Mercier's threat to shoot the first man who attempted to go to the woman upstairs had its effect, no one was inclined to run the risk, yet several remained about the doorway instead of going back to their wine. Barrington quickly calculated all the chances. To leave by the inn door without being seen was impossible; another way must be found, and there was not a moment to lose. Directly the wine fumes overpowered the man who, for an instant, dominated the situation, these bloodthirsty wretches would certainly rush upon their prey. The intention was visible in their sullen faces.
"You know me, will you trust me?" he whispered. He still held her arm, his hand was still over her mouth.
She nodded her head.
"Go up, quietly," he said, releasing her.
Jeanne knew him. Few moments had passed since her arm had been gripped in the darkness, but she had lived a long time in them, and exactly when she realized who it was who touched her she did not know. It never occurred to her to think it strange that he should be alive. She did not ask herself whether she really trusted him. At least, he was different from those men below, and she obeyed him.
"Is there another staircase?" he asked when they were in the passage above.
"I do not know."
"There must be," he said, as though their dire necessity would compel one. "Walk close behind me and tread lightly."
Comparative silence had reigned, only the uneasy shuffling of feet and the chink of a glass, now the noise of voices broke out again, angry voices, raised in argument and quarrel. Each moment Barrington expected a rush up the stairs. If it came, what could he do?
He remembered the position of the windows through which a dim light had shown in the rear of the house. The kitchen was probably there. If another staircase existed it would be in the direction of the kitchen. He turned along a passage to the left, his hand stretched out before him, lest he should stumble in the darkness. The noise below was deadened here.