“A.  Dammauville.”

He returned to the vestibule.

“Say to Madame.  Dammauville that I shall be there in a quarter of an hour.”

When he reentered the office he found Phillis before the glass, putting on her hat.

“I heard,” she said.  “What a disappointment!  But I cannot wish you to stay, since it is for Florentin that you leave me.”

As she walked toward the door he stopped her.

“Embrace me once more.”

Never had he pressed her in such a long and passionate embrace.

CHAPTER XXXIV

ON THE RACK

He had not a second of doubt; Madame Dammauville did not wish a professional visit from him.  She wished to speak to him of Caffie, and, in the coming crisis, he said to himself that perhaps it was fortunate that it was so; at least he would be first to know what she had decided to do, and he could defend himself.  Nothing is hopeless as long as a struggle is possible.

He rang the bell with a firm hand, and the door was opened by the maid who brought the letter.  With a small lamp in her hand, she conducted him through the dining-room and the salon to Madame Dammauville’s bedroom.

At the threshold, a glance showed him that some changes had been made in the arrangement of the furniture.  The small bed where he had seen Madame Dammauville was placed between the two windows, and she was lying in a large bed with canopy and curtains.  Near her was a table on which were a shaded lamp, some books, a blotting-book, a teapot, and a cup; on the white quilt rested an unusually long bellrope, so that she might pull it without moving.  The fire in the chimney was out, but the movable stove sent out a heat that denoted it was arranged for the night.

Saniel felt the heat, and mechanically unbuttoned his overcoat.

“If the heat is uncomfortable, will you not remove your overcoat?” Madame Dammauville said.

While he disposed of it and his hat, placing them on a chair by the fireplace, he heard Madame Dammauville say to her maid: 

“Remain in the salon, and tell the cook not to go to bed.”

What did this mean?  Was she afraid that he would cut her throat?

“Will you come close to my bed?” she said.  “It is important that we should talk without raising our voices.”

He took a chair and seated himself at a certain distance from the bed, and in such a way that he was beyond the circle of light thrown by the lamp.  Then he waited.

A moment of silence, which he found terribly long, slipped away before she spoke.

“You know,” she said at last, “how I saw, accidentally, from this place”—­she pointed to one of the windows—­“the face of the assassin of my unfortunate tenant, Monsieur Caffie.”

“Mademoiselle Cormier has told me,” he replied in a tone of ordinary conversation.