But before he could deal the blow, Petit was on his feet again, knife in hand.
As the German lifted his arm to strike, the blade went home to the hilt in his neck.
He fell like a beast at the stroke of an axe, and with a horrid growl of satisfaction Petit finished the business by cutting his victim’s throat.
There was silence.… Presently the murderer crept to the door and looked out cautiously.
He heard no sound except the night noises of the bush, and already the escapee was familiar with many of these.
He found water for his hands—and the knife. Upon the latter he bestowed great attention. Before replacing it in its sheath he lifted it to his lips and reverently kissed the blade! The soul of Jean Petit was not absolutely without gratitude.
Petit moved quickly, silently back to the hut. The figure, lying face down upon the floor, had not stirred in the least.
A pool, which would in daylight have glowed angrily red, was slowly spreading around it, darkening the slabs of the floor as if someone had overturned a bottle of ink.
Jean Petit studied the position narrowly. He first of all picked up the tin and removed the lid.
There was certainly some money inside rolled up in a rag. Petit undid the rag, using his teeth to loosen the knots, and turned out a handful of pence. Again a curse of disappointment escaped him.