"Yes," cried Oliver, in the same shrill voice, "you are saved! But come! come!"
"But the door," said Céleste. "It is locked, Oliver."
"Ah, peste! I had forgotten. Stand away from it." As he spoke, he rushed against the door, flinging himself bodily upon it. It shook, but did not open. Again he dashed himself against it, and this time with better success. The lock snapped, and as it flew open inward Oliver plunged headlong into the room beyond.
Céleste stood, white and terrified, in the middle of the floor. "But am I indeed saved?" said she. "Where, then, is Monsieur de St. Germaine?"
"Do not ask me, Céleste," cried Oliver, hoarsely. "Come!"
As they passed through the room beyond, Céleste looked up into his face.
"What is it?" she cried. "What has happened, Oliver? Tell me."
But Oliver could not answer; he only shook his head.
Upon the landing without, Céleste suddenly stopped and laid her hand upon his arm. "Hark!" said she. "What is that?"
Oliver listened breathlessly. A dull, monotonous sobbing sounded through the house. It came from the apartment above.