"
He rose and staggered towards the door.
"The bell isn't that way, Monsieur," Madame exclaimed. "It is to the
right. Louis, quick!"
Monsieur Louis sprang to his feet. There was a queer grating little
sound, followed by a sharp click. Duncombe had swung round and faced
them. He had turned the key in the door, and was calmly pocketing it.
The hand which held that small shining revolver was certainly not the
hand of a drunken man.
They all three looked at him in wonder--Madame, Monsieur Louis, and
Mademoiselle Flossie. The dark eyebrows of Madame almost met, and her
eyes were full of the promise of evil things. Monsieur Louis, cowering
back from that steadily pointed revolver, was white with the inherited
cowardice of the degenerate. Flossie, who had drunk more wine than any
of them, was trying to look as though it were a joke. Duncombe, with his
disordered evening clothes, his stained shirt-front and errant tie, was
master of the situation. He came and stood a few feet away from them.
His blundering French accent and slow choice of words had departed. He
spoke to them without hesitation, and his French was almost as good as
their own.
Pages:
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80