The man rolled from side to side, convulsively, and tore at the air with clawlike hands. To Peret, he seemed to be grappling with an invisible antagonist that was slowly crushing his life out. His face was blue and horribly distorted: his breath was coming in short, jerky gasps.
Suddenly his tensed muscles relaxed and he lay still. Unable to speak, he could only lift his eyes to Peret’s in desperate appeal.
“Dame! You are a sick man, my friend,” observed Peret, feeling the man’s pulse. “I will run for a physician. But tell me quickly what happened to you, Monsieur.”
There was an almost imperceptible movement of the dying man’s froth-rimmed lips, and Peret held his head nearer.
“Now, speak, my friend,” he entreated. “I am Jules Peret. You know me, eh? Tell me what is the matter with you. Were you attacked?”
“As-sas-sins,” gasped the stricken man faintly.
“What?” cried Peret, excitedly. “Assassins?”
The look in Berjet’s eyes was eloquent.
“Who are they?” pleaded the detective. “Tell me their names, Monsieur, before it is too late. I will avenge you. I promise you. I swear it. Quickly, Monsieur, their names—”
Berjet murmured something in a voice almost too faint to be audible.