"At eleven o'clock," agreed Lépine.
"At eleven o'clock," repeated Crochard, and waved his adieu. Then, as the door closed behind that erect little figure, he sank back into his seat with a chuckle and touched a bell.
An inner door, concealed so cleverly in the wall that even Lépine's sharp eyes had not perceived it, opened and a man looked in.
"He has gone," Crochard said. "Bring some wine, Samson, and two glasses."
The door closed, but opened again in a moment to admit the man, with bottle and glasses. He placed them on the table, went back to make sure that the door was closed, and then sat down opposite Crochard. Why he should be called Samson, unless in derision, was hard to understand, for he was a mere skeleton of a man, with a face like parchment. But the brow was high and the eyes bright and the mouth as tender as a woman's.
Crochard glanced at the label on the cobwebbed bottle, and nodded as he filled his glass.
"You are good to your friends, Samson," he said. "Your health!"
"Yours!" said Samson, and drained his glass. "Everything I have is yours, my master; you know that!"
"Even your life?"
"You have only to ask it."