Hanaud rose from the bench and with a last look at the magical mountain, that outpost of France, they turned towards the city.
Jim Frobisher looked down upon tiny squares green with limes and the steep gaily-patterned roofs of ancient houses. About him the fine tapering spires leapt high like lances from the slates of its many churches. A little to the south and a quarter of a mile away across the roof tops he saw the long ridge of a big house and the smoke rising from a chimney stack or two and behind it the tops of tall trees which rippled and shook the sunlight from their leaves.
"The Maison Crenelle!" he said.
There was no answer, not even the slightest movement at his side.
"Isn't it?" he asked and he turned.
Hanaud had not even heard him. He was gazing also towards the Maison Crenelle with the queerest look upon his face; a look with which Jim was familiar in some sort of association, but which for a moment or two he could not define. It was not an expression of amazement. On the other hand interest was too weak a word. Suddenly Jim Frobisher understood and comprehension brought with it a sense of discomfort. Hanaud's look, very bright and watchful and more than a little inhuman, was just the look of a good retriever dog when his master brings out a gun.
Jim looked again at the high ridge of the house. The slates were broken at intervals by little gabled windows, but at none of them could he see a figure. From none of them a signal was waved.
"What is it that you are looking at?" asked Jim in perplexity and then with a touch of impatience. "You see something, I'm sure."
Hanaud heard his companion at last. His face changed in a moment, lost its rather savage vigilance, and became the face of a buffoon.
"Of course I see something. Always I see something. Am I not Hanaud? Ah, my friend, the responsibility of being Hanaud! Aren't you fortunate to be without it? Pity me! For the Hanauds must see something everywhere—even when there is nothing to see. Come!"