Waiting for no more, I turned and ran up the path to the shed. The two
men on guard there stood aside to let me pass and, filled with
excitement, I entered.
The light was dim, the place was a mere rough wooden erection to keep
old pots and tools in. I had entered impetuously, but on the threshold
I checked myself, fascinated by the spectacle before me.
Giraud was on his hands and knees, a pocket torch in his hand with
which he was examining every inch of the ground. He looked up with a
frown at my entrance, then his face relaxed a little in a sort of
good-humoured contempt.
“Ah, _c’est l’Anglais!___ Enter then. Let us see what you can make of
this affair.”
Rather stung by his tone, I stooped my head, and passed in.
“There he is,” said Giraud, flashing his torch to the far corner.