. Etienne nipped my arm; we thought we knew what
went in. Then came steps again and a loud yawn, and presently two whacks
on the floor. We knew as well as if we could see that Peyrot had thrown
his boots across the room. Next a clash and jangle of metal, that meant
his sword-belt with its accoutrements flung on the table. M. Etienne,
with the rapid murmur, "If I look at you, nab him," turned the
door-handle.

But M. Peyrot had prepared against surprise by the simple expedient of
locking his door. He heard us, too, for he stopped in the very middle of
a prolonged yawn and held himself absolutely still. M. Etienne called
out softly:

"Peyrot!"

"Who is it?"

"I want to speak with you about something important."

"Who are you, then?"

"I'll tell you when you let me in."

"I'll let you in when you tell me."

"My name's Martin. I'm a friend of Bernet. I want to speak to you
quietly about a matter of importance."

"A friend of Bernet. Hmm! Well, friend of Bernet, it appears to me you
speak very well through the door."

"I want to speak with you about the affair of to-night."

"What affair?"

"To-night's affair."

"To-night? I go to a supper-party at St. Germain. What have you to say
about that?"

"Last night, then," M. Etienne amended, with rising temper. "If you want
me to shout it out on your stairs, the St. Quentin affair."

"Now, what may you mean by that?" called the voice from within. If
Peyrot was startled by the name, he carried it off well.

"You know what I mean. Shall I take the house into our confidence?"

"The house knows as much of your meaning as I. See here, friend of
Bernet, if you are that gentleman's mate, perhaps you have a password
about you."

"Aye," said M. Etienne, readily. "This is it: twenty pistoles."

No answer came immediately; I could guess Peyrot puzzled. Presently he
called to us:

"By the bones of St. Anne, I don't believe a word you've been saying.
But I'll have you in and see what you look like."

We heard him getting into his boots again and buckling on his baldric.
Then we listened to the turning of a key; a lid was raised and banged
down again, and the lock refastened. It was the box once more. M.
Etienne and I looked at each other.

At length Peyrot opened the door and surveyed us.

"What, two friends of Bernet, ventre bleu!" But he allowed us to enter.

He drew back before us with a flourishing bow, his hand resting lightly
on his belt, in which was stuc