"Still ..." mumbled Dourlowski.
"I refuse. Not to mention that they suspect me over yonder. The German commissary gives me a queer look when he meets me; and I won't risk ..."
"You're risking nothing."
"That'll do; and clear out of this as fast as you can.... Oh, wait a second!... I think I ... Listen ..."
Morestal ran to the windows overlooking the garden. Quick as thought, Dourlowski stooped and fished Morestal's crumpled sheet out of the waste-paper basket. He hid it in the palm of his hand and, raising his voice:
"We'll say no more about it, as you don't see your way to help me," he said. "I give it up."
"That's it," said Morestal, who had seen no one in the garden. "You give it up, my friend: it's the best thing you can do."
He took Dourlowski by the shoulders and pushed him towards the terrace:
"Be off ... and don't come back.... There's nothing more for you to do here ... absolutely nothing...."
He hoped to get rid of the fellow without being perceived, but, as he reached the gate, he saw his wife, his son and Marthe come up the staircase, after strolling round the walls of the Old Mill.