“You say you have a letter for Miss Dunois?” demanded Barres, now determined to get hold of him.
“I am instructed to giff it myself to her in private, all alone——”
“Give it to me!”
“I am instruc——”
“Give it to me, I tell you!—and come inside here! Do you hear what I’m saying to you?”
The spectacled man lost most of his colour as Barres started toward him.
“Excuse!” he faltered, backing off down the corridor. “I giff you the letter!” And he hastily thrust his hand into the side pocket of his coat. But it was 213 a pistol he poked under the other’s nose—a shiny, lumpy weapon, clutched most unsteadily.
“Hands up and turn me once around your back!” whispered the man hoarsely. “Quick!—or I shoot you!”—as the other, astounded, merely gazed at him. The man had already begun to back away again, but as Barres moved he stopped and cursed him:
“Put them up your hands!” snarled the spectacled man, with a final oath. “Keep your distance or I kill you!”
Barres heard himself saying, in a voice not much like his own: