"Yes," I said.

"And I am glad, glad," said Mademoiselle.

"And I am sorry you are glad," I said.

"You are sorry?"

"Perhaps, Mademoiselle," I replied with a tinge of bitterness I could not suppress, "if I had seen more of the world, if my clothes were in better taste, and my manners less abrupt--you would feel differently. I wonder.

But let us be silent, for we are almost there."

As we drew near, making our way through damp thickets, a sense of uneasiness came over me. Somehow I feared we might be too late, though I knew that this was hardly possible. I feared, and yet I knew well enough it was written somewhere that we should meet once more. With six men after him he would not have ridden straight to the place. We should meet, and it would be different from our other meetings. I wished that it was light enough to see his face.

At a turn of the path I reined up and listened. It was very still.

Already the light had gone out of the sky, and little was left of the land about us, save varying tones of black. Had he gone?

I cautiously dismounted. In a minute we should see. In a minute--Then Mademoiselle interrupted me, and I was both astonished and irritated, for my nerves were more on edge than I cared to have them. She was right. She was never overwrought.

"We are there?" she inquired.

"Softly, Mademoiselle," I cautioned her. "If you will dismount, you can see the place. It is not three hundred feet beyond the thicket. So! You will admit it is not much to look at. If you will hold the horse's head, I will go forward."

I did not listen to an objection that she was framing, but slipped hastily through the trees. As the ugly ma.s.s of the house took a more certain shape before me, I felt my pulse beat more rapidly, and not entirely through elation. Even today when I look at a place that men have built and then abandoned, something of the same feeling comes over me, but not as strongly as it did that evening. It was another matter that made me hesitate. From the shadow of the doorway I heard a sound which was too much like the raising of a pistol hammer not to make me remember that a sword was all I carried.

"There is no need to c.o.c.k that pistol," I said, in a tone which I hoped sounded more confident than my state of mind. I halted, but there was no answer and no further sound.

"I said," I repeated, raising my voice, "there is no need to c.o.c.k that pistol. It is a friend of Captain Shelton who is speaking."

"So," said a voice in careful, precise English. "Walk three paces forward, if you please, and slowly, v-e-r-y slowly. Now. You are a friend of the captain?"

"In a sense," I replied. "I am his son. I have come to you with a message."

"So," said the voice again, and I saw that a man was seated before me on the stone that had served as a doorstep, a man who was balancing a pistol in the palm of his hand.

"I fear I have been rude," he said, "but I find this place--what shall I say?--annoying. Your voices are alike, and I know he has a son. You say you bring a message?"

I had thought what to say.

"It is about the paper," I began. "The captain was to bring it to you here, and now he finds he cannot."

"Cannot?" he said, with the rising inflection of another language than ours. "Cannot?"

"Rather," I corrected myself hastily, "he finds it more expedient to meet you elsewhere."

"Ah," he said, "that is better. For a moment I feared the captain was dead. So the paper--he still has it?"

"He not only has it," I said, "but he is ready to give it to you--at another place he has named. You are a stranger to the country here?"

My question was not a welcome one.

"Absolute!" he replied with conviction. "Do you take me for a native of these sink holes? Mon Dieu! Does your mud so completely cover me? But surely it must be this cursed darkness, or you would have said differently. Where is this other place?"

I was glad it was too dark for him to see my smile.

"Unfortunately I cannot guide you there," I said, "for I am to stop here in case I am followed. We have had to be careful, very careful indeed--you understand?"

Impatiently he shifted his position.

"For six months," he replied irritably, "I have been doing nothing else--careful--always careful. It becomes unbearable, but where is this place you speak of--in some other bog?"

I pointed to the left of the trees where Mademoiselle was standing.

"I quite understand," I said politely, "even a day with this paper is quite enough, but it is not a bog and you can reach it quite easily. You see where I point? Simply follow that field in that direction for half a mile, perhaps, and you will come to a road. Turn to your right, and after three miles you will see a house, the first house you will meet, in fact.

It has a gambrel roof and overlooks the river. Simply knock on the door so--one knock, a pause, and three in succession. It will be understood.

You have a horse?"

"What is left of him," he replied, "though the good G.o.d knows how he has carried me along this far. Yes, he is attached to a post. Well, we are off, and may the paper stay still till we get it. You wait here?"

"In case we are followed," I said.

He pointed straight before him.

"I have been hearing noises over there, breaking of branches and shouts."

"Then in the name of heaven ride on," I said, and added as an afterthought, "and turn out to the side if you see anyone coming."

The pleasure I took in seeing him leave was not entirely unalloyed. As I walked to the oak thicket where Mademoiselle was waiting, I even had some vague idea of calling him back, for I do not believe in doing anyone a turn that is worse than necessary. Yet there was only one other way I could think of to keep him silent, besides sending him where he was going. She was feeding the horse handfuls of gra.s.s.

"It is quite all right, Mademoiselle," I said. "Let us move to the house.

It may be more comfortable in the doorway."

We stood silently for a while, listening to the wind and the dull monotonous roar of the surf, while the night grew blacker. I listened attentively, but there was no sound. Surely he was coming.

"Tell me, Monsieur," said Mademoiselle, "what sort of woman was your mother?"

Unbidden, a picture of her came before me, that seemed strangely out of place.

"She was very beautiful," I said.

She sighed.

"And very proud," said Mademoiselle.

"Yes, very proud. Why did she call him a thief, Monsieur?"

But I did not answer.

"You are certain your father is coming?" she asked finally.