Every possible hiding-place had been examined; except the pockets of Victor Bourdon’s trousers, and the bed upon which he lay.
The major stopped to scratch his head in despair, and stood staring hopelessly at the unhappy victim of his own vices, who was still raving, still remonstrating with invisible demons. But Eleanor aroused her friend from this state of stupefaction.
“He may have the will about him, major,” she said.
“Aha!” cried the soldier, “if he has, I’ll have it out of him. Give it me, you unconscionable blackguard,” he exclaimed, pouncing upon the delirious Frenchman. “I’ll have it out of you, you scoundrel. Tell me where it is directly. Dites-moi où il est, dong! What have you done with it, sir? What have you done with Maurice de Crespigny’s will?”
The familiar name aroused a transitory gleam of consciousness in Victor Bourdon.
“Ha, ha!” he cried, with a malicious chuckle. “Maurice de Crespigny, the old, the parent of that Long—cellotte; but I will have my revenge; but he shall not enjoy his riches. The will, the will; that is mine; it will give me all.”
He raised himself by a great effort into a sitting posture, and made frantic endeavours to disengage his hands.
“He is thinking of the will,” cried Eleanor; “loosen his wrists, major! Pray, pray, do, before the thought leaves him.”
Major Lennard obeyed. He loosened the knot of the silk handkerchief, but before he could remove it, Victor Bourdon had pulled his hands through the slackened noose, and clutched at something in his breast. It was a folded paper which he snatched out of the bosom of his shirt, and waved triumphantly above his head.
“Aha, Monsieur Long—cellotte!” he screamed. “I will pay thee for thy insolence, my friend.”