"I will tell you, Madame. You will be left here alone in this room with the good Tricot." And as Piquette shrank down into her chair, "He is a very ingenious rascal, Tricot. Never yet has he been caught by the police." Quinlevin stopped suddenly, his gaze on the rectangle of the open window, as though listening. "An open window," he mumbled. "I left it so—perhaps. But do you go, Tricot, and look out. Perhaps there is some one below."
The man obeyed, without a sound, vanishing outside the window upon the small portico.
"No one can help you, Madame," Quinlevin said in a threatening whisper, "for at my word Tricot shall be quick and silent." He caught Piquette furiously by the wrist and twisted it. "What have you done with my property?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"You are lying."
Tricot's silhouette appeared at the window.
"Monsieur," he whispered tensely, "there's a man—below."
"Horton!" said Quinlevin. "What is he doing?"
"Crawling in the bushes, Monsieur."
The clutch on Piquette's arm grew tighter.