"
"How far to Monterolier?"
"Twenty-three kilometres."
"Twenty-three kilometres in nineteen minutes....We will be there
ahead of him."
We were off again! Never had my faithful Moreau-Repton responded
to my impatience with such ardor and regularity. It participated
in my anxiety. It indorsed my determination. It comprehended my
animosity against that rascally Arsene Lupin. The knave! The
traitor!
"Turn to the right," cried Delivet, "then to the left."
We fairly flew, scarcely touching the ground. The mile-stones
looked like little timid beasts that vanished at our approach.
Suddenly, at a turn of the road, we saw a vortex of smoke. It was
the Northern Express. For a kilometre, it was a struggle, side by
side, but an unequal struggle in which the issue was certain. We
won the race by twenty lengths.
In three seconds we were on the platform standing before the
second-class carriages. The doors were opened, and some passengers
alighted, but not my thief. We made a search through the
compartments. No sign of Arsene Lupin.
"Sapristi!" I cried, "he must have recognized me in the automobile
as we were racing, side by side, and he leaped from the train.
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