"Don't speak so loud, Alexandre."
The two frail wrists were released with unparalleled ease; the sergeant's powerful hands were caught and rendered useless; and Don Luis grinned:
"Don't you know me, you idiot?"
Sergeant Mazeroux did not utter a word. His eyes started still farther from his head. He tried to understand and remained absolutely dumfounded.
The sound of that voice, that way of jesting, that schoolboy playfulness allied with that audacity, the quizzing expression of those eyes, and lastly that Christian name of Alexandre, which was not his name at all and which only one person used to give him, years ago. Was it possible?
"The chief!" he stammered. "The chief!"
"Why not?"
"No, no, because"
"Because what?"
"Because you're dead."
"Well, what about it? D'you think it interferes with my living, being dead?"
And, as the other seemed more and more perplexed, he laid his hand on his shoulder and said:
"Who put you into the police office?"
"The Chief Detective, M. Lenormand."
"And who was M. Lenormand?"
"The chief."
"You mean Arsène Lupin, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, Alexandre, don't you know that it was much more difficult for Arsène Lupin to be Chief Detective—and a masterly Chief Detective he was—than to be
