“I saw the figure of a man making off that way.”
“Which way?” asked Patrice.
The man was running in the direction of the lane. Patrice followed him. But, at that moment, from close beside the little door, there came shrill cries and the whimper of a choking voice:
“Help! . . . Help! . . .”
When Patrice came up, the policeman was already flashing his electric lantern over the ground; and they both saw a human form writhing in the shrubbery.
“The door’s open!” shouted Patrice. “The assassin has escaped! Go after him!”
The policeman vanished down the lane; and, Ya-Bon appearing on the scene, Patrice gave him his orders:
“Quick as you can, Ya-Bon! . . . If the policeman is going up the lane, you go down. Run! I’ll look after the victim.”
All this time, Patrice was stooping low, flinging the light of the policeman’s lantern on the man who lay struggling on the ground. He recognized old Siméon, nearly strangled, with a red-silk cord round his neck.
“How do you feel?” he asked. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”