"Let's look at it," said the dresser, and, glancing through the notice, added, "yes, that's quite true: 'M. Valgrand has achieved his finest triumph in his last creation.'" He looked casually through the newspaper, and suddenly broke into a sharp exclamation. "Good heavens, it can't be possible!"
"What's the matter?" the door-keeper enquired.
Charlot pointed a shaking finger to another column.
"Read that, Jean, read that! Surely I am mistaken."
The door-keeper peered over Charlot's shoulder at the indicated passage.
"I don't see anything in that; it's that Gurn affair again. Yes, he is to be executed at daybreak on the eighteenth."
"But that is this morning—presently," Charlot exclaimed.
"May be," said the door-keeper indifferently; "yes, last night was the seventeenth, so it is the eighteenth now! Are you ill, Charlot?"
Charlot pulled himself together.
"No, it's nothing; I'm only tired. You can put out the lights. I shall be out of the theatre in five minutes; I only want to do one or two little things here."