The Frontier by Maurice LeBlanc

A hand was passed through the bars of the gate at the top of the staircase leading to the terrace and seized the clapper of the little bell fastened to one of the bars. A push. and the gate was open.

"Not much difficulty about that," said the man, carefully stepping on to the terrace. "Since the mountain won't come to Dourlowski, Dourlowski must."

The man stopped: he had heard voices. But, on listening, he found that the sound of voices came from behind the house. He quietly entered the drawing-room, therefore, walked straight across it and reached the windows on the other side. A little further, at the foot of the steps, he saw a carriage ready to start, with Suzanne and her father sitting in it. The Morestal family were standing round the carriage.

"That's all right," said Morestal. "Philippe and I will walk. and we'll do the same coming home, won't we, my boy?"

"And you, Marthe? " asked Jorance.

"No, thank you. I will stay with mamma."

"Well, we'll send your men home to you soon. especially as Morestal likes going to bed early. They will leave the house at ten o'clock precisely; and I will go a bit of the way with them, as far as the Butte."

"That's it," said Morestal. "We shall see the demolished post by moonlight. And we shall be here by half-past ten, mother. That's a promise. Off you go, Victor."

The carriage drove off. Dourlowski, in the drawing-room, took out his watch and set it by the clock, whispering:

"Consequently, they'll reach the Butte at a quarter past ten. That's a good thing to know. And now to inform old Morestal that his friend Dourlowski has come to hunt him up in his happy home."

Putting two of his fingers to his mouth, he gave the same faint whistle which Morestal had heard that morning, something like the unfinished note of certain birds:

"That's done it," he grinned. "The old boy pricked up his ears. He has sent the others for a stroll in the garden and he's coming this way."

He made a movement backwards on hearing Morestal's footstep in the hall, for he knew the old fellow was not given to joking. And, in fact, Morestal, the moment he entered, ran up to him and took him by the collar of his jacket:

"What are you doing here? What do you mean by it? How dare you? . I'll show you a road which you don't know of!"

Dourlowski began to laugh with his crooked mouth:

"My dear M. Morestal, you'll dirty your hands."

His clothes were shiny and thick with grease, stretched over a small round body, that contrasted strangely with his lean and bony face. And all this formed a jovial, grotesque and rather alarming picture.

Morestal let go his hold and, in an imperative tone:

"Explain yourself and quickly. I don't want my son to see you here. Speak."

There was no time to be lost, as Dourlowski saw: