  No, no....  I entreat you, discover the criminal and hand him over....  You have the whole day to do it in...and Lupin has done greater things than that!”

He was stammering, weeping, wringing his hands, grimacing with every feature of his comic face.  And it was really touching, this grief, this dismay at the approach of the danger that threatened his master.

M. Desmalions’s voice was heard in the hall, through the curtain that closed the passage.  A third motor car stopped on the boulevard, and a fourth, both doubtless laden with policemen.

The house was surrounded, besieged.

Perenna was silent.

Beside him, anxious-faced, Mazeroux seemed to be imploring him.

A few seconds elapsed.

Then Perenna declared, deliberately: 

“Looking at things all round, Alexandre, I admit that you have seen the position clearly and that your fears are fully justified.  If I do not manage to hand over the murderer or murderers of Hippolyte Fauville and his son to the police in a few hours from now, it is I, Don Luis Perenna, who will be lodged in durance vile on the evening of this Thursday, the first of April.”