Marteau threw up his hands, that touch recalled him to his senses.
"I will let them alone for the present," he said. "Meanwhile——" He seized the dead man and dragged the body out of sight behind the tables.
"Will monsieur give a thought to me?" came another voice from the dim recesses of a far corner.
"And who are you?" asked Marteau, lifting the light and staring.
"A Frenchman, sir. They knocked me on the head and left me for dead, but if monsieur would assist me I——"
Marteau stepped over to him, bent down and lifted him up. He was a stout, hardy looking peasant boy, pale cheeked, with blood clotted around his forehead from a blow that he had received. Feverish fire sparkled in his eyes.
"If monsieur wishes help to put these brutes out of the way command me," he said passionately.
"We will do nothing with them at present," answered Marteau.
"Quick, Laure, the knife," whispered the Englishman.
The Frenchman heard him, however, and wheeled around.