Suddenly the quietness was startled by loud groans of agony and unintelligible speech coming from some room of the flat. Paragot staggered noisily to his feet, a shaking, hairy, dishevelled spectre, blinking glazed eyes.
Madame de Verneuil started and leaned forward, her hands on the arms of her chair.
"My husband," she whispered, and for a few seconds we all listened to the unearthly sounds. Then she rose and turned to me.
"You had better see it through."
She crossed to Paragot.
"Are you better now?"
"I can do what is required of me," said my master, humbly, though in his ordinary voice. He was practically sober.
"Then come," said Joanna.
We followed her out of the room, through softly carpeted corridors full of pictures and statues and beautiful vases, and entered a dimly lit bedroom. A nurse rose from a chair by the bed, where lay a bald-headed, beaky-nosed man groaning and raving in some terrible madness. Joanna gripped my arm as Paragot went to the bedside.
"I am Gaston de Nérac," said he.