It was a long walk to the Rue des Tournelles, which lay in our own quarter, not a dozen streets from the Hotel St. Quentin itself.  We found the Gilded Shears hung before a tailor’s shop in the cellar of a tall, cramped structure, only one window wide.  Its narrow door was inhospitably shut, but at our summons the concierge appeared to inform us that M. Peyrot did truly live here and, moreover, was at home, having arrived but half an hour earlier than we.  He would go up and find out whether monsieur could see us.

But M. Etienne thought that formality unnecessary, and was able, at small expense, to convince the concierge of it.  We went alone up the stairs and crept very quietly along the passage toward the door of M. Peyrot.  But our shoes made some noise on the flags; had he been listening, he might have heard us as easily as we heard him.  Peyrot had not yet gone to bed after the night’s exertion; a certain clatter and gurgle convinced us that he was refreshing himself with supper, or breakfast, before reposing.

M. Etienne stood still, his hand on the door-knob, eager, hesitating.  Here was the man; were the papers here?  If they were, should we secure them?  A single false step, a single wrong word, might foil us.

The sound of a chair pushed back came from within, and a young man’s quick, firm step passed across to the far side of the room.  We heard a box shut and locked.  M. Etienne nipped my arm; we thought we knew what went in.  Then came steps again and a loud yawn, and presently two whacks on the floor.  We knew as well as if we could see that Peyrot had thrown his boots across the room.  Next a clash and jangle of metal, that meant his sword-belt with its accoutrements flung on the table.  M. Etienne, with the rapid murmur, “If I look at you, nab him,” turned the door-handle.

But M. Peyrot had prepared against surprise by the simple expedient of locking his door.  He heard us, too, for he stopped in the very middle of a prolonged yawn and held himself absolutely still.  M. Etienne called out softly: 

“Peyrot!”

“Who is it?”

“I want to speak with you about something important.”

“Who are you, then?”

“I’ll tell you when you let me in.”

“I’ll let you in when you tell me.”

“My name’s Martin.  I’m a friend of Bernet.  I want to speak to you quietly about a matter of importance.”

“A friend of Bernet.  Hmm!  Well, friend of Bernet, it appears to me you speak very well through the door.”

“I want to speak with you about the affair of to-night.”

“What affair?”

“To-night’s affair.”

“To-night?  I go to a supper-party at St. Germain.  What have you to say about that?”

“Last night, then,” M. Etienne amended, with rising temper.  “If you want me to shout it out on your stairs, the St. Quentin affair.”

“Now, what may you mean by that?” called the voice from within.  If Peyrot was startled by the name, he carried it off well.