The concierge, firing her last round of ammunition, threatened the man:
“If you don’t open the door, they’ll go and fetch the police!”
And the mysterious intruder, in the calmest way, without so much as raising his voice, replied:
“Yes, go and fetch the police!”
Some minutes passed, during which this last proposal was being put into effect.
Presently the heavy footsteps of a sergeant of police and a constable made themselves heard on the stairs, and the two representatives of law and order effected a cautious entry into Mademoiselle Dollon’s rooms:
“It is the police,” they announced themselves; “will you open the door; yes or no?”
They waited a few seconds, then the key turned in the lock and the door opened softly a little way. The paper-hanger’s face appeared in the aperture and the man, addressing the sergeant:
“I will trouble you to step inside, sir,” he said, “queer things are happening here, your presence is required,” then added, pointing to the constable: “the other gentleman as well, perhaps; but no, he might prefer the duty of getting the ladies out of the way; it is no sight for women.”
The calm, authoritative manner of the workman impressed the two officers, and the sergeant mechanically ordered his subordinate: