The carriage drove off. Dourlowski, in the drawing-room, took out his watch and set it by the clock, whispering:
"Consequently, they'll reach the Butte at a quarter past ten. That's a good thing to know. And now to inform old Morestal that his friend Dourlowski has come to hunt him up in his happy home."
Putting two of his fingers to his mouth, he gave the same faint whistle which Morestal had heard that morning, something like the unfinished note of certain birds:
"That's done it," he grinned. "The old boy pricked up his ears. He has sent the others for a stroll in the garden and he's coming this way...."
He made a movement backwards on hearing Morestal's footstep in the hall, for he knew the old fellow was not given to joking. And, in fact, Morestal, the moment he entered, ran up to him and took him by the collar of his jacket:
"What are you doing here? What do you mean by it? How dare you?... I'll show you a road which you don't know of!"
Dourlowski began to laugh with his crooked mouth:
"My dear M. Morestal, you'll dirty your hands."
His clothes were shiny and thick with grease, stretched over a small round body, that contrasted strangely with his lean and bony face. And all this formed a jovial, grotesque and rather alarming picture.
Morestal let go his hold and, in an imperative tone: