The sound of a chair pushed back came from within, and a young man's quick, firm step passed across to the far side of the room. We heard a box shut and locked. M. Étienne nipped my arm; we thought we knew what went in. Then came steps again and a loud yawn, and presently two whacks on the floor. We knew as well as if we could see that Peyrot had thrown his boots across the room. Next a clash and jangle of metal, that meant his sword-belt with its accoutrements flung on the table. M. Étienne, with the rapid murmur, "If I look at you, nab him," turned the door-handle.
But M. Peyrot had prepared against surprise by the simple expedient of locking his door. He heard us, too, for he stopped in the very middle of a prolonged yawn and held himself absolutely still. M. Étienne called out softly:
"Peyrot!"
"Who is it?"
"I want to speak with you about something important."
"Who are you, then?"
"I'll tell you when you let me in."
"I'll let you in when you tell me."
"My name's Martin. I'm a friend of Bernet. I want to speak to you quietly about a matter of importance."
"A friend of Bernet. Hmm! Well, friend of Bernet, it appears to me you speak very well through the door."