At last I had them. There were but three. Seizing the largest, I felt
the lock of the door that led to the cell. I fitted in the key. It was
right. The lock turned. I drew the door close behind me and locked it as
noiselessly as I could, putting the key in my pocket.
I found myself at the top of a flight of steep stone stairs. An oil lamp
burnt dimly in the bracket. I took it down and held it in my hand; and I
stood and listened.
"What in the devil can it be?" I heard a voice say.
It came from behind a door that faced me at the bottom of the stairs.
And another answered:
"Shall we kill him?"
I strained to hear the answer, and could have sobbed with relief when
Detchard's voice came grating and cold:
"Wait a bit. There'll be trouble if we strike too soon."
There was a moment's silence. Then I heard the bolt of the door
cautiously drawn back. Instantly I put out the light I held, replacing
the lamp in the bracket.
"It's dark--the lamp's out. Have you a light?" said the other
voice--Bersonin's.
No doubt they had a light, but they should not use it. It was come to
the crisis now, and I rushed down the steps and flung myself against the
door. Bersonin had unbolted it and it gave way before me. The Belgian
stood there sword in hand, and Detchard was sitting on a couch at the
side of the room.
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