"You know——?"
"An apache of the old régime, Mademoiselle. We would do well to find him."
And so, explaining her fears, but not yet revealing all the reasons for them, she led the way down the streets by which she had come and to the house which Harry Horton had entered.
The older man knocked loudly upon the door. There was no response. Again. Silence. The other man went up the alley way on the side and called to them. There was a shutter and a window open. Without hesitation, he drew a weapon and crawled over the sill, the other man following, leaving Moira alone. She listened, as they moved about inside, saw the glint of an electric torch and then heard the bolts of the door shot back and the police officer calling to her.
"Enter, Mademoiselle," he said, when she had come around. "You are sure that this is the house?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"There is no one here. The house is deserted. It is a street of deserted houses."
"That is impossible——" she stammered. "With my own eyes, less than an hour ago, this Tricot met the other at the door."
"Allons! We will search a little further, then."
She followed them up the rickety stairway and then they found evidences of recent occupation—two pallets of straw—some food—a bottle containing absinthe.