They went in. There was an entrance-hall followed by three rooms, leading one into the other. Only the second room was furnished. The third had a door opening straight on a street that ran parallel with the Rue Guimard. They stopped in the second room. "Did you shut the hall-door after you?" "Yes, M. Siméon." "No one saw us come in, I suppose?" "Not a soul." "No one suspects that you're here?" "No." "Give me your revolver." "Here it is." "Do you think, if I fired it off, any one would hear?" "No, certainly not. Who is there to hear? But . . ." "But what?" "You're surely not going to fire?" "Yes, I am." "At yourself, M. Siméon, at yourself? Are you going to kill yourself?" "Don't be an ass." "Well, who then?" "You, of course!" chuckled Siméon. Pressing the trigger, he blew out the luckless man's brains. His victim fell in a heap, stone dead. Siméon flung aside the revolver and remained impassive, a little undecided as to his next step. He opened out his fingers, one by one, up to six, apparently counting the six persons of whom he had got rid in a few hours: Grégoire, Coralie, Ya-Bon, Patrice, Don Luis, old Vacherot! His mouth gave a grin of satisfaction. One more endeavor; and his flight and safety were assured. For the moment he was incapable of making the endeavor. His head whirled. His arms struck out at space. He fell into a faint, with a gurgle in his throat, his chest crushed under an unbearable weight. But, at a quarter to ten, with an effort of will, he picked himself up and, mastering himself and disregarding the pain, he went out by the other door of the house. At ten o'clock, after twice changing his taxi, he arrived at the Boulevard Montmorency, just at the moment when Dr. Géradec was alighting from his car and mounting the steps of the handsome villa in which his private hospital had been installed since the beginning of the war. CHAPTER XVIII SIMÉON'S LAST VICTIM Dr. Géradec's hospital had several annexes, each of which served a specific purpose, grouped around it in a fine garden. The villa itself was used for the big operations. The doctor had his consulting-room here also; and it was to this room that Siméon Diodokis was first shown. But, after answering a few questions put to him by a male nurse, Siméon was taken to another room in a separate wing. Here he was received by the doctor, a man of about sixty, still young in his movements, clean-shaven and wearing a glass screwed into his right eye, which contracted his features into a constant grimace. He was wrapped from the shoulders to the feet in a large white operating-apron. Siméon explained his case with great difficulty, for he could hardly speak. A footpad had attacked him the night before, taken him by the throat and robbed him, leaving him half-dead in the road. "You have had time to send for a doctor since," said Dr. Géradec, fixing him with a glance. Siméon did not reply; and the doctor added: