ne know about it?" he said at last....

"Why, when the comrades told us, weren't they surprised, one and all?
Nibet, Toulouche, even Mimile--they didn't hesitate, not one of them!...
Well then, old 'un, as all the pals were of one mind, why hesitate?
What's the use of discussing!... but, between you and me, I don't relish
it either--it bothers me to go for a pal!..."

Just then the tempest redoubled its fury: it seemed to the cowering men
as though all the devils of the storm were galloping down the wind.
Somewhere there was a moon, for scurrying clouds were dancing a witches'
saraband across a faintly clearer sky. The unseen moon was mastering the
obscurity of this midnight hour.

By now, the two sinister beings were nearing the rue du Docteur-Blanche.
They were passing a garden, in which tall poplars, caught by the squall,
took fantastic shapes: they were nightmare trees, terrifyingly strange.

"No more to be said," remarked the Beadle. "The scene is set!... Where
is the meeting place?"

"A hundred yards from there--a little before the corner of the boulevard
Montmorency...."

"Good! And the trap?"

"It waits for us a little further off."

"Who's aboard it?"

"Mimile."

"That's good."

The two men were now half-way along rue Raffet. The watch had begun.
Gripped by the cold they waited in silence.... The minutes passed
slowly, slowly, in the deserted street ... The Beard put his hand on the
Beadle's shoulder.... A vague sound could be heard in the distance: the
steps could be distinguished; some pedestrian was coming up the rue
Raffet in their direction.

"It is he!" whispered the Beadle.

"It is he!" affirmed the Beard. "He's not oversteady on his feet!"

"Perhaps he's ill shod!"

The two spoke low and in a jesting tone: it relieved the painful tension
of the moment--a comrade was marching to meet his death, and theirs the
hands to deal that death--but not yet: it was a reaction against their
sense of the looming tragedy of this dark hour!

Now a man's advancing figure could be discerned. He came nearer. He was
plainly, by the cut of his garments, an indoor servant. The collar of
his coat was turned up: he had his hands in his pockets: he walked fast.

"Hey! You down there! The gang!" cried the Beard, hailing the oncoming
figure.

"Ah, it's you?"

"Yes, it's me, comrade."

"And you too, Beadle?"

"As you say...."

"What do you want of me? Since my arrest and escape from the Salad
Basket,