“There is a secret hiding place here, monsieur.”
But Pascal was as sharp as a dagger’s point, and on the instant detected a change of tone, and was ready for a trick.
“Open it,” he said, curtly, and without turning his head shifted his position just sufficiently to watch the spy. Dauban made a pretence of opening some secret recess and Pascal saw him snatch up something and conceal it.
“It is open, monsieur,” said the spy.
“Good. Fright makes a ready servant of you,” replied Pascal; and as if unsuspicious of treachery, crossed the room turning his back to give the spy his chance.
With a quick stealthy rush Dauban sprang forward only to find himself foiled, his uplifted right hand caught in a grip of iron, the weapon taken from it and himself pinned against the wall with fingers of steel playing on his windpipe and Pascal’s eyes gleaming close to his. He wriggled and fought with the strength of despair; but the air was shut from his lungs, his sight grew blurred, a blood red mist surged about him, and then all was dark with the darkness of death.
“The sly treacherous devil,” murmured Pascal, as he let the inert helpless body of the spy slip to the ground. “Who’d have thought he’d even enough pluck for such a thing?”
What to do with him was a difficulty, however. Pascal had already lost time which could ill be spared and having had one experience of Dauban’s cleverness in slipping out of his bonds, he was loth to trust again to mere cords.
A hurried search of the room offered no solution, and for the moment there seemed nothing for it save the desperate step of plunging the knife into his heart. He had earned death by his last murderous attack, and Pascal picked up the weapon; but he shrank from the deed, and with the object of obtaining the assistance of some of the household, he opened the door.
In the corridor he found Lucette strolling near the room with an assumed air of indifference. On seeing him she made as if to hurry away, and he called her.