"Who? My wife, to begin with. She has the first floor."
"Mme. Fauville is not threatened?"
"No, not at all. It's I who am threatened with death; I and my son Edmond. That is why, for the past week, instead of sleeping in my regular bedroom, I have locked myself up in this room. I have given my work as a pretext; a quantity of writing which keeps me up very late and for which I need my son's assistance."
"Does he sleep here, then?"
"He sleeps above us, in a little room which I have had arranged for him. The only access to it is by this inner staircase."
"Is he there now?"
"Yes, he's asleep."
"How old is he?"
"Sixteen."
"But the fact that you have changed your room shows that you feared some one would attack you. Whom had you in mind? An enemy living in the house? One of your servants? Or people from the outside? In that case, how could they get in? The whole question lies in that."
"To-morrow, to-morrow," replied Fauville, obstinately. "I will explain everything to-morrow"
"Why not to-night?" Perenna persisted.
"Because I want proofs, I tell you; because the mere fact of my talking may have terrible consequences—and I am frightened; yes, I'm frightened"
He was trembling, in fact, and looked so wretched and terrified that Don Luis insisted no longer.
"Very well," he said, "I will only ask your permission,
