“Do him harm? On the contrary, we are looking for him to do him a service, to save him from a great danger.”
“A great danger?” cried M. Vacherot. “Oh, I’m not at all surprised! I never saw him in such a state of excitement.”
“Then he’s been here?”
“Yes, since midnight.”
“Is he here now?”
“No, he went away again.”
Patrice made a despairing gesture and asked:
“Perhaps he left someone behind?”
“No, but he intended to bring someone.”
“A lady?”
M. Vacherot hesitated.
“We know,” Don Luis resumed, “that Siméon Diodokis was trying to find a place of safety in which to shelter a lady for whom he entertained the deepest respect.”
“Can you tell me the lady’s name?” asked the porter, still on his guard.
“Certainly, Mme. Essarès, the widow of the banker to whom Siméon used to act as secretary. Mme. Essarès is a victim of persecution; he is defending her against her enemies; and, as we ourselves want to help the two of them and to take this criminal business in hand, we must insist that you …”
“Oh, well!” said M. Vacherot, now fully reassured. “I have known Siméon Diodokis for ever so many years. He was very good to me at the time when I was working for an undertaker; he lent me money; he got me my present job; and he used often to come and sit in my lodge and talk about heaps of things. …”
“Such as relations with Essarès Bey?” asked Don Luis, carelessly. “Or his plans concerning Patrice Belval?”
“Heaps of things,” said the porter, after a further hesitation. “He is one of the best of men, does a lot of good and used to employ me in distributing his local charity. And just now again he was risking his life for Mme. Essarès.”
“One more word. Had you seen him since Essarès Bey’s death?”
“No, it was the first time. He arrived a little before one o’clock. He was out of breath and spoke in a low voice, listening to the sounds of the street outside: ‘I’ve been followed,’ said he; ‘I’ve been followed. I could swear it.’ ‘By whom?’ said I. ‘You don’t know him,’ said he. ‘He has only one hand, but he wrings your neck for you.’ And then he stopped. And then he began again, in a whisper, so that I could hardly hear: ‘Listen to me, you’re coming with me. We’re going to fetch a lady, Mme. Essarès. They want to kill her. I’ve hidden her all right, but she’s fainted: we shall have to carry her. … Or no, I’ll go alone. I’ll manage. But I want to know, is my room still free?’ I must tell you, he has a little lodging here, since the day when he too had to hide himself. He used to come to it sometimes and he kept it on in case he might want it, for it’s a detached lodging, away from the other tenants.”
“What did he do after that?” asked Patrice, anxiously.
“After that, he went away.”
“But why isn’t he back yet?”
“I admit that it’s alarming. Perhaps the man who was following him has attacked him. Or perhaps something has happened to the lady.”
“What do you mean, something happened to the lady?”
“I’m afraid something may have. When he first showed me the way we should have to go to fetch her, he said, ‘Quick, we must hurry. To save her life, I had to put her in a hole. That’s all very well for two or three hours. But, if she’s left longer, she will suffocate. The want of air …”
Patrice had leapt upon the old man. He was beside himself, maddened at the thought that Coralie, ill and worn-out as she was, might be at the point of death in some unknown place, a prey to terror and suffering.
“You shall speak,” he cried, “and this very minute! You shall tell us where she is! Oh, don’t imagine that you can fool us any longer! Where is she? You know! He told you!”
He was shaking M. Vacherot by the shoulders and hurling his rage into the old man’s face with unspeakable violence.
Don Luis, on the other hand, stood chuckling.
“Splendid, captain,” he said, “splendid! My best compliments! You’re making real progress since I joined forces with you. M. Vacherot will go through fire and water for us now.”
“Well, you see if I don’t make the fellow speak,” shouted Patrice.
“It’s no use, sir,” declared the porter, very firmly and calmly. “You have deceived me. You are enemies of M. Siméon’s. I shall not say another word that can give you any information.”
“You refuse to speak, do you? You refuse to speak?”
In his exasperation Patrice drew his revolver and aimed it at the man:
“I’m going to count three. If, by that time, you don’t make up your mind to speak, you shall see the sort of man that Captain Belval is!”
The porter gave a start:
“Captain Belval, did you say? Are you Captain Belval?”
“Ah, old fellow, that seems to give you food for thought!”
“Are you Captain Belval? Patrice Belval?”
“At your service; and, if in two seconds from this you haven’t told me …”
“Patrice Belval! And you are M. Siméon’s enemy? And you want to … ?”
“I want to do him up like the cur he is, your blackguard of a Siméon … and you, his accomplice, with him. A nice pair of rascals! … Well, have you made up your mind?”
“Unhappy man!” gasped the porter. “Unhappy man! You don’t know what you’re doing. Kill M. Siméon! You? You? Why, you’re the last man who could commit a crime like that!”
“What about it? Speak, will you, you old numskull!”
“You, kill M. Siméon? You, Patrice? You, Captain Belval? You?”
“And why not? Speak, damn it! Why not?”
“You are his son.”
All Patrice’s fury, all his anguish at the thought that Coralie was in Siméon’s power or else lying in some pit, all his agonized grief, all his alarm: all this gave way, for a moment, to a terrible fit of merriment, which revealed itself in a long burst of laughter.
“Siméon’s son! What the devil are you talking about? Oh, this
