“I must question him,” murmurs the painter. “If [[66]]this is true, the sword suspended by the hair is about to fall.”
A moment later and the laughing voices of childhood are heard on the stairs, Achille and his little brother bound into the room, crying: “Pigeon pie! pigeon pie! Hurrah for Monsieur Oliver’s pigeon pie!”
“Yes, pigeon pie,” cries the painter, “pigeon pie. But what has become of my pigeons? Have you taken them, Achille?”
“No!”
“Were there any flying about the cote? Not those in the coop, but in the cote—around in the air flying?” The artist’s voice has become hoarse—his eyes terrible.
“Oh yes, a good many, for the last day or two,” answers the boy. Then noting his master’s manner, he screams out: “But I have not taken them, I swear to heaven, Monsieur Oliver, I have never taken any from the cote. On the word of an honest boy—do not discharge me!”
“No, he didn’t take any,” cries little Marvedie; “a big tall man with nasty black eyes took them away.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Did you see him? How do you know?”