"But——"
"It is a dynamite bomb!" he said, hoarsely.
"Mon Dieu!"
She turned as white as a sheet and staggered backward only to come in contact with one of the boxes on the floor. She recoiled from this as if she had been threatened by a snake. Mlle. Fouchette was quite feminine. A mouse now would have scared her into convulsions.
"Where did you get this, petite?" he asked. "It is death,—a horrible death!"
She pointed to the boxes, unable to speak.
"Dynamite bombs! cartridges! powder and ball!" he declared, as he casually examined the nearest. "It is a real arsenal!"
"Come, Jean! Let us go!" said the girl, seizing him. "It is dangerous! Your candle! think! Come!"
She dragged him towards the open door. "Ah! to think I beat upon the wall with that—that——"
She shivered like a leaf.