A good tip, paid in advance, avoided all tedious explanations. With the help of the two men, he carried the seven prisoners down and plumped them anyhow, on one another's knees, into the cabs. The wounded men yelled and moaned. He shut the doors, shouting:
"Mind your hands!"
He got up beside the driver of the front cab.
"Where to?" asked the man.
"36, Quai des Orfevers: the detective-office."
The motors throbbed, the drivers started the gear and the strange procession went scooting down the slopes of the Trocadero.
In the streets, they passed a few vegetable-carts. Men carrying long poles were turning out the street-lamps.
There were stars in the sky. A cool breeze was wafted through the air.
Lupin sang aloud:
The Place de la Concorde, the Louvre. . . . In the distance, the dark b
