"I would not disturb you for the world," he muttered with sarcasm, "but what of your money?"
"Oblige me by keeping it until to-morrow."
"As you will; good-night, monsieur." He shrugged his shoulders and departed, his whole bearing expressive of contempt. No doubt he considered me a liar, since I had railed against womankind quite as bitterly as he had done not many hours before.
I could not, however, afford to waste thought on him, for I had much to do. Stripping off my evening clothes, I speedily changed into a suit of dark brown tweed, and drew on my feet a pair of felt-soled shoes. Having armed myself with a large sum of money and a loaded revolver, I stole softly out of the room. While locking the door behind me I heard a distant sigh. Swinging round I peered in the direction of the sound, and for a fleeting fragment of a second saw a face at the far end of the corridor. It vanished so swiftly, however, that I had no time to register its impression on my mind, and a moment later I doubted that I had seen anything. The corridor was deserted absolutely save for myself. I waited for a few silent minutes, then, reassured, made my way to the street. A _fiacre_ drove me to the Boulevard Poissonière, where, having alighted, I walked to the Rue D'Enghien, and as the clocks were chiming the hour after midnight, I arrived before my place of destination, the house that contained my enemy. Without pausing an instant, I climbed the steps and noiselessly inserted Jussieu's latch-key into the lock of the front door. It yielded, the door opened with a slight creak, and I crossed the threshold. I found myself in a wide but dimly lighted hall. It was carpeted with cocoanut matting. Doors crowded its sides, all closed. Before me was a staircase, whose steps were composed of slate, which had been worn away in the middle, as if by centuries of footfalls. I was about to mount when of a sudden a strange wonder caught me and I paused. Until that moment blind hate had controlled my actions and carried me where I stood. But now I asked myself the question: "Agar Hume, what will you do? Is it murder that you contemplate?"