Antoine, white with fear, poured himself out a liqueur of brandy.
“Well, well,” he said, “what must be done, then! Come!”
He led the way out into that smelly network of passages, up the stairs to the first floor. Room after room he threw open and begged Dory to examine. Some of them were garishly furnished with gilt mirrors, cheap lace curtains tied back with blue ribbons. Others were dark, miserable holes, into which the fresh air seemed never to have penetrated. On the third floor they reached the little sitting-room, which bore more traces of occupation than some of the rooms below. Antoine would have passed on, but Dory stopped him.
“There is a door there,” he said. “We will try that.”
“It is the sick waiter who lies within,” Antoine protested. “Monsieur can hear him groan.”
There was, indeed, something which sounded like a groan to be heard, but Dory was obstinate.
“If he is so ill,” he demanded, “how is he able to lock the door on the inside? Monsieur Antoine, that door must be opened.”
Antoine knocked at it softly.
“Francois,” he said, “there is another doctor here who would see you. Let us in.”
There was no answer, Antoine turned to his companion with a little shrug of the shoulders, as one who would say—“I have done my best. What would you have?”