He distinctly heard the policemen open the little back door in the hall. He distinctly heard them come down the kitchen stairs.
There was nothing between him and them save one door, that of the basement room in which he was. He bolted the door at the very moment when the aggressors were laying hold of the handle.
The trap-door was open beside him; it meant possible safety, because there remained the second outlet.
"No," he said to himself, "Geneviève first. Afterward, if I have time, I will think of myself."
He knelt down and put his hand on the baron's breast. The heart was still beating.
He stooped lower still:
"You can hear me, can't you?"
The eyelids flickered feebly.
The dying man was just breathing. Was there anything to be obtained from this faint semblance of life?