Lupin blushed.
The ring belonged to Georges Devanne. He smiled bitterly, and said:

"You are right. Nothing can be changed. Arsene Lupin is now and always
will be Arsene Lupin. To you, he cannot be even so much as a memory.
Pardon me....I should have known that any attention I may now offer you
is simply an insult. Forgive me."

He stepped aside, hat in hand. Nelly passed before him. He was inclined
to detain her and beseech her forgiveness. But his courage failed, and
he contented himself by following her with his eyes, as he had done when
she descended the gangway to the pier at New York. She mounted the steps
leading to the door, and disappeared within the house. He saw her no
more.

A cloud obscured the sun. Arsene Lupin stood watching the imprints of
her tiny feet in the sand. Suddenly, he gave a start. Upon the box which
contained the bamboo, beside which Nelly had been standing, he saw
the rose, the white rose which he had desired but dared not ask
for. Forgotten, no doubt--it, also! But how--designedly or through
distraction? He seized it eagerly. Some of its petals fell to the
ground. He picked them up, one by one, like precious relics.

"Come!" he said to himself, "I have nothing more to do here. I must
think of my safety, before Sherlock Holmes arrives."

* * * * *

The park was deserted, but some gendarmes were stationed at the
park-gate. He entered a grove of pine trees, leaped over the wall,
and, as a short cut to the railroad station, followed a path across the
fields. After walking about ten minutes, he arrived at a spot where the
road grew narrower and ran between two steep banks. In this ravine, he
met a man traveling in the opposite direction. It was a man about fifty
years of age, tall, smooth-shaven, and wearing clothes of a foreign cut.
He carried a heavy cane, and a small satchel was strapped across his
shoulder. When they met, the stranger spoke, with a slight English
accent:

"Excuse me, monsieur, is this the way to the castle?"

"Yes, monsieur, straight ahead, and turn to the left when you come to
the wall. They are expecting you."

"Ah!"

"Yes, my friend Devanne told us last night that you were coming, and I
am delighted to be the first to welcome you. Sherlock Holmes has no more
ardent admirer than.... myself."

There was a touch of irony in his voice that he quickly regretted, for
Sherlock Holmes scrutinized him from head to foot with such a keen,
penetrating eye that Arsene L