“Let it be understood,” Sogrange continued, “that this is a dual undertaking. We toss only for the final honor—for the last stroke. If the choice falls upon me, I shall count upon you to help me to the end. If it falls upon you, I shall be at your right hand even when you strike the blow.”
“It is agreed,” Peter said. “See, it is for you to call.”
He threw the coin high into the air.
“I call heads,” Sogrange decided.
It fell upon the table. Peter covered it with his hand and then slowly withdrew the fingers. A little shiver ran through his veins. The harmless head that looked up at him was like the figure of death. It was for him to strike the blow!
“Where is Bernadine now?” he asked.
“Get me a morning paper and I will tell you,” Sogrange declared, rising. “He was in the train which was stopped outside the Gare du Nord, on his way to England. What became of the passengers I have not heard. I knew what was likely to happen, and I left an hour before in a 100 H. P. Charron.”
Peter rang the bell and ordered the servant who answered it to procure the Daily Telegraph. As soon as it arrived, he spread it open upon the table and Sogrange looked over his shoulder. These are the headings which they saw in large black characters:
RENEWED RIOTS IN PARIS
THE GARE DU NORD IN FLAMES
TERRIBLE ACCIDENT TO THE CALAIS-DOUVRES EXPRESS
MANY DEATHS
Peter’s forefinger traveled down the page swiftly. It paused at the following paragraph: