“That box must contain all the papers,” said Classon, rising stealthily and crossing the room; “and see, the key is in the lock!” In a moment they were both on the spot, busily ransacking the contents. One glance showed their suspicions to be correct: there were heaps of legal documents, copies of deeds, extracts of registries, with innumerable letters of explanation. They had no time for more than the most hurried look at these; in fact, they turned in terror at every movement, to see if the sick man had recovered from his swoon.
“This is all; better than I ever looked for,” said Classon. “Fill your pockets with them: we must divide the spoil between us, and be off before he rallies.”
Driscoll obeyed with readiness. His eager eye scrutinized hastily so much as he could catch of the import of each document; but he did not venture, by any attempt at selection, to excite Classon's suspicions.
“If we cannot make our own terms after this night's work, Driscoll, my name is not Paul Classon. The poor fellow here will soon be past tale-telling, even if he were able to see us. There you have dropped a large parchment.”
“I' ll put it in the pocket of my cloak,” said the other, in a whisper; while he added, still more stealthily, “would n't you swear that he was looking at us this minute?”
Classon started. The sick man's eyes were open, and their gaze directed towards them; while his lips, slightly parted, seemed to indicate a powerless attempt to speak.
“No,” said Classon, in a scarcely audible whisper; “that is death.”
“I declare I think he sees us,” muttered Driscoll.
“And if he does, man, what signifies it? He's going where the knowledge will little benefit him. Have you everything safe and sure now? There, button your coat well up; we must start at once.”
“May I never! if I can take my eyes off him,” said Driscoll, trembling.