"What is that?" Paul demanded of him. But the man merely shrugged his shoulders.
Then there came the scream again, louder and more terror-stricken than before. Paul did not hesitate.
Before the servant had time to utter any protest he had snatched the lantern from his hand and was racing up the third flight to the topmost landing.
Again came the scream, and Paul suddenly found his way barred by a door across the corridor.
Now there was no longer any doubt as to where the cries came from. Paul dashed at the door, only to find it locked. In a second he had his shoulder against the panel, and the door went in with a crash, disclosing a small anteroom, formed by the end of the hall-way. And then Paul saw before him another door, before which stood the fat Frenchman, Virot, with a shining knife in his hand. Paul covered him with his revolver.
"Drop that knife," he ordered.
"Not me!" said the portly rogue.
"Drop it!" said Paul again, with an unmistakable threat in his voice.
And this time the man dropped it.
"Now," Paul cried, "away with you, before I send you to hell before your time."