“What other, and what favour?”
“As to the first—en bon Français, I will not tell thee. For the second—behold it!”
With the words, he whipt out from under his blouse a thin, strong file, a little vessel of oil, and a dab of some blue-coloured mastic in paper—and these he pressed upon me.
“Hide them about thy person—hide them!” he muttered, in a fearful voice; “and take all that I shall say in a breath!”
He glanced over his shoulder at the closed door. He was a blotched and flaccid creature, with the staring dry hair of the tippler, but with very human eyes. His fingers closed upon my arm as if for support to their trembling.
“Cell thirteen—on the first floor,” he said; “that is whither I shall convey thee. Ask no questions. Hast thou them all tight?—Allez-vous en, mon ami! A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse.”
“But——”
“Ah! thou must needs be talking! Cement with the putty, then, and rub the filings over the marks.”
“I was not born yesterday. It is not that I would know.”
“S-st! At nine by the convent clock, be ready to drop silently into the cart that shall pass beneath thy window. Never mind what thou hit’st on. A falling man does not despise a dunghill.”