“You are a witch, Lucette, with those eyes of yours. But if you can get hold of this Dauban, lead him away from these lower rooms for an hour while I am still here, or you may have one admirer the less.”
“You mean—M. Dauban?” she asked coquettishly.
“On my soul, it’s in your very blood, mademoiselle. But I am shot-proof,” he laughed, shrugging his shoulders.
“At noon, then, by the cedar gate—that is how we call it.”
“Yes, at the cedar gate; and till then—good fortune to you.”
With a last coquettish glance and a smile, Lucette went to the door, opened it cautiously, peeped out, and stepped back hurriedly.
“Antoine and Jacques Dauban are together at the far end of the corridor, monsieur, coming this way. Have a care,” she whispered hurriedly.
“Is there a hiding place here?” he asked.
“Alas! no, monsieur.”
“Very well; then if they come in some of us will not go out again,” he answered coolly, and stepping behind the door he loosened a knife he had concealed under his coat. “Leave the door open.”