And on the top of this came the recollection that he had seen the man before....
The torches! The red torches and the hobnailed boots! There began an odd game, a dancing match, which the young man led adroitly, always with his thought upon the open window.

There would be no shooting; Quasimodo would not want the police either.

Half a dozen times his fingers touched futilely the dancing master's coat.

Back and forth across the room, over the bed, round the stand and chairs.
Persistently, as if he understood the young man's manoeuvres, the squat individual kept to the window side of the room.
An inspiration brought the affair to an end.

Hawksley snatched up the bedclothes and threw them as the ancient retiarius threw his net.