“Right. But I’ll bathe my hand first. It is very painful.”
“Yes. Go into my room,” said the other, indicating the door.
Therefore Adolphe threw off his coat, hung it upon a nail, and, unwrapping his injured hand, entered the adjoining room, closing the door after him.
“You’ll find water in there,” shouted his host, whose face, at the moment, relaxed into a hard, sinister smile.
He placed his hand in his jacket pocket, and it came into contact with Jean’s letter.
The recollection of it maddened him. He remembered that the man in the room beyond had stood her champion, and had taken her part.
“Curse you!” he muttered, beneath his breath. “What business is it of yours—you soft-hearted fool?”
But scarce had the words fallen from his lips when the door opened suddenly, and the old woman from below, who acted as concierge, terrified and panting, entered, and with a loud whisper, cried:
“Ah, M’sieur Ansell. Quick! quick! The police are here! The commissary is asking for you. Quick! Get away, or you’ll be caught like a rat in a trap. You know the way. Leave the rest to me!”
And without another word she disappeared, closing the door after her, while the wanted man stood staggered, pale, and dumb.