"You know then where we must go?"

"I know not the place. But I guess it. We hear much--we Court servants!"

He spat upon the floor. "And I saw _him_ looking at her as the Doctor rode to Hadley."

"Wilt risk it?--death, torture, which is worse, John Hull?"

"Duck Lane, master?"

"Duck Lane."

"I thought so. I'm for the horses."

A clatter of descending footsteps, a man standing in a little darkling room, his hand upon his sword hilt. His teeth set, his brain working in ice.

Receding footsteps.... "Faithfullest servant that ever man had!"

And so to the bitter work!

CHAPTER VII

HEY HO! AND A RUMBELOW!

They had ridden over London Bridge.

The night was dark, and a wind was beginning to rise. Again, here and there about the bridge, soldiers were lounging, but Commendone and his servant pa.s.sed over successfully. He was recognised from the last time, three nights ago. As they walked their horses through the scattered houses immediately at the southern end of the bridge, Johnnie spoke to Hull.

"I have plans," he said quietly; "my mind is full of them. But I can give you no hint until we are there and doing. Be quick at the uptake, follow me in all I do, but if necessary act thyself, and remember that we are desperate men upon an adventure as desperate. Let nothing stand in the way, as I shall not."

For answer he heard a low mutter, almost a growl, and they rode on in silence.

Both were cool and calm, strung up to the very highest point, every single faculty of mind and body on the alert and poised to strike.

One, the Spanish blood within him turning to that cold icy fury which would stick at nothing in this world to achieve his ends, the while his trained intelligence and high mental powers sat, as it were, upon his frozen anger and rode it as a horse; the other, a volcano of hidden snarling fury, seeing red at each step of his way through the dark, but subordinate and disciplined by the master mind.

They came to the entrance to Duck Lane, walked their horses quietly down it--once more it was in silence--until under the lamp above the big red door of the House of Shame, they saw two horses tethered to a ring in the wall, and a man in a cloak walking up and down in front of the house.

He looked up sharply as they came into the circle of lamp-light, and Johnnie saw, with a fierce throb of exultation, that it was Torrome, the King's valet.

"It is you, Senor," the man said in a low voice of relief.

Johnnie nodded curtly as he dismounted.

"Yes," he said, in a voice equally low, putting something furtive and sly into the tones, for he was a consummate actor. "Yes, it is I, Torrome. I must see His Grace at once on matters of high importance."

"His Grace said nothing," the man began.

"I know, I know," Johnnie answered. "It was not thought that I should have to come, but as events turn out"--he struck with his hand upon the door as he spoke--"I am to see His Highness at once."

"I trust Her Grace----" the man whispered in a frightened voice.

"Not a word," Commendone replied. "Take our horses and keep watch over them also. My man cometh in with me. Word will be sent out to you anon what to do."

The man bowed, and gathered up the bridle of the two new horses on his arm; while as he did so, the big red door swung open a little, and a thin face, covered with a mask of black velvet, peered out at the newcomers.

"It is all right," the valet said, in French. "This gentleman is of the suite of His Highness."

The peering, masked face scrutinised Johnnie for a second, then nodded, and the red lips below twisted into a sinister smile.

"Enter, sir," came in a soft, cooing voice. "I remember you three nights back...."

Johnnie entered, closely followed by Hull, and the door was closed behind him. They stood once more in the quiet carpeted pa.s.sage, with its sense of mystery, its heavily perfumed air, and once again the tall nondescript figure flitted noiselessly in front of them, and scratched upon a panel of the big door at the end of the pa.s.sage. There was the tinkle of a bell within. The door was opened. Johnnie pushed aside the curtains and entered the room, hung with crimson arras, powdered with the design of gold bats, lit with its hanging silver lamps, and reeking with the odour of the scented gums which were burning there.

Madame La Motte rose from her chair behind the little table as they entered. The big, painted face was quite still and motionless, like a mask, but the eyes glanced with quick, cunning brightness at Commendone and his companion--the only things alive in that huge countenance. She recognised Johnnie in a moment, and then her eyebrows went up into her forehead and the lower part of her face moved down a little, as if the whole were actuated by the sudden pull of a lever.

"_Mon gars_," she said, in French, "and what brings you here to-night?

And who is this?..."

Her eyes had fallen upon the broad figure of the serving-man in his leather coat, his short sword hanging from his belt, his hand upon his dagger.

She might well look in alarm, this ancient, evil woman, for the keen brown face of the servant was gashed and lined with a terrible and quiet fury, the lips curled away from the teeth, the fore part of the body was bent forward a little as if to spring.

Johnnie took two steps up to the woman.

"Madam," he said, in a voice so low that it was hardly more than a whisper, but every syllable of which was perfectly distinct and clear, "a lady has been stolen from her friends, and brought to this h.e.l.l.

Where is she?"

The woman knew in a moment why they had come. She gave a sudden swift glance towards the door in the arras at the other side of the room, which told Commendone all he wanted to know.

"It is true, then?" he said. "Thou cat of h.e.l.l, bound mistress of the fiend, she is here?"

The huge body of the woman began to tremble like a jelly, slowly at first in little shivers, and then more rapidly until face and shapeless form shook and swayed from side to side in a convulsion of fear, while all the jewels upon her winked and flashed.

As the young man bent forward and looked into her face, she found a voice, a horrid, strangled voice. "I know nothing," she coughed.

There was a low snarl, like a wakened panther, as Commendone, shuddering as he did so, gripped one bare, powdered shoulder.

"Silence!" he said.

With one convulsive effort, the woman shot out a fat hand, and rang the little silver bell upon the table.

Almost immediately the door swung open; there was a swish of curtains, and the tall, fantastic figure of the creature who had let them into the house stood there.

"_Allez--la maison en face--viens toi vite,--Jules, Louis._"

Commendone clapped his hand over the woman's mouth, just as the eel-like creature at the door, realising the situation in a moment, was gliding through the curtains to summon the bullies of the house.