“Don’t smoke!” he cried.  “I mean—­it makes me very ill—­when I am—­in this—­condition—­the smell of tobacco smoke.”

French looked at him with cool contempt.

“I am sorry for you,” he said, lighting his pipe and throwing the match down.

Rosenblatt sprang to the cave mouth, came back again, furtively treading upon the match.  The perspiration was standing out upon his forehead.

“It is a terrible night,” he said.  “Let us proceed.  We can’t wait for my partner.  Read, read.”

With fingers that trembled so that he could hardly hold the papers, he thrust the documents into Kalman’s hand.

“Read,” he cried, “I cannot see.”

Opening the papers, Kalman proceeded to read them carefully, by the light of the lantern, French smoking calmly the while.

“Have you no better light than this, Rosenblatt?” said French at length.  “Surely there are candles about here.”  He walked toward the back of the cave.

“Ah, my God!” cried Rosenblatt, seizing him and drawing him toward the table again.  “Sit down, sit down.  If you want candles, let me get them.  I know where they are.  But we need no candles here.  Yes,” he cried with a laugh, “young eyes are better than old eyes.  The young man reads well.  Read, read.”

“There is another paper,” said French after Kalman had finished.  “There is a further agreement.”

“Yes, truly,” said Rosenblatt.  “Is it not there?  It must be there.  No, I must have left it at my cabin.  I will bring it.”

“Well, hurry then,” said French.  “Meantime, my pipe is out.”

He drew a match, struck it on the sole of his boot, lighted his pipe and threw the blazing remnant toward the back of the cave.

“Ah, my God!” cried Rosenblatt, his voice rising almost to a shriek.  Both men looked curiously at him.  “Ah,” he said, with his hand over his heart, “I have pain here.  But I will get the paper.”

His face was livid, and the sweat was running down his beard.  As he spoke he ran out and disappeared, leaving the two men poring over the papers together.  Beside the burning heap of brushwood he stood a moment, torn in an agony of uncertainty and fear.

“Oh!” he said, wringing his hands, “I dare not do it!  I dare not do it!”

He rushed past the blazing heap, paused.  “Fool!” he said, “what is there to fear?”

He crept back to the pile of burning brush, seized a blazing ember, ran with it to the train he had prepared of rags soaked in kerosene, leading toward the mouth of the cross tunnel, dropped the blazing stick upon it, and fled.  Looking back, he saw that in his haste he had dashed out the flame and that besides the saturated rags the stick lay smoking.  With a curse he ran once more to the blazing brush heap, selected a blazing ember, carried it carefully to the train, and set the saturated rags on fire, waiting until they were fully alight.  Then like a man pursued by demons, he fled down the ravine, splashed through the Creek and up the other side, not pausing to look behind until he had shut the door of his cabin.