amining
magistrate himself. Bredoux grinned:

"Don't hurt your fingers, my young friend. I have the key of that door,
too."

"There's the window!" cried Beautrelet.

"Too late," said Bredoux, planting himself in front of the casement,
revolver in hand.

Every chance of retreat was cut off. There was nothing more for Isidore
to do, nothing except to defend himself against the enemy who was
revealing himself with such brutal daring. He crossed his arms.

"Good," mumbled the clerk. "And now let us waste no time." He took out
his watch. "Our worthy M. Filleul will walk down to the gate. At the
gate, he will find nobody, of course: no more public prosecutor than my
eye. Then he will come back. That gives us about four minutes. It will
take me one minute to escape by this window, clear through the little
door by the ruins and jump on the motor cycle waiting for me. That
leaves three minutes, which is just enough."

Bredoux was a queer sort of misshapen creature, who balanced on a pair
of very long spindle-legs a huge trunk, as round as the body of a
spider and furnished with immense arms. A bony face and a low, small
stubborn forehead pointed to the man's narrow obstinacy.

Beautrelet felt a weakness in the legs and staggered. He had to sit
down:

"Speak," he said. "What do you want?"

"The paper. I've been looking for it for three days."

"I haven't got it."

"You're lying. I saw you put it back in your pocket-book when I came
in."

"Next?"

"Next, you must undertake to keep quite quiet. You're annoying us.
Leave us alone and mind your own business. Our patience is at an end."

He had come nearer, with the revolver still aimed at the young man's
head, and spoke in a hollow voice, with a powerful stress on each
syllable that he uttered. His eyes were hard, his smile cruel.

Beautrelet gave a shudder. It was the first time that he was
experiencing the sense of danger. And such danger! He felt himself in
the presence of an implacable enemy, endowed with blind and
irresistible strength.

"And next?" he asked, with less assurance in his voice.

"Next? Nothing.--You will be free.--We will forget--"

There was a pause. Then Bredoux resumed:

"There is only a minute left. You must make up your mind. Come, old
chap, don't be a fool.--We are the stronger, you know, always and
everywhere.--Quick, the paper--"

Isidore did not flinch. With a livid and terrified face, he remained
master of himself, nevertheles