"Not yet. The two of them are up there. Keep quiet, and I'll send the boy down. When you've finished him, come up."
"As you say, monsieur. It is your job."
I turned, scarce able to believe my luck, and, not daring to run, walked up-stairs again. Prick my ears as I might, I heard no movement after me. Actually, I had fooled Peyrot. I had gone down to meet my death, and a tune had saved me.
When I reached the uppermost landing, I rushed along the passage and into the room, flinging the door shut, locking and bolting it.
They had not begun to fight, but had busied themselves clearing the space of all obstacles. The table was pushed against the wall in the corner by the door; the chairs were heaped one on another at the end of the room. Both shutters were wide open. M. Étienne, bareheaded, in his shirt, stood at guard. Lucas was kneeling on the floor, picking up with scrupulous care some bits of a broken plate. He sprang to his feet at sight of me.
"What is it?" cried M. Étienne.
"Cutthroats. They'll be here in a minute."
Even as I spoke, I heard tramping on the stairs below. My slam of the door had warned them that something was wrong.
"Was that your delay?" M. Étienne shouted, springing at his foe.
"I play to win!" Lucas answered, smiling.