“Good,” mumbled the clerk. “And now let us waste no time.” He took out his watch. “Our worthy M. Filleul will walk down to the gate. At the gate, he will find nobody, of course: no more public prosecutor than my eye. Then he will come back. That gives us about four minutes. It will take me one minute to escape by this window, clear through the little door by the ruins and jump on the motor cycle waiting for me. That leaves three minutes, which is just enough.”
Brédoux was a queer sort of misshapen creature, who balanced on a pair of very long spindle-legs a huge trunk, as round as the body of a spider and furnished with immense arms. A bony face and a low, small stubborn forehead pointed to the man’s narrow obstinacy.
Beautrelet felt a weakness in the legs and staggered. He had to sit down:
“Speak,” he said. “What do you want?”
“The paper. I’ve been looking for it for three days.”
“I haven’t got it.”
“You’re lying. I saw you put it back in your pocket-book when I came in.”
“Next?”
“Next, you must undertake to keep quite quiet. You’re annoying us. Leave us alone and mind your own business. Our patience is at an end.”
He had come nearer, with the revolver still aimed at the young man’s head, and spoke in a hollow voice, with a powerful stress on each syllable that he uttered. His eyes were hard, his smile cruel.