to see from where they lay.

"What do you say to all this, gentlemen? You are the only ones who
have not given your views. And yet you must have an opinion of some
sort."

Thereupon, Raoul and the Persian saw the startled faces of the joint
managers appear above the landing--and they heard Moncharmin's excited
voice:

"There are things happening here, Mr. Commissary, which we are unable
to explain."

And the two faces disappeared.

"Thank you for the information, gentlemen," said Mifroid, with a jeer.

But the stage-manager, holding his chin in the hollow of his right
hand, which is the attitude of profound thought, said:

"It is not the first time that Mauclair has fallen asleep in the
theater. I remember finding him, one evening, snoring in his little
recess, with his snuff-box beside him."

"Is that long ago?" asked M. Mifroid, carefully wiping his eye-glasses.

"No, not so very long ago ... Wait a bit! ... It was the night ... of
course, yes ... It was the night when Carlotta--you know, Mr.
Commissary--gave her famous 'co-ack'!"

"Really? The night when Carlotta gave her famous 'co-ack'?"

And M. Mifroid, replacing his gleaming glasses on his nose, fixed the
stage-manager with a contemplative stare.

"So Mauclair takes snuff, does he?" he asked carelessly.

"'Yes, Mr. Commissary ... Look, there is his snuff-box on that little
shelf ... Oh! he's a great snuff-taker!"

"So am I," said Mifroid and put the snuff-box in his pocket.

Raoul and the Persian, themselves unobserved, watched the removal of
the three bodies by a number of scene-shifters, who were followed by
the commissary and all the people with him. Their steps were heard for
a few minutes on the stage above. When they were alone the Persian
made a sign to Raoul to stand up. Raoul did so; but, as he did not
lift his hand in front of his eyes, ready to fire, the Persian told him
to resume that attitude and to continue it, whatever happened.

"But it tires the hand unnecessarily," whispered Raoul. "If I do fire,
I shan't be sure of my aim."

"Then shift your pistol to the other hand," said the Persian.

"I can't shoot with my left hand."

Thereupon, the Persian made this queer reply, which was certainly not
calculated to throw light into the young man's flurried brain:

"It's not a question of shooting with the right hand or the left; it's
a question of holding one of your hands as though you were going to
pull the trigger o