CHAPTER XI.
THE VOW.
For a second, pale with alarm, Ralph Ansell glanced around the room.
Suddenly an idea suggested itself. He was always resourceful.
Next moment he dashed across to the door and locked it, afterwards rushing to the door which led into the bedroom—the room in which his friend was bathing his wound. There was a bolt upon the door, and this he slipped, thus imprisoning the man who was, as yet, unconscious of danger.
Then, crossing to where Adolphe’s jacket hung, he quickly drew out the twenty-five thousand francs in notes and placed them in his own pocket.
He held his breath and listened. As yet, all was quiet, save for a man’s rough voice below. He was apparently in conversation with Mme. Brouet’s husband.