"God grant that he be right. I would rather die a thousand deaths than lose the dear boy in this way."
Hot tears ran over the man's brown cheeks, and his broad breast rose and fell, torn by convulsive sobs.
"Shame yourself, Firejaws!" he murmured, "if any one saw you now! Let us hope everything will be all right, and then—"
A loud knock at the door interrupted Girdel's self-conversation, and upon a hasty "Come in," Bobichel entered the room.
"Well, Bobi, how goes it?" asked the athlete.
"She is downstairs," said the clown, with a significant gesture.
Without asking another question, Girdel hurried out, while Bobichel looked observantly around the room, and soon found a well-filled bottle of wine and a glass; he filled the glass and emptied it with one swallow.
In the meantime Girdel had met Irene de Salves in the corridor of the house.
The young lady wore a black dress, and when she saw the athlete she ran to meet him and sobbingly cried:
"He's not dead, is he?"