"Who are you?" he asked. "Who are you? . . . You'll have to speak. . . ."
And he clasped the enemy's body with still greater force, for he had an impression that that body was diminishing between his arms, that it was vanishing. He gripped harder . . . and harder. . . .
And suddenly he shuddered from head to foot. He had felt, he still felt a tiny prick in the throat. . . . In his exasperation, he gripped harder yet: the pain increased! And he observed that the man had succeeded in twisting one arm round, slipping his hand to his chest and holding the dagger on end. The arm, it was true, was incapable of motion; but the closer M. Lenormand tightened his grip, the deeper did the point of the dagger enter the proffered flesh.
He flung back his head a little to escape the point: the point followed the movement and the wound widened.
Then he moved no more, remembering the three crimes and all the alarming, atrocious and prophetic things represented by that same little steel needle which was piercing his skin and which, in its turn, was implacably penetrating. . . .
Suddenly, he let go and gave a leap backwards. Then, at once, he tried to resume the offensive. It was too late. The man flung his legs across the window-sill and jumped.
"Look out, Gourel!" he cried, knowing that Gourel was there, ready to catch the fugitive.
He leant out. A crunching of pebbles . . . a shadow between two trees, the slam of the gate. . . . And no other sound . . . no interference. . . .
Without giving a thought to Pierre Leduc, he called:
"Gourel! . . . Doudeville!"