“Blast it all, what are you doing there, you two?”
Gilbert and Vaucheray, locked in a furious embrace, were rolling on the floor, uttering cries of rage. Their clothes were dripping with blood. Lupin flew at them to separate them. But already Gilbert had got his adversary down and was wrenching out of his hand something which Lupin had no time to see. And Vaucheray, who was losing blood through a wound in the shoulder, fainted.
“Who hurt him? You, Gilbert?” asked Lupin, furiously.
“No, Léonard.”
“Léonard? Why, he was tied up!”
“He undid his fastenings and got hold of his revolver.”
“The scoundrel! Where is he?”
Lupin took the lamp and went into the pantry.
The man-servant was lying on his back, with his arms outstretched, a dagger stuck in his throat and a livid face. A red stream trickled from his mouth.
“Ah,” gasped Lupin, after examining him, “he’s dead!”