extending far into the past--dismal avenues like those of Père Lachaise,
where tombs elbowed each other; where, at every step, one came face to
face with a mystery, a secret, or a tragedy. Only, here, the mysteries
were all solved, the secrets all uncovered, the tragedies all
understood. But only to the elect, to criminals really great, were
these avenues open; to all others they were forbidden. Alone of
living men, perhaps, Crochard was free to wander there unchallenged.

Some such vision as this, I say, passed before my eyes, and I had a
feeling that M. Pigot shared in it; but, after an instant, he turned
back to the cabinet.

"Now, M. Simmón," he said, briskly, in an altered voice, "if you will
have the kindness to hold the drawer for a moment in this position, I
will draw the serpent's fangs. There is not the slightest danger," he
added, seeing that Simmonds very naturally hesitated.

Thus assured, Simmonds grasped the handle of the drawer, and held it
open, while the Frenchman took from his pocket a tiny flask of
crystal.

"A little farther," he said; and as Simmonds, with evident effort,
drew the drawer out to its full length, a tiny, two-tined prong
pushed itself forward from underneath the cabinet. "There are the
fangs," said M. Pigot. He held the mouth of the flask under first one
and then the other, passing his other hand carefully behind and above
them. "The poison is held in place by what we in French call
_attraction capillaire_--I do not know the English; but I drive it
out by introducing the air behind it--ah, you see!"