And his thoughts flew riotously back to Jacqueline—Jacqueline, his dream, his tantalizing, exquisite dream—Jacqueline of the blue eyes and the captivating mole—Jacqueline of the roguish smile and the demure glance.
'I wonder, now!' he murmured softly. Had she perchance meant to give him a hint? Had she thrown him a warning glance? Gilles just then could have sworn that she had done both when she spoke of Monseigneur's living-room, where she would sit prattling after the last of the guests had departed.
'Did she mean me to take refuge there against de Landas' murderous intentions?' he asked himself. But the supposition did not appear likely. Gilles was no coxcomb and had not had many dealings with women during the course of his chequered career; but he had an innate respect for them, and would not credit Jacqueline—proud, demure, stately Jacqueline—with the intention of offering a gratuitous rendezvous to an unknown gallant. Rather was her glance intended for de Landas—the assignation was for him: 'perhaps,' thought Messire Gilles with a vague stirring of hope in his heart, 'perhaps with a view to keeping that fiery lover of hers out of harm's way, till I myself was safely abed.'
Be that as it may, the most elementary dictates of prudence demanded that he should go back to his hostelry before his enemies had time to concoct any definite plans for his undoing. So, calling to Jehan to follow him, he found his way quickly out of the Palace.
It was raining heavily just then; the streets were dark and, after a while, quite deserted. Gilles and Jehan, keeping a sharp look-out around them, walked rapidly and kept to the middle of the streets. Fortunately for them both, they had had plenty of leisure in the last four days to wander through the intricate by-ways of the Flemish city. They knew the lay of the land pretty well by now, and at this moment when the thought of a possible guet-apens was foremost in their minds, they were able to outwit any potential assassin who might be lurking on the direct route by going to the hostelry along devious ways usually unfrequented by strangers.
Thus it took them nearly half an hour to reach 'Les Trois Rois,' and Jehan, for one, was heartily congratulating himself that those murderous gentlemen had been comfortably thrown off the scent and were mayhap cooling their tempers somewhere in the cold and the wet, when, just as they entered the porch of the hostelry, a shadowy figure detached itself from out the gloom.
Gilles was already prepared with a quick, 'Qui va là?' but the figure proved inoffensive-looking enough: a woman, wrapped in a mantle and hood from head to foot. She had a small roll of paper in her hand, and this she held out timidly to Gilles.
'Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont?' she inquired under her breath.
'Myself,' replied Gilles curtly. 'What is it?'
He took the paper and unrolled it. By the light of a small lanthorn which hung just inside the porch he saw that it was a letter—just a few lines—written in a small, pointed hand, and signed with the letter 'J.'