"You would not dare——" she whispered, in spite of her pain, "the people of the hotel—will investigate. The police——"
"Bah! A burglar comes along the portico, I shoot him. He falls—will you tell the truth? Are the papers in this room?"
"I won't tell."
"Very well." And then turning to his companion at the window, "What is he doing now, Tricot?"
"He does not move——"
The Irishman released Piquette suddenly.
"A better chance for a shot, then," he snapped. "Here, Tricot." And he moved toward the window, his weapon eloquent.
Piquette sprang up despairingly.
"Monsieur," she cried, "for the love of God. Don't shoot. I will tell."
"I thought so. Where are they? Quick."