She had scarcely set down my heavy box, which she seemed to have
considerable difficulty in raising on the table, when the door of the
room in which I had seen the coffin, opened, and a sinister and
unexpected apparition entered.

It was the Count de St. Alyre, who had been, as I have told you,
reported to me to be, for some considerable time, on his way to Pee la
Chaise. He stood before me for a moment, with the frame of the doorway
and a background of darkness enclosing him like a portrait. His slight,
mean figure was draped in the deepest mourning. He had a pair of black
gloves in his hand, and his hat with crape round it.

When he was not speaking his face showed signs of agitation; his mouth
was puckering and working. He looked damnably wicked and frightened.

"Well, my dear Eugenie? Well, child--eh? Well, it all goes admirably?"

"Yes," she answered, in a low, hard tone. "But you and Planard should
not have left that door open."

This she said sternly. "He went in there and looked about wherever he
liked; it was fortunate he did not move aside the lid of the coffin."

"Planard should have seen to that," said the Count, sharply. "_Ma
foi!_ I can't be everywhere!" He advanced half-a-dozen short quick
steps into the room toward me, and placed his glasses to his eyes.

"Monsieur Beckett," he cried sharply, two or three times, "Hi! don't you
know me?"