“Next, you must undertake to keep quite quiet. You’re annoying us. Leave us alone and mind your own business. Our patience is at an end.” He had come nearer, with the revolver still aimed at the young man’s head, and spoke in a hollow voice, with a powerful stress on each syllable that he uttered. His eyes were hard, his smile cruel. Beautrelet gave a shudder. It was the first time that he was experiencing the sense of danger. And such danger! He felt himself in the presence of an implacable enemy, endowed with blind and irresistible strength. “And next?” he asked, with less assurance in his voice. “Next? Nothing.—You will be free.—We will forget—” There was a pause. Then Brédoux resumed: “There is only a minute left. You must make up your mind. Come, old chap, don’t be a fool.—We are the stronger, you know, always and everywhere.—Quick, the paper—” Isidore did not flinch. With a livid and terrified face, he remained master of himself, nevertheless, and his brain remained clear amid the breakdown of his nerves. The little black hole of the revolver was pointing at six inches from his eyes. The finger was bent and obviously pressing on the trigger. It only wanted a moment— “The paper,” repeated Brédoux. “If not—” “Here it is,” said Beautrelet. He took out his pocket-book and handed it to the clerk, who seized it eagerly. “Capital! We’ve come to our senses. I’ve no doubt there’s something to be done with you.—You’re troublesome, but full of common sense. I’ll talk about it to my pals. And now I’m off. Good-bye!” He pocketed his revolver and turned back the fastening of the window. There was a noise in the passage. “Good-bye,” he said again. “I’m only just in time.” But the idea stopped him. With a quick movement, he examined the pocket-book: “Damn and blast it!” He grated through his teeth. “The paper’s not there.—You’ve done me—” He leaped into the room. Two shots rang out. Isidore, in his turn, had seized his pistol and fired. “Missed, old chap!” shouted Brédoux. “Your hand’s shaking.—You’re afraid—” They caught each other round the body and came down to the floor together. There was a violent and incessant knocking at the door. Isidore’s strength gave way and he was at once over come by his adversary. It was the end. A hand was lifted over him, armed with a knife, and fell. A fierce pain burst into his shoulder. He let go. He had an impression of some one fumbling in the inside pocket of his jacket and taking the paper from it. Then, through the lowered veil of his eyelids, he half saw the man stepping over the window-sill.