“Can you explain—?”

“No, I cannot ...  To-morrow, to-morrow morning—­not before.”

“And if it’s too late?” Don Luis interjected.

“Too late?  To-morrow?”

“Inspector Verot told M. Desmalions’s secretary that the two murders would take place to-night.  He said it was fatal and irrevocable.”

“To-night?” cried Fauville angrily.  “I tell you no!  Not to-night.  I’m sure of that.  There are things which I know, aren’t there, which you do not?”

“Yes,” retorted Don Luis, “but there may also be things which Inspector Verot knew and which you don’t know.  He had perhaps learned more of your enemies’ secrets than you did.  The proof is that he was suspected, that a man carrying an ebony walking-stick was seen watching his movements, that, lastly, he was killed.”

Hippolyte Fauville’s self-assurance decreased.  Perenna took advantage of this to insist; and he insisted to such good purpose that Fauville, though without withdrawing from his reserve, ended by yielding before a will that was stronger than his own.

“Well, but you surely don’t intend to spend the night in here?”

“We do indeed.”

“Why, it’s ridiculous!  It’s sheer waste of time!  After all, looking at things from the worst—­And what do you want besides?”

“Who lives in the house?”

“Who?  My wife, to begin with.  She has the first floor.”

“Mme. Fauville is not threatened?”

“No, not at all.  It’s I who am threatened with death; I and my son Edmond.  That is why, for the past week, instead of sleeping in my regular bedroom, I have locked myself up in this room.  I have given my work as a pretext; a quantity of writing which keeps me up very late and for which I need my son’s assistance.”

“Does he sleep here, then?”

“He sleeps above us, in a little room which I have had arranged for him.  The only access to it is by this inner staircase.”

“Is he there now?”

“Yes, he’s asleep.”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen.”

“But the fact that you have changed your room shows that you feared some one would attack you.  Whom had you in mind?  An enemy living in the house?  One of your servants?  Or people from the outside?  In that case, how could they get in?  The whole question lies in that.”

“To-morrow, to-morrow,” replied Fauville, obstinately.  “I will explain everything to-morrow—­”

“Why not to-night?” Perenna persisted.

“Because I want proofs, I tell you; because the mere fact of my talking may have terrible consequences—­and I am frightened; yes, I’m frightened—­”

He was trembling, in fact, and looked so wretched and terrified that Don Luis insisted no longer.

“Very well,” he said, “I will only ask your permission, for my comrade and myself, to spend the night where we can hear you if you call.”

“As you please, Monsieur.  Perhaps, after all, that will be best.”