“But if the baron searches the house?”
“Why should he?”
“He will know that we have been here, through his servants.”
“Yes, but he will never dream that one of us is putting up here for the night. He will think that the attempt failed, that is all, so I shall stay.”
“And how will you get out?”
“Oh, that’s asking me more than I can tell you! The great thing was to get in. Here I am, and here I stay. Go, Doudeville, and shut the doors as you go.”
He sat down on a little box at the back of the cupboard. Four rows of hanging clothes protected him. Except in the case of a close investigation, he was evidently quite safe.
Two hours passed. He heard the dull sound of a horse’s hoofs and the tinkling of a collar-bell. A carriage stopped, the front door slammed and almost immediately he heard voices, exclamations, a regular outcry that increased, probably, as each of the prisoners was released from his gag.
“They are explaining the thing to him,” he thought. “The baron must be in a tearing rage. He now understands the reason for my conduct at the club tonight and sees that I have dished him nicely. … Dished? That depends. … After all, I haven’t got Steinweg yet. … That is the first thing that he will want to know: did they get Steinweg? To find this out, he will go straight to the hiding-place. If he goes up, it means that the hiding-place is upstairs. If he goes down, then it is in the basement.”
He listened. The sound of voices continued in the rooms on the ground floor, but it did not seem as if anyone were moving. Altenheim must be cross-examining his confederates. It was half an hour before Sernine heard steps mounting the staircase.
“Then it must be upstairs,” he said to himself. “But why did they wait so long?”
“Go to bed, all of you,” said Altenheim’s voice.
The baron entered his room with one of his men and shut the door:
“And I am going to bed, too, Dominique. We should be no further if we sat arguing all night.”
“My opinion is,” said the other, “that he came to fetch Steinweg.”
“That is my opinion, too; and that’s why I’m really enjoying myself, seeing that Steinweg isn’t here.”
“But where is he, after all? What have you done with him?”
“That’s my secret; and you know I keep my secrets to myself. All that I can tell you is that he is in safe keeping, and that he won’t get out before he has spoken.”
“So the prince is sold?”
“Sold is the word. And he has had to fork out to attain this fine result! Oh, I’ve had a good time tonight! … Poor prince!”
“For all that,” said the other, “we shall have to get rid of him.”
“Make your mind easy, old man; that won’t take long. Before a week’s out you shall have a present of a pocketbook made out of Lupin-skin. But let me go to bed now. I’m dropping with sleep.”
There was a sound of the door closing. Then Sernine heard the baron push the bolt, empty his pockets, wind up his watch and undress. He seemed in a gay mood, whistling and singing, and even talking aloud:
“Yes, a Lupin-skin pocketbook … in less than a week … in less than four days! … Otherwise he’ll eat us up, the bully! … No matter, he missed his shot tonight. … His calculation was right enough, though … Steinweg was bound to be here. … Only, there you are! …”
He got into bed and at once switched off the light.
Sernine had come forward as far as the dividing curtain, which he now lifted slightly, and he saw the vague light of the night filtering through the windows, leaving the bed in profound darkness.
He hesitated. Should he leap out upon the baron, take him by the throat and obtain from him by force and threats what he had not been able to obtain by craft? Absurd? Altenheim would never allow himself to be intimidated.
“I say, he’s snoring now,” muttered Sernine. “Well, I’m off. At the worst, I shall have wasted a night.”
He did not go. He felt that it would be impossible for him to go, that he must wait, that chance might yet serve his turn.
With infinite precautions, he took four or five coats and greatcoats from their hooks, laid them on the floor, made himself comfortable and, with his back to the wall, went peacefully to sleep.
The baron was not an early riser. A clock outside was striking nine when he got out of bed and rang for his servant.
He read the letters which his man brought him, splashed about in his tub, dressed without saying a word and sat down to his table to write, while Dominique was carefully hanging up the clothes of the previous day in the cupboard and Sernine asking himself, with his fists ready to strike:
“I wonder if I shall have to stave in this fellow’s solar plexus?”
At ten o’clock the baron was ready:
“Leave me,” said he to the servant.
“There’s just this waistcoat. …”
“Leave me, I say. Come back when I ring … not before.”
He shut the door himself, like a man who does not trust others, went to a table on which a telephone was standing and took down the receiver:
“Hullo! … Put me on to Garches, please, mademoiselle. … Very well, I’ll wait till you ring me up. …”
He sat down to the instrument.
The telephone-bell rang.
“Hullo!” said Altenheim. “Is that Garches? … Yes, that’s right. … Give me number 38, please, mademoiselle. …”
A few seconds later, in a lower voice, as low and as distinct as he could make it, he began:
“Are you 38? … It’s I speaking; no useless words. … Yesterday? … Yes, you missed him in the garden. … Another time, of course; but the thing’s becoming urgent. … He had the house searched last night. … I’ll tell you about it. … Found nothing, of course. … What? … Hullo! … No, old Steinweg refuses to speak. … Threats, promises, nothing’s any good. … Hullo! … Yes, of course,
