After a minute or two, without even locking the door of his sitting-room, he stumbled out of it and up the stairs to the servants' quarters.
He gave the signal knocks.
He was at once admitted to the dingy little bedroom-workshop.
Emile Deschamps was there. The Frenchman's face was as grey as evening ice.
He was staring at his apparatus in a sort of stupor, and by his side the chronometer ticked.
Emile gave a loud shout as Basil tumbled into the place.
"It is done, then?" he gasped. "Mon ami, it is a thing done?"
All grimy as he was Basil led his friend down into his sitting-room.
* * * * * *