Fandor raised the cover and lifted out a top compartment, in which were scattered, among objects of feminine apparel, papers, books, and all sorts of things which had evidently belonged to the unfortunate painter. The distracted Elizabeth, in the hurry of departure from rue Norvins, must have thrust them in pell-mell. The lower division of the trunk was empty.
"Another bit of luck!" thought Fandor. "Now to sample my little hide-hole!"
Fandor found he could get into a fairly comfortable position. Then he calculated, that with the compartment back in its place and the cover open, all he had to do to close it was to shake the trunk transversely. He could certainly remain inside for several hours without intolerable discomfort.
Raising the cover, Fandor slipped out.
The interminable hours crawled by. To smoke was out of the question. Fandor's pride in his exploit was sinking to zero: was he passing a wretched night to no purpose? A violent ring sounded. Someone was ringing at the garden gate—ringing loudly, insistently—an imperative summons!
Instantly Fandor was on the alert. Useless to slip to the window and peer cautiously out, for Elizabeth's window did not face the gate: even by leaning out he could not catch any glimpse of any visitors, either coming to the house or passing along towards Madame Bourrat's apartments in the annex.... Besides, Fandor feared to make a noise, and the polished boards of the floor cracked and creaked at the least movement!
"The one thing for me to do," thought he, "is to creep back into my retreat and wait. Now who can it be at this time of night?"
Fandor's curiosity was rapidly satisfied—after a fashion! The call of the bell had been answered by noises and hurried footsteps, whisperings, an outburst of voices, then silence.... A few minutes after, Fandor clearly heard some persons entering the ground floor of the house.
He listened intently: he could hear his own heartbeats.
Then a voice said: