“I was watching you,” said the agent. “The place is full. I was convinced you would enter this way. We must not stay in the middle of the courtyard. Many eyes to-night are on the watch around us.”
“Where shall we go?”
“Come along into my room.”
An outer staircase led to a wood corridor, running along the first floor, and continued right to the top story. It was right under the roof that Laforêt had taken a room, the wretchedest in the whole establishment, and quite in accordance with the condition of a poor labourer. Opening his door, he signed to Baudoin to take a seat on the bed; then, raising the skylight, he looked along the roof to make sure no one was watching. Dropping the iron sash, he said in low tones—
“Speak close to my ear. There are rooms on either side of this. The partitions are very thin, and it is possible to hear everything that is said.”
“What have you summoned me for?” whispered Baudoin.
“Because I have news from the Cavée. The lady is no longer alone. There is a man in the house.”
“What kind of a man? A dark, handsome young fellow, who speaks Italian?”
“No; tall, strong-looking, and light-complexioned, with a thick beard, and speaking with a kind of German accent.”
Baudoin’s eyes shone. He vigorously grasped Laforêt’s hand, and, in trembling tones, asked—