"Only three," said Croquier significantly; "there are three of us."
Horace shrank back as the meaning of the words became clear.
The hunchback looked at him.
"Remember Deschamps," he said. "Remember the curé, remember little Jacques, and remember Mme. Maubin!"
Horace pulled himself together.
"There are three of us," he agreed.
The peasant had not spoken but, from a hiding-place in the frame of the bed, he pulled out a long knife and offered it to Croquier.
"Keep it, you," said the hunchback; "I have my hands."
"And the boy?" asked the peasant.