“Close litter,” said he. “A man would suffocate that burrowed into it.”
“Is that so? Rake me over that big lump yonder—voilà!—with the little skull sticking from it.”
I felt my heart turn like a mountebank—felt Carinne stoop suddenly and rise with something huddled in her hands. The astonishing child had, unknown to me, preconceived a plan and was prepared with it on the very flash of emergency. She leant past me, swift and perfectly silent, and immediately the little spars of light about the trap went out, it seemed. If in moving she made the smallest sound, it was opportunely covered by the ragged cough that issued at the moment from Gusman’s throat.
“Dépêche-toi!” said the authoritative voice. “That projecting patch, citizen—turn it for me!”
“There is nothing here.”
“But, there, I say! No, no! Mille tonnerres,—I will come myself, then!”
I heard Gusman’s breath vibrant outside the trap; heard him hastily raise the covering an inch or two, with an affectation of labouring perplexity. I set my teeth; I “saw red,” like flecks of blood; I waited for the grunt of triumph that should announce the discovery of the hole.
“It is as I told thee,” said the deadman; “there is nothing.”
I caught a note of strangeness in his voice, a suppressed marvel that communicated itself to me. The sweat broke out on my forehead.
“H’mph!” muttered the inquisitor; and I heard him step back.