They shuddered. An imperceptible sound, coming from the other side of the door, had, as it were, grazed the silence. And they received the impression, the certainty that he was there after all, separated from them by that thin wooden partition, and that he was listening to them, that he heard them.
What were they to do? It was a tragic situation. For all their coolness as old stagers of the police, they were overcome by so great an excitement that they imagined they could hear the beating of their own hearts.
Ganimard consulted Shears with a silent glance and then struck the door violently with his fist.
A sound of footsteps was now heard, a sound which there was no longer any attempt to conceal.
Ganimard shook the door. Shears gave an irresistible thrust with his shoulder and burst it open; and they both rushed in.
Then they stopped short. A shot resounded in the next room. And another, followed by the thud of a falling body.
When they entered, they saw the man lying with his face against the marble of the mantel-piece. He gave a convulsive movement. His revolver slipped from his hand.
Ganimard stooped and turned the dead man's head, it was covered with blood, which trickled from two large wounds in the cheek and temple.
"There's no recognizing him," he whispered.
"One thing is certain," said Shears. "It's not 'he.'"