Then he spoke--in French--in a tone that imitated the cool irony he had noted in Durand's tone: "A few murders more or less! But Von Stroebel was hardly a fair mark, dearest Jules!" With this he sent the chair clattering down the steps, where it struck Jules Chauvenet's legs with a force that carried him howling lustily backward to the second landing.
Armitage turned and sped down the front stairway, hearing renewed clamor from the rear and cries of rage and pain from the second story.

In fumbling for the front door he found a hat, and, having lost his own, placed it upon his head, drew his inverness about his shoulders, and went quickly out.

A moment later he slipped the catch in the wall door and stepped into the boulevard.
The stars were shining among the flying clouds overhead and he drew deep breaths of the freshened air into his lungs as he walked back to the Monte Rosa.

Occasionally he laughed quietly to himself, for he still grasped tightly in his hand, safe under his coat, the envelope which Chauvenet had carried so carefully concealed; and several times Armitage muttered to himself: "A few murders, more or less!" At the hotel he changed his clothes, threw the things from his dressing-table into a bag, and announced his departure for Paris by the night express.
As he drove to the railway station he felt for his cigarette case, and discovered that it was missing.

The loss evidently gave him great concern, for he searched and researched his pockets and opened his bags at the station to see if he had by any chance overlooked it, but it was not to be found.
His annoyance at the loss was balanced--could he have known it--by the interest with which, almost before the wall door had closed upon him, two gentlemen--one of them still in his shirt sleeves and with a purple lump over his forehead--bent over a gold cigarette case in the dark house on the Boulevard Froissart.