Suddenly he drew himself up, and held up a
piece of half-consumed paper in his hand. He stepped up to where
we were talking by one of the windows.
"Keep that for us, Monsieur Darzac," he said.
I bent over the piece of scorched paper which Monsieur Darzac took
from the hand of Rouletabille, and read distinctly the only words
that remained legible:
"Presbytery--lost nothing--charm, nor the gar--its brightness."
Twice since the morning these same meaningless words had struck
me, and, for the second time, I saw that they produced on the
Sorbonne professor the same paralysing effect. Monsieur Darzac's
first anxiety showed itself when he turned his eyes in the direction
of Daddy Jacques. But, occupied as he was at another window, he
had seen nothing. Then tremblingly opening his pocket-book he put
the piece of paper into it, sighing: "My God!"
During this time, Rouletabille had mounted into the opening of the
fire-grate--that is to say, he had got upon the bricks of a furnace
--and was attentively examining the chimney, which grew narrower
towards the top, the outlet from it being closed with sheets of
iron, fastened into the brickwork, through which passed three small
chimneys.
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