Dory put his shoulder to the door.
“Listen,” he shouted through the keyhole, “Mr. Sick Waiter, or whoever you are, if you do not unlock this door, I am coming in!”
“I have no key,” said a faint voice. “I am locked in. Please break open the door.”
“But that is not the Voice of Francois!” Antoine exclaimed, in amazement.
“We’ll soon see who it is,” Dory answered.
He charged at the door fiercely. At the third assault it gave way. They found themselves in a small back bedroom, and stretched on the floor, very pale, and apparently only half-conscious, lay Peter Ruff. There was a strong smell of chloroform about. John Dory threw open the window. His fingers trembled a little. It was like Fate—this! At the end of every unsuccessful effort there was this man—Peter Ruff!
“What the devil are you doing here?” he asked.
Peter Ruff groaned.
“Help me up,” he begged, “and give me a little brandy.”
Antoine set him in an easy-chair and rang the bell furiously.