"We did not understand. It was swinging in front of us. And then, in the end, I saw a sheet of paper rolled round the bottom rung and pinned to it. On the paper, in Essarès' handwriting, are the words, 'Send Coralie up by herself. Her life shall be saved. I give her ten minutes to accept. If not . . .'" "Ah," said Patrice, rising from his stooping posture, "will this also be repeated? What about the ladder, the rope-ladder, which I found in old Siméon's cupboard?" Coralie kept her eyes fixed on the skylight, for the footsteps were moving around it. Then they stopped. Patrice and Coralie had not a doubt that the moment had come and that they also were about to see their enemy. And Patrice said huskily, in a choking voice: "Who will it be? There are three men who could have played this sinister part as it was played before. Two are dead, Essarès and my father. And Siméon, the third, is mad. Is it he, in his madness, who has set the machine working again? But how are we to imagine that he could have done it with such precision? No, no, it is the other one, the one who directs him and who till now has remained in the background." He felt Coralie's fingers clutching his arm. "Hush," she said, "here he is!" "No, no." "Yes, I'm sure of it." Her imagination had foretold what was preparing; and in fact, as once before, the skylight was raised higher. A hand lifted it. And suddenly they saw a head slipping under the open framework. It was the head of old Siméon. "The madman!" Patrice whispered, in dismay. "The madman!" "But perhaps he isn't mad," she said. "He can't be mad." She could not check the trembling that shook her. The man overhead looked down upon them, hidden behind his spectacles, which allowed no expression of satisfied hatred or joy to show on his impassive features. "Coralie," said Patrice, in a low voice, "do what I say. . . . Come. . . ." He pushed her gently along, as though he were supporting her and leading her to a chair. In reality he had but one thought, to reach the table on which he had placed his revolvers, take one of them and fire. Siméon remained motionless, like some evil genius come to unloose the tempest. . . . Coralie could not rid herself of that glance which weighted upon her. "No," she murmured, resisting Patrice, as though she feared that his intention would precipitate the dreaded catastrophe, "no, you mustn't. . . ." But Patrice, displaying greater determination, was near his object. One more effort and his hand would hold the revolver. He quickly made up his mind, took rapid aim and fired a shot. The head disappeared from sight. "Oh," said Coralie, "you were wrong, Patrice! He will take his revenge on us. . . ." "No, perhaps not," said Patrice, still holding his revolver. "I may very well have hit him. The bullet struck the frame of the skylight. But it may have glanced off, in which case . . ."