She came right up to the chair, a slightly mischievous smile upon her face. And then suddenly the smile faded.
The man was not asleep. He was dead.
She knew it at once, knew it instinctively even before her eyes had seen and noted the small shining pistol lying on the floor, the little-singed hole just above the heart with the dark stain round it, and the horrible dropped jaw.
She stood quite still, her hands pressed to her sides. In the silence she heard Élise running down the stairs.
“Madame! Madame!”
“Well, what is it?”
She moved quickly to the door. Her whole instinct was to conceal what had happened—for the moment anyway—from Élise. Élise would promptly go into hysterics, she knew that well enough, and she felt a great need for calm and quiet in which to think things out.
“Madame, would it not be better if I should draw the chain across the door? These malefactors, at any minute they may arrive.”
“Yes, if you like. Anything you like.”
She heard the rattle of the chain, and then Élise running upstairs again, and drew a long breath of relief.
She looked at the man in the chair and then at the telephone. Her course was quite clear, she must ring up the police at once.
But still she did not do so. She stood quite still, paralysed with horror and with a host of conflicting ideas rushing through her brain. The