I set my lantern on the ground close to the wall, and at the same moment a horse and cart drew up on the road at the end of the lane, showing against the starlight. It was Pere Baudry’s best horse, a stout gray, that would easily enough make Trouville by daylight. A woman’s figure and a man’s (the latter that of Pere Baudry himself) could be made out dimly on the seat of the cart.
“Who is it, I say?” shouted our excited friend. “What kind of a game d’ye think y’re puttin’ up on me here?”
He set his hand on the side of the cart and sprang upon the hub of the wheel. A glance at the occupants satisfied him.
“Mrs. Harman!” he yelled. “Mrs. Harman!” He leaped down into the road. “I knowed I was a fool to come away without wakin’ up Rameau. But you haven’t beat us yet!”
He drove back into the lane, but just inside its entrance I met him.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Back to the pigeon-house in a hurry. There’s devilment here, and I want Rameau. Git out o’ my way!”
“You’re not going back,” said I.
“The hell I ain’t!” said Mr. Percy. “I give ye two seconds t’ git out o’ my—TAKE YER HANDS OFFA ME!”
I made sure of my grip, not upon the refulgent overcoat, for I feared he might slip out of that, but upon the collars of his coat and waistcoat, which I clenched together in my right hand. I knew that he was quick, and I suspected that he was “scientific,” but I did it before he had finished talking, and so made fast, with my mind and heart and soul set upon sticking to him.