Then he struck a spark from the tinder and steel, and lit one of his candles. The lamp was standing on the table, but he would have nothing to do with it. It was necessary to be prepared for instant concealment should anyone arrive to interrupt him, and a lamp takes a perceptible time to extinguish. He placed the lighted candle on the table, and turned to the curtains hiding the window. They were of heavy corded silk, and there was space enough behind them for a man to hide if necessary. Sure of the fact, he turned again to the table. He scarcely glanced at the bottles and retorts upon it; hastily, yet thoroughly, he examined it for drawers or secret compartments, but the table was solid throughout, made of English oak, roughly constructed and showing no sign of the French cabinet-makers’ art. Leaving the table, he examined the cabinets in the corners of the room. They held nothing but the bottles and retorts visible through their glass doors. He examined the walls for concealed cupboards and _caches_, auscultating them here and there, just as a physician sounds the chest of a patient nowadays. But the walls made no response, they were of solid stone behind the stucco. He turned his attention to the flooring, sounding the solid parquet here and there, and had reached to a spot halfway between the table and the window-curtains, when a hollow note gave answer to his knock, a deep, resonant note, showing that a fairly large area of floor space was involved. He was going on both knees to examine this space more carefully when a step sounded in the corridor outside, a key was put into the lock of the door; and Lavenne, who, at the first sound of the step had blown out the candle, placed it in his pocket and whipped behind the curtains veiling the window. It was Camus. He entered, lamp in hand, closed the door, placed the lamp on the table, and from it lit the other lamp. The Count evidently required plenty of light this evening, either to assist his thoughts or his studies. Lavenne, behind the curtains, had a good view of the room, its occupant, the table, the walls leading to the door and the door itself. Camus, turning from the table, began to pace the floor. He seemed plunged in deep thought as he walked up and down, his hands behind his back, his head bent, the light now striking his face, now his hands knotted together, delicate yet powerful hands, remarkable, had you examined them closely, for the size of the thumbs. Could you imagine yourself in the room with a man-eating tiger, and nothing separating you in the way of barrier but a curtain, you would feel somewhat as Lavenne felt alone thus with Count Camus. Looking through the small space between the curtains, he noted for the first time fully the powerful build of the man.