His master indicated Tellier with the motion of a finger.
It was wonderful to see how Glück's face brightened—almost into a smile—as he laid his hand on Tellier's shoulder.
"Canaille!" hissed the latter, and shook the hand away. "Do not touch me—do not defile me with those dirty fingers. Oh, I will go! I have my task accomplished! And you are fools, imbeciles—all—all—from that fat Dutchman, who thinks his wife still living—"
But Glück was again upon him, this time not to be shaken off, and an instant later he and his victim disappeared together into the shadows of the hall.
"Just the same," shrieked Tellier's voice hoarsely from the distance, "it was I who was right! In every detail! A veritable triumph! A success of—"
The voice sank into a gurgle and was still.
Pelletan, his face livid, clutching blindly at the wall for support, stumbled forth into the hall, along the corridor, down the stair, until at last he found Tellier, his face purple, rearranging his cravat before a mirror in the hotel office.
"Iss she not lifing?" he asked, huskily.
"Living!" echoed Tellier, whirling upon him fiercely. "No, pig-head, she has been dead these three years! But you are no more a pig-head than those others. Oh, they shall answer, they shall repay, they shall atone! I will have my revenge—"
But Pelletan did not stop to listen. He groped his way across the room, his eyes shining, his lips trembling, repeating over and over a single word—