Nibet nodded.
The light from a dark lantern gleamed on the damp, slimy walls of the subterranean passageway.
"Come inside," murmured Nibet, in an almost inaudible voice; and, with infinite precaution, he closed the massive portal between the cellar and the sewer-way.
In safe hiding the two men could watch the approaching intruder: they had extinguished their lantern, and were peering through the badly joined wood of the solid door. Friend or foe? An individual moved into view. The reflected light of his lantern lit up the vaulting of the sewer-way, and showed up his face. The man was young, fair, wore a small moustache!
Hardly had he passed the cellar door when Nibet gripped Cranajour's arm and growled—intense rage was expressed in grip and tone—"It's he! Again! The journalist of the Dollon affair, of the Dépôt business—Jérôme Fandor! Ah.... This time we'll see!..."
Nibet's hand plunged into his trouser pocket.
Cranajour was eagerly watching the warder's every movement: he clearly heard the sharp snap of a pocket-knife—a long sharp knife—a deadly weapon!
Giving prudence the go-by, Nibet had opened the door, and dragging Cranajour in his wake had rushed into the sewer-way, hard on the heels of the journalist, who was slowly going in the direction of the Seine. Nibet ground his teeth.
"I have had enough of that beast! Always on our track! Too good a chance to miss! I'm going to make a hole in his skin for him!"
In the twilight of early dawn, which penetrated the sewer near the opening, Cranajour shuddered.