The moments crept by leaden-footed. But Marcel Trouet stood still—very still—looking down at that white face, those stiffening lips.
He had killed the wrong man.
It was a matter of regret.
Hardened in crime though he was, murder in cold blood had never come his way before, and the horror of a useless deed held him there, actually trembling a little as he watched the slowly oozing blood trickle across the white hearth.
And the twilight was deepening in the silent room.
The hasty opening of a door startled the watcher into uttering a low cry of terror. But the terror passed at sight of Lord Denningham.
These two understood each other.
"Ah!"
"Unluckily I made a little mistake, mon ami. It was Morice Conyers—the citizen Varenac—I came to find."
"Aha! I understand. A little unfortunate for Steenie! Poor devil! But how go the affairs of State, friend Trouet?"