than the enemy
deserved; and the end to be attained justified every means.

"Oh," he said to himself, "oh, for a decent bench of inquisitors and a
couple of bold executioners!... What a time we should have!"

Every afternoon the Growler and the Masher watched the road which
Daubrecq took between the Square Lamartine, the Chamber of Deputies and
his club. Their instructions were to choose the most deserted street
and the most favourable moment and, one evening, to hustle him into a
motor-car.

Lupin, on his side, got ready an old building, standing in the middle
of a large garden, not far from Paris, which presented all the necessary
conditions of safety and isolation and which he called the Monkey's
Cage.

Unfortunately, Daubrecq must have suspected something, for every time,
so to speak, he changed his route, or took the underground or a tram;
and the cage remained unoccupied.

Lupin devised another plan. He sent to Marseilles for one of his
associates, an elderly retired grocer called Brindebois, who happened
to live in Daubrecq's electoral district and interested himself in
politics. Old Brindebois wrote to Daubrecq from Marseilles, announcing
his visit. Daubrecq gave this important constituent a hearty welcome,
and a dinner was arranged for the following week.

The elector suggested a little restaurant on the left bank of the Seine,
where the food, he said, was something wonderful. Daubrecq accepted.

This was what Lupin wanted. The proprietor of the restaurant was one
of his friends. The attempt, which was to take place on the following
Thursday, was this time bound to succeed.

Meanwhile, on the Monday of the same week, the trial of Gilbert and
Vaucheray opened.

The reader will remember--and the case took place too recently for me to
recapitulate its details--the really incomprehensible partiality which
the presiding judge showed in his cross-examination of Gilbert. The
thing was noticed and severely criticised at the time. Lupin recognized
Daubrecq's hateful influence.

The attitude observed by the two prisoners differed greatly. Vaucheray
was gloomy, silent, hard-faced. He cynically, in curt, sneering, almost
defiant phrases, admitted the crimes of which he had formerly been
guilty. But, with an inconsistency which puzzled everybody except Lupin,
he denied any participation in the murder of Leonard the valet and
violently accused Gilbert. His object, in thus linking his fate with
Gilbert's, was to