The concierge nodded, no whit ruffled. “And for whom was it intended?”
“I cannot say. The address is fictitious, of course.”
Black Humbert scowled. “So!” he said. “You tell us only a part!”
“There is nothing else to tell. Save, as I have written here, the writer ends: ‘I must see you at once. Let me know where.’”
The brandy was getting in its work well by that time. He was feeling strong, his own man again, and reckless. But he was cunning, too. He yawned. “And in return for all this, what?” he demanded. “I have done you a service, friend cut-throat.”
The concierge stuffed letter and translation into his pocket. “What would you have, short of liberty?”
“Air, for one thing.” He stood up and stretched again. God, how strong he felt! “If you would open that accursed window for an hour—the place reeks.”
Humbert was in high good humor in spite of his protests. In his pocket he held the key to favor, aye, to a plan which he meant to lay before the Committee of Ten, a plan breath-taking in its audacity and yet potential of success. He went to the window and put his great shoulder against it.
Instantly Haeckel overturned the candle and, picking up the chair, hurled it at Herman Spier. He heard the clerk go down as he leaped for the door. Herman had not locked it. He was in the passage before the concierge had stumbled past the bed.
On the stairs his lightness counted. His bare feet made no sound. He could hear behind him the great mass of Humbert, hurling itself down. Haeckel ran as he had never run before. The last flight now, with the concierge well behind, and liberty two seconds away.