From the Rue Raynouard, narrow lanes, which used to divide the old properties, make their way down to the river. One of them skirted the wall that preceded the house. Belval turned down it with Ya-Bon. It was constructed of ugly pointed pebbles, was broken into steps and faintly lighted by the gleam of a street-lamp.
“Lend me a hand, Ya-Bon. The wall is too high. But perhaps with the aid of the lamp-post . . .”
Assisted by the negro, he hoisted himself to the lamp and was stretching out one of his hands when he noticed that all this part of the wall bristled with broken glass, which made it absolutely impossible to grasp. He slid down again.
“Upon my word, Ya-Bon,” he said, angrily, “you might have warned me! Another second and you would have made me cut my hands to pieces. What are you thinking of? In fact, I can’t imagine what made you so anxious to come with me at all costs.”
There was a turn in the lane, hiding the light, so that they were now in utter darkness, and Captain Belval had to grope his way along. He felt the negro’s hand come down upon his shoulder.
“What do you want, Ya-Bon?”
The hand pushed him against the wall. At this spot there was a door in an embrasure.
“Well, yes,” he said, “that’s a door. Do you think I didn’t see it? Oh, no one has eyes but Master Ya-Bon, I suppose.”
Ya-Bon handed him a box of matches. He struck several, one after the other, and examined the door.
“What did I tell you?” he said between his teeth. “There’s nothing to be done. Massive wood, barred and studded with iron. . . . Look, there’s no handle on this side, merely a key-hole. . . . Ah, what we want is a key, made to measure and cut for the purpose! . . . For instance, a key like the one which the commissionaire left for me at the home just now. . . .”