"Oh, it's all very well for you to laugh ... you're always laughing!

... But I'm beginning to have enough of it... . I'm mixed up in a heap of nasty matters ... to say nothing of the danger which I run in pretending to be somebody that I am not."

"What do you mean ... that you are not? You're quite as much a duke as I am a prince ... perhaps even more so... . Besides, if you're not a duke, hurry up and become one, hang it all! Genevieve can't marry any one but a duke! Look at her: isn't she worth selling your soul for?"

He did not even look at Leduc, not caring what he thought. They had reached the house by this time; and Genevieve appeared at the foot of the steps, comely and smiling:

"So you have returned?" she said to the prince. "Ah, that's a good thing! I am so glad... . Do you want to see Dolores?"

After a moment, she showed him into Mrs. Kesselbach's room. The prince was taken aback. Dolores was paler still and thinner than on the day when he saw her last. Lying on a sofa, wrapped up in white stuffs, she looked like one of those sick people who have ceased to struggle against death. As for her, she had ceased to struggle against life, against the fate that was overwhelming her with its blows.

Sernine gazed at her with deep pity and with an emotion which he did not strive to conceal. She thanked him for the sympathy which he showed her.

She also spoke of Baron Altenheim, in friendly terms.

"Did you know him before?" he asked.

"Yes, by name, and through his intimacy with my husband."

"I have met an Altenheim who lives in the Rue de Rivoli. Do you think it's the same?"

"Oh, no, this one lives in ... As a matter of fact, I don't quite know; he gave me his address, but I can't say that I remember it... ."

After a few minutes' conversation, Sernine took his leave. Genevieve was waiting for him in the hall:

"I want to speak to you," she said eagerly, "on a serious matter... .

Did you see him?"

"Whom?"

"Baron Altenheim... . But that's not his name ... or, at least, he has another... . I recognized him ... he does not know it."

She dragged him out of doors and walked on in great excitement.

"Calm yourself, Genevieve... ."

"He's the man who tried to carry me off... . But for that poor M.

Lenormand, I should have been done for... . Come, you must know, for you know everything... ."

"Then his real name is ..."

"Ribeira."

"Are you sure?"

"It was no use his changing his appearance, his accent, his manner: I knew him at once, by the horror with which he inspires me. But I said nothing ... until you returned."

"You said nothing to Mrs. Kesselbach either?"

"No. She seemed so happy at meeting a friend of her husband's. But you will speak to her about it, will you not? You will protect her... . I don't know what he is preparing against her, against myself... . Now that M. Lenormand is no longer there, he has nothing to fear, he does as he pleases. Who can unmask him?"

"I can. I will be responsible for everything. But not a word to anybody."

They had reached the porter's lodge. The gate was opened. The prince said:

"Good-bye, Genevieve, and be quite easy in your mind. I am there."

He shut the gate, turned round and gave a slight start. Opposite him stood the man with the eye-glass, Baron Altenheim, with his head held well up, his broad shoulders, his powerful frame.

They looked at each other for two or three seconds, in silence. The baron smiled.

Then the baron said:

"I was waiting for you, Lupin."

For all his self-mastery, Sernine felt a thrill pass over him. He had come to unmask his adversary; and his adversary had unmasked him at the first onset. And, at the same time, the adversary was accepting the contest boldly, brazenly, as though he felt sure of victory. It was a swaggering thing to do and gave evidence of no small amount of pluck.

The two men, violently hostile one to the other, took each other's measure with their eyes.

"And what then?" asked Sernine.

"What then? Don't you think we have occasion for a meeting?"

"Why?"

"I want to talk to you."

"What day will suit you?"

"To-morrow. Let us lunch together at a restaurant."

"Why not at your place?"

"You don't know my address."

"Yes, I do."

With a swift movement, the prince pulled out a newspaper protruding from Altenheim's pocket, a paper still in its addressed wrapper, and said:

"No. 29, Villa Dupont."

"Well played!" said the other. "Then we'll say, to-morrow, at my place."

"To-morrow, at your place. At what time?"

"One o'clock."

"I shall be there. Good-bye."

They were about to walk away. Altenheim stopped: