Beautrelet gave a shudder. It was the first time that he was experiencing the sense of danger. And such danger! He felt himself in the presence of an implacable enemy, endowed with blind and irresistible strength.
“And next?” he asked, with less assurance in his voice.
“Next? Nothing.—You will be free.—We will forget—”
There was a pause. Then Brédoux resumed:
“There is only a minute left. You must make up your mind. Come, old chap, don’t be a fool.—We are the stronger, you know, always and everywhere.—Quick, the paper—”
Isidore did not flinch. With a livid and terrified face, he remained master of himself, nevertheless, and his brain remained clear amid the breakdown of his nerves. The little black hole of the revolver was pointing at six inches from his eyes. The finger was bent and obviously pressing on the trigger. It only wanted a moment—
“The paper,” repeated Brédoux. “If not—”
“Here it is,” said Beautrelet.
He took out his pocket-book and handed it to the clerk, who seized it eagerly.
“Capital! We’ve come to our senses. I’ve no doubt there’s something to be done with you.—You’re troublesome, but full of common sense. I’ll talk about it to my pals. And now I’m off. Good-bye!”