Lavenne had captured the situation of the room; it was now his business, and a much more difficult business, to capture the key, or, failing that, to pick the lock. He had brought with him an instrument similar to the old crochet used by the burglars of France ever since the time of the Coquillards—the instrument that is used still under the name of the Nightingale. With this he could unlock and lock a door as easily as with a key. It remained to be seen whether the door of Camus’ room could be opened by this means.
He blew out the candle, lay down on the bed, and closing his eyes began, as a pastime, to review the whole situation.
It was a difficult situation enough. If Camus caught him in the act of making an examination of his room, Camus would certainly kill him, unless he killed Camus. Even in the latter event he would almost certainly be lost, unless he could make his escape, which was very unlikely. For if he killed Count Camus in his own house, he would, if caught, be most certainly hanged by de Sartines; it being the unwritten law of the Hôtel de Sartines that an agent caught on a business of this sort must never reveal his identity, or seek protection from the Law which employed him, suffering even death, if necessary, in the execution of his duty.
But this consideration did not deflect our man a hair’s-breadth from the course he had mapped out for himself. The thing that was now occupying his mind was the room itself, of which he had caught a glimpse, its contents and its possible secrets.
It was the dark centre of Camus’ life, the depository, without doubt, of his secrets. What he would find there in the way of written or other evidence, Lavenne did not know; of how he would prosecute his search, he had no definite plan; yet he knew that here was the only place where Justice might rest her lever as on a fulcrum, and with one swift movement send the Poisoner crashing to the pit that awaited him.
As he lay in the darkness revolving these matters in his mind, he heard the great clock of the Hôtel chiming the hour of eleven. He determined to wait till midnight. Jumeau had told him that Camus had gone to the Hôtel Dubarry and would not be home, most likely, till the small hours, if then.
Lavenne felt that he had the whole night before him, unconscious of the fact that Camus’ hour of return that night was not at all to be counted on, simply for the reason that Camus, when Camille Fontrailles left the party, had become restless, and though he had taken his place at the card-table, showed such absence of mind that Luck, who hates a cold lover, declared herself dead against him.
Meanwhile Monsieur Brujon retired to rest, but not before sending a special messenger to Monsieur Gaston Le Roux with a note, enclosing the testimonial, and an inquiry as to whether the man mentioned in it was to be trusted.
M. Le Roux’s reply consisted of only one word, “Absolutely.”