“I want to find a man named Cromillian. Do you know him?”
“What—Uncle Cromillian?” asked the child. “He is the best friend we have—mother and I.”
“Where can I find him?” persisted Villefort.
“Are you alone?” queried Lulie.
Villefort nodded.
“I see you have no gun. Is there a pistol or a stiletto inside your jacket?”
Villefort threw it open. “I am unarmed,” he said. “Come and see if I do not speak the truth.”
Lulie approached, and her bright eyes searched him from head to foot.
“Clasp your hands behind you,” said she. “I will take your arm and lead you to him. But if you unclasp your hands, I shall give the danger signal and Uncle Cromillian will shoot you dead with his rifle.”
The fact was that Cromillian went often to the Widow Nafilet’s house. Although he usually lived upon it for weeks at a time, he did not relish the coarse food rudely prepared by his men, and for that reason had arranged with the Widow Nafilet to cook and send his meals to him when his camp was within a reasonable distance, Lulie being the messenger. Cromillian had accounts to keep and letters to write. In camp, the facilities for such work were very poor, and he found that a snug room and large table, a high-backed chair and a bright wood fire were much better suited to his wants and comfort than the arbour in the woods which he was obliged to use in an emergency.