“I’m afraid—”
“You’re afraid?”
“Yes,” Beautrelet confessed, frankly, “it’s my nerves giving way—I generally manage to control them—but, to-day, the silence—the excitement—And then, since I was stabbed by that magistrate’s clerk—But it will pass off—There, it’s passing now—”
He succeeded in rising to his feet and Valméras dragged him out of the room. They groped their way along the passage, so softly that neither could hear a sound made by the other.
A faint glimmer, however, seemed to light the hall for which they were making. Valméras put his head round the corner. It was a night-light placed at the foot of the stairs, on a little table which showed through the frail branches of a palm tree.
“Halt!” whispered Valméras.
Near the night-light, a man stood sentry, carrying a gun.
Had he seen them? Perhaps. At least, something must have alarmed him, for he brought the gun to his shoulder.
Beautrelet had fallen on his knees, against a tub containing a plant, and he remained quite still, with his heart thumping against his chest.
Meanwhile, the silence and the absence of all movement reassured the man. He lowered his weapon. But his head was still turned in the direction of the tub.