utes passed; and each minute wasted brought Florence nearer to her doom.
He remembered a similar occasion when, some years before, he waited in the same way for the door of his cell to open and the German Emperor to appear. But how much greater was the solemnity of the present moment! Before, it was at the very most his liberty that was at stake. This time it was Florence's life which fate was about to offer or refuse him.
"Florence! Florence!" he kept repeating, in his despair.
He no longer had a doubt of her innocence. Nor did he doubt that the other loved her and had carried her off, not so much for the hostage of a coveted fortune as for a love spoil, which a man destroys if he cannot keep it.
"Florence! Florence!"
He was suffering from an extraordinary fit of depression. His defeat seemed irretrievable. There was no question of hastening after Florence, of catching the murderer. Don Luis was in prison under his own name of Arsène Lupin; and the whole problem lay in knowing how long he would remain there, for months or for years!
It was then that he fully realized what his love for Florence meant. He perceived that it took the place in his life of his former passions, his craving for luxury, his desire for mastery, his pleasure in fighting, his ambition, his revenge. For two months he had been struggling to win her and for nothing else. The search after the truth and the punishment of the criminal were to him no more than means of saving Florence from the dangers that threatened her.
If Florence had to die, if it was too late to snatch her
