"It would do you good in any event," M. Étienne told him, but flinging him his pistoles, nevertheless. The old fellow swooped upon them, gathered them up, and was behind the closed door all in one movement. But as we walked away, he opened a little wicket in the upper panel, and stuck out his ugly head to yell after us:
"If M. Bernet's not at home yet, neither will his friend be. I've told you what will profit you none."
"You mistake, Sir Gargoyle," M. Étienne called over his shoulder. "Your information is entirely to my needs."
XXIII
The Chevalier of the Tournelles.
t was a long walk to the Rue des Tournelles, which lay in our own quarter, not a dozen streets from the Hôtel St. Quentin itself. We found the Gilded Shears hung before a tailor's shop in the cellar of a tall, cramped structure, only one window wide. Its narrow door was inhospitably shut, but at our summons the concierge appeared to inform us that M. Peyrot did truly live here and, moreover, was at home, having arrived but half an hour earlier than we. He would go up and find out whether monsieur could see us.
But M. Étienne thought that formality unnecessary, and was able, at small expense, to convince the concierge of it. We went alone up the stairs and crept very quietly along the passage toward the door of M. Peyrot. But our shoes made some noise on the flags; had he been listening, he might have heard us as easily as we heard him. Peyrot had not yet gone to bed after the night's exertion; a certain clatter and gurgle convinced us that he was refreshing himself with supper, or breakfast, before reposing.
M. Étienne stood still, his hand on the door-knob, eager, hesitating. Here was the man; were the papers here? If they were, should we secure them? A single false step, a single wrong word, might foil us.