CHAPTER VII.

      THE JEWISH LAMP.

       Table of Contents

      Herlock Sholmes and Wilson were sitting in front of the fireplace, in comfortable armchairs, with the feet extended toward the grateful warmth of a glowing coke fire.

      Sholmes' pipe, a short brier with a silver band, had gone out. He knocked out the ashes, filled it, lighted it, pulled the skirts of his dressing-gown over his knees, and drew from his pipe great puffs of smoke, which ascended toward the ceiling in scores of shadow rings.

      Wilson gazed at him, as a dog lying curled up on a rug before the fire might look at his master, with great round eyes which have no hope other than to obey the least gesture of his owner. Was the master going to break the silence? Would he reveal to Wilson the subject of his reverie and admit his satellite into the charmed realm of his thoughts? When Sholmes had maintained his silent attitude for some time. Wilson ventured to speak:

      "Everything seems quiet now. Not the shadow of a case to occupy our leisure moments."

      Sholmes did not reply, but the rings of smoke emitted by Sholmes were better formed, and Wilson observed that his companion drew considerable pleasure from that trifling fact—an indication that the great man was not absorbed in any serious meditation. Wilson, discouraged, arose and went to the window.

      The lonely street extended between the gloomy façades of grimy houses, unusually gloomy this morning by reason of a heavy downfall of rain. A cab passed; then another. Wilson made an entry of their numbers in his memorandum-book. One never knows!

      "Ah!" he exclaimed, "the postman."

      The man entered, shown in by the servant.

      "Two registered letters, sir ... if you will sign, please?"

      Sholmes signed the receipts, accompanied the man to the door, and was opening one of the letters as he returned.

      "It seems to please you," remarked Wilson, after a moment's silence.

      "This letter contains a very interesting proposition. You are anxious for a case—here's one. Read——"

      Wilson read:

      "Monsieur,

      "I desire the benefit of your services and experience. I have been the victim of a serious theft, and the investigation has as yet been unsuccessful. I am sending to you by this mail a number of newspapers which will inform you of the affair, and if you will undertake the case, I will place my house at your disposal and ask you to fill in the enclosed check, signed by me, for whatever sum you require for your expenses.

      "Kindly reply by telegraph, and much oblige,

       "Your humble servant,

      "Baron Victor d'Imblevalle,

      "18 rue Murillo, Paris."

      "Ah!" exclaimed Sholmes, "that sounds good ... a little trip to Paris ... and why not, Wilson? Since my famous duel with Arsène Lupin, I have not had an excuse to go there. I should be pleased to visit the capital of the world under less strenuous conditions."

      He tore the check into four pieces and, while Wilson, whose arm had not yet regained its former strength, uttered bitter words against Paris and the Parisians, Sholmes opened the second envelope. Immediately, he made a gesture of annoyance, and a wrinkle appeared on his forehead during the reading of the letter; then, crushing the paper into a ball, he threw it, angrily, on the floor.

      "Well? What's the matter?" asked Wilson, anxiously.

      He picked up the ball of paper, unfolded it, and read, with increasing amazement:

      "My Dear Monsieur:

      "You know full well the admiration I have for you and the interest I take in your renown. Well, believe me, when I warn you to have nothing whatever to do with the case on which you have just now been called to Paris. Your intervention will cause much harm; your efforts will produce a most lamentable result; and you will be obliged to make a public confession of your defeat.

      "Having a sincere desire to spare you such humiliation, I implore you, in the name of the friendship that unites us, to remain peacefully reposing at your own fireside.

      "My best wishes to Monsieur Wilson, and, for yourself, the sincere regards of your devoted ARSÈNE LUPIN."

      "Arsène Lupin!" repeated Wilson, astounded.

      Sholmes struck the table with his fist, and exclaimed:

      "Ah! he is pestering me already, the fool! He laughs at me as if I were a schoolboy! The public confession of my defeat! Didn't I force him to disgorge the blue diamond?"

      "I tell you—he's afraid," suggested Wilson.

      "Nonsense! Arsène Lupin is not afraid, and this taunting letter proves it."

      "But how did he know that the Baron d'Imblevalle had written to you?"

      "What do I know about it? You do ask some stupid questions, my boy."

      "I thought ... I supposed——"

      "What? That I am a clairvoyant? Or a sorcerer?"

      "No, but I have seen you do some marvellous things."

      "No person can perform marvellous things. I no more than you. I reflect, I deduct, I conclude—that is all; but I do not divine. Only fools divine."

      Wilson assumed the attitude of a whipped cur, and resolved not to make a fool of himself by trying to divine why Sholmes paced the room with quick, nervous strides. But when Sholmes rang for the servant and ordered his valise, Wilson thought that he was in possession of a material fact which gave him the right to reflect, deduct and conclude that his associate was about to take a journey. The same mental operation permitted him to assert, with almost mathematical exactness:

      "Sholmes, you are going to Paris."

      "Possibly."

      "And Lupin's affront impels you