"You want me to rake up the most terrible recollection of my life. That is asking rather a lot."
"But not too much; can't you understand that I want to help you? What was it that happened fifteen years ago?"
Dreyel had withdrawn a little, but Wallion followed him. "Quick, there's no time to lose. What was ..." he broke off, went up to the table and blew out the light. The room was pitch dark, the window only looked like a pale gray square. A slight rustle in the grass outside had made itself heard, and a figure was dimly discernible running across the garden at lightning speed.
"He has come," whispered Wallion. "You were wrong to doubt. Victor Dreyel's murderer is here now to fetch the other doll."
He adjusted his Browning and opened the window, but it was impossible to distinguish anything among the trees. He turned back into the room and asked in a low voice: "Have you any servants here?"
"No."
"Are all the doors and windows shut and fastened?"
"Yes."
They listened for a few minutes. Nothing could be heard but Christian Dreyel's deep breathing; the tension was beginning to affect Wallion's nerves. He knew that he was not mistaken; the man who had murdered Victor Dreyel, wounded Elaine Robertson, and slipped through the cordon of police in 30, John Street, had come to complete his secret work on the body of the other Dreyel.
The whites of Christian Dreyel's eyes shone in the dark. He had taken a double-barrelled gun from the wall. His powerful frame seemed to grow larger, for the approach of danger seemed to have put new life into him.