"I have no business to talk with you," I answered.
"But I did not say it was with you, monsieur," he answered in sneering tones. "It is with our friend, Duchaine. Holà, Duchaine!"
At the sound of Leroux's voice the old man straightened himself and began muttering and looking from the one to the other of us undecidedly.
In vain I tried to drag him within the tunnel. He shook himself free from me and sprang out on the icy ledge, and he poised himself there, turning his head from side to side as either of us spoke. And he effectively prevented me from shooting Leroux.
"Don't you know your best friends, Duchaine?" inquired Leroux; and the white beard was tipped toward the other side of the ledge.
"I don't know who my friends are, Simon," answered Duchaine, in his mild, melancholy voice. "What do you want?"
"Why, I want you, Charles, my old friend," replied Leroux in a voice expressive of surprize. "You old fool, do you want to die? If you do, go with that gentleman. He comes from Quebec on government business."
But I could plead better than that. I knew the symbol in his imagination.
"M. Duchaine! Come with me!" I cried. "He has a gallows ready for you back in that tunnel!"
It was a pitiful scheme, and yet for the life of me I could think of no other way to win him. And, as it happened, the word associated itself in the listener's mind as much with the speaker as with the man spoken of, for I saw Duchaine start violently and cling to the icy wall.