“Patrice. . . . Patrice. . . .”
He looked around him, saw Don Luis, no doubt remembered his fight to the death with Ya-Bon and closed his eyes again. But Patrice’s rage increased:
“Will you attend?” he shouted. “I won’t wait any longer! It’ll cost you your life if you don’t answer!”
The man’s eyes opened again, red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. He pointed to his throat to indicate his difficulty in speaking. At last, with a visible effort, he repeated:
“Patrice! Is it you? . . . I have been waiting for this moment so long! . . . And now we are meeting as enemies! . . .”
“As mortal enemies,” said Patrice, with emphasis. “Death stands between us: Ya-Bon’s death, Coralie’s perhaps. . . . Where is she? You must speak, or . . .”
“Patrice, is it really you?” the man repeated, in a whisper.
The familiarity exasperated the officer. He caught his adversary by the lapel of his jacket and shook him. But Siméon had seen the pocket-book which he held in his other hand and, without resisting Patrice’s roughness, whined:
“You wouldn’t hurt me, Patrice. You must have found some letters; and you now know the link that binds us together. Oh, how happy I should have been . . . !”
Patrice had released his hold and stood staring at him in horror. Sinking his voice in his turn, he said: