Edmé drew a purse from the folds of her gown, and opening it disclosed a number of shining gold pieces. Privat's eyes were animated now. "All that!" he exclaimed. "What do you want me to do for it? It must be something dangerous. I--I am not a brave man." "It is merely," continued Edmé, holding the open purse in her hand, "to procure me speech with a prisoner." "What prisoner?" "Colonel Robert Tournay." "But it is impossible; he is in secret confinement." "I know he is, but what I ask is not impossible. There are five hundred francs here; five hundred francs, all for you, if you will but bring me to the cell of Robert Tournay." "I cannot do that; I have not the key." "You know who has the key. Surely some of this gold will enable you to get it. I leave the means with you." Privat's mind seemed to be going through the process which served him for thought. "At the further end of the south corridor," he finally said, motioning with a key, "in half an hour, the prisoner Tournay will be allowed to walk for exercise. The south corridor is separated from this one by a grated door. I will see that you get through that door. That is all I can do." Edmé pressed the purse into his huge palm, which closed upon it greedily. "Shall I come with you now?" she asked, her pulse beating high between expectation, hope, and fear. "No, wait here in the shadow until I come to fetch you to him. I shall also come to tell you when you must leave the south corridor. You will have to do so quickly and go back the same way you came. If you are discovered here, I shall get into trouble. You understand?" "I understand," she answered. CHAPTER XXIII TOURNAY'S VISITOR For three days Tournay and St. Hilaire worked away persistently at the bars of their window. They only dared work between the hours of one and four in the morning. Not only secrecy but great ingenuity was called for, as it was necessary that the bars should preserve in the daytime their usual appearance of solidity. To do this, all the filings were kept, and at the termination of each night's work, this dust, moistened by saliva into a paste, was smeared into the fissure they had made. Their intention was to cut each bar nearly through, leaving it standing, but so weakened that it could be torn out by a sudden wrench. On the morning which terminated their third night's labor, just as the first gray streak in the east announced the early coming of the long, hot summer day, the third bar had been cut halfway through. The two prisoners looked into each other's eyes. Both realized that they must work rapidly in order to complete their task in time. "At all hazards we must begin earlier to-night," whispered St. Hilaire significantly. Tournay nodded. "There is still a good deal of work to be done, although a thin man might squeeze through," he said.