He saw Siméon some way ahead of him. It was growing late, and the old fellow was going home. Patrice passed him just outside the porter's lodge and heard him humming to himself. "Any news?" Patrice asked the soldier on duty. "No, sir." "Where's Little Mother Coralie?" "She had a walk in the garden and went upstairs half an hour ago." "Ya-Bon?" "Ya-Bon went up with Little Mother Coralie. He should be at her door." Patrice climbed the stairs, feeling a good deal calmer. But, when he came to the first floor, he was astonished to find that the electric light was not on. He turned on the switch. Then he saw, at the end of the passage, Ya-Bon on his knees outside Coralie's room, with his head leaning against the wall. The door was open. "What are you doing there?" he shouted, running up. Ya-Bon made no reply. Patrice saw that there was blood on the shoulder of his jacket. At that moment the Senegalese sank to the floor. "Damn it! He's wounded! Dead perhaps." He leapt over the body and rushed into the room, switching on the light at once. Coralie was lying at full length on a sofa. Round her neck was the terrible little red-silk cord. And yet Patrice did not experience that awful, numbing despair which we feel in the presence of irretrievable misfortunes. It seemed to him that Coralie's face had not the pallor of death. He found that she was in fact breathing: "She's not dead. She's not dead," said Patrice to himself. "And she's not going to die, I'm sure of it . . . nor Ya-Bon either. . . . They've failed this time." He loosened the cords. In a few seconds Coralie heaved a deep breath and recovered consciousness. A smile lit up her eyes at the sight of him. But, suddenly remembering, she threw her arms, still so weak, around him: "Oh, Patrice," she said, in a trembling voice, "I'm frightened . . . frightened for you!" "What are you frightened of, Coralie? Who is the scoundrel?" "I didn't see him. . . . He put out the light, caught me by the throat and whispered, 'You first. . . . To-night it will be your lover's turn!' . . . Oh, Patrice, I'm frightened for you! . . ." CHAPTER XI ON THE BRINK Patrice at once made up his mind what to do. He lifted Coralie to her bed and asked her not to move or call out. Then he made sure that Ya-Bon was not seriously wounded. Lastly, he rang violently, sounding all the bells that communicated with the posts which he had placed in different parts of the house. The men came hurrying up. "You're a pack of nincompoops," he said. "Some one's been here. Little Mother Coralie and Ya-Bon have had a narrow escape from being killed." They began to protest loudly. "Silence!" he commanded. "You deserve a good hiding, every one of you. I'll forgive you on one condition, which is that, all this evening and all to-night, you speak of Little Mother Coralie as though she were dead." "But whom are we to speak to, sir?" one of them objected. "There's nobody here."