"Now!" he said, softly opened the door and slipped inside. I
followed, and Simmonds came after me like a shadow, closing the door
carefully behind him.

Then we all stopped, and my heart, at least, was in my mouth, for,
from somewhere overhead, came the sound of a man's voice talking
excitedly.

Even in the semi-darkness, I could see the look of astonishment and
alarm on Godfrey's face, as he stood for a moment motionless,
listening to that voice. I also stood with ears a-strain, but I could
make nothing of what it was saying; then suddenly I realised that it
was speaking in French. And yet it was not Armand's voice--of that I
was certain.

Fronting us was a narrow stair mounting steeply to the story
overhead, and, after that moment's amazed hesitation, Godfrey sat
down on the bottom step and removed his shoes, motioning us to do the
same. Simmonds obeyed phlegmatically, but my hands were trembling so
with excitement that I was in mortal terror lest I drop one of my
shoes; but I managed to get them both off without mishap, and to set
them softly on the floor at the stair-foot.

When at last I looked up with a sigh of relief, Godfrey and Simmonds
were stealing slowly up the stair, revolver in hand. I followed them,
but I confess my knees were knocking together, for there was
something weird and chilling in that voice going on and on. It
sounded like the voice of a madman; there was something about it at
once ferocious and triumphant....