"What do you want at this hour?"
"Fear nothing. Open the door and I will tell you."
"I will not open."
M. Belmont was not a timid man, but evidently these precautions had become necessary in the present demoralized condition of the town.
Batoche was in a quandary, but his native sagacity soon came to his aid. Putting his mouth close to the key-hole, he sent through it the low bark of the wolf. M. Belmont opened his eyes wide as he heard it, and a sickly smile spread over his face, but he lost no time in turning the lock. Through a very small aperture the stranger glided into the room.
"Batoche!"
"M. Belmont!"
A few whispered words explained everything—the disguise, the motive of the visit and all the rest. M. Belmont recovered his equanimity and led his friend to a front room.
"I have no time to lose. I must see him," said Batoche.
"He is very ill and now sleeping."