"You know what the fastenings are like."
Peyrol could not deny that. It was a sufficient answer. It shifted the responsibility on to his shoulders and all his life he had been accustomed to trust to the work of his own hands, in peace and in war. Yet he looked doubtfully at Michel before he remarked:
"Yes, but I know the man too."
There could be no greater contrast than those two faces: Peyrol's clean, like a carving of stone, and only very little softened by time, and that of the owner of the late dog, hirsute, with many silver threads, with something elusive in the features and the vagueness of expression of a baby in arms. "Yes, I know the man," repeated Peyrol. Michel's mouth fell open at this, a small oval set a little crookedly in the innocent face.
"He will never wake," he suggested timidly.
The possession of a common and momentous secret drawing men together, Peyrol condescended to explain.
"You don't know the thickness of his skull. I do."
He spoke as though he had made it himself. Michel, who in the face of that positive statement had forgotten to shut his mouth, had nothing to say.
"He breathes all right?" asked Peyrol. "Yes. After I got out and locked the door I listened for a bit and I thought I heard him snore."
Peyrol looked interested and also slightly anxious.