Fandor settled himself in his case and Juve also got into bed. As he put out the light he gave a warning.
"We mustn't close an eye or utter a word. Whatever happens, don't move. But when I call, strike a light at once and come to me."
"All right," replied Fandor.
"Fandor!"
Juve's cry rent the stillness of the night, loud and compelling. The journalist leaped from his wicker-basket so abruptly that he knocked against the lamp stand and the lamp fell to the floor. Fandor searched for his matches in vain.
"Light up, Fandor!" shouted Juve.
The noise of a struggle, the dull thud of a fall on the floor, maddened the journalist. In the darkness he heard Juve groaning, scraping the floor with his boots, making violent efforts to resist some mysterious assailant.
"Be quick, in God's name," implored the pain-wrung voice of the detective. Fandor trod on the glass of the lamp, which broke. He tripped, knocked his head against a press, rebounded, then suddenly uttered a terrible cry. His hands, outstretched apart, in the gloom, had brushed a cold, shiny body which slid under his palms.
"Fandor! Help, Fandor!"