"I admit that it's alarming. Perhaps the man who was following him has attacked him. Or perhaps something has happened to the lady." "What do you mean, something happened to the lady?" "I'm afraid something may have. When he first showed me the way we should have to go to fetch her, he said, 'Quick, we must hurry. To save her life, I had to put her in a hole. That's all very well for two or three hours. But, if she's left longer, she will suffocate. The want of air . . ." Patrice had leapt upon the old man. He was beside himself, maddened at the thought that Coralie, ill and worn-out as she was, might be at the point of death in some unknown place, a prey to terror and suffering. "You shall speak," he cried, "and this very minute! You shall tell us where she is! Oh, don't imagine that you can fool us any longer! Where is she? You know! He told you!" He was shaking M. Vacherot by the shoulders and hurling his rage into the old man's face with unspeakable violence. Don Luis, on the other hand, stood chuckling. "Splendid, captain," he said, "splendid! My best compliments! You're making real progress since I joined forces with you. M. Vacherot will go through fire and water for us now." "Well, you see if I don't make the fellow speak," shouted Patrice. "It's no use, sir," declared the porter, very firmly and calmly. "You have deceived me. You are enemies of M. Siméon's. I shall not say another word that can give you any information." "You refuse to speak, do you? You refuse to speak?" In his exasperation Patrice drew his revolver and aimed it at the man: "I'm going to count three. If, by that time, you don't make up your mind to speak, you shall see the sort of man that Captain Belval is!" The porter gave a start: "Captain Belval, did you say? Are you Captain Belval?" "Ah, old fellow, that seems to give you food for thought!" "Are you Captain Belval? Patrice Belval?" "At your service; and, if in two seconds from this you haven't told me . . ." "Patrice Belval! And you are M. Siméon's enemy? And you want to . . . ?" "I want to do him up like the cur he is, your blackguard of a Siméon . . . and you, his accomplice, with him. A nice pair of rascals! . . . Well, have you made up your mind?" "Unhappy man!" gasped the porter. "Unhappy man! You don't know what you're doing. Kill M. Siméon! You? You? Why, you're the last man who could commit a crime like that!" "What about it? Speak, will you, you old numskull!" "You, kill M. Siméon? You, Patrice? You, Captain Belval? You?" "And why not? Speak, damn it! Why not?" "You are his son." All Patrice's fury, all his anguish at the thought that Coralie was in Siméon's power or else lying in some pit, all his agonized grief, all his alarm: all this gave way, for a moment, to a terrible fit of merriment, which revealed itself in a long burst of laughter.