“Pray do, and be very quick and quiet,” said Louis, seating himself on the bed. “Are you a spy of Pitt’s?”
“Oho! is that the game!” exclaimed Trenchard as he got out of bed. “No, I am not. And—imagine your speaking English!—why should we be murdered together?”
Louis told him, very laconically, while Trenchard hurried on a portion of his clothing.
“Then you are a proscribed aristocrat?” he asked, surveying the shabby figure with interest.
“So they suppose,” returned Louis with composure. “Are you nearly ready, because we cannot wait much longer.”
Trenchard finished buttoning his waistcoat before replying. “I am not sure that I shall come,” he said suddenly. “Why should I run away from these rapscallions? I would rather see it out.”
Louis got off the bed and scanned him with a glance between amusement and annoyance. “Very well, milord,” he said. “Here is your pistol. Perhaps, then, one of us may have your horse?”
“Confound you!” said the traveller, rather angry. “Why should you take me for a fool? Why don’t you stop too?”
“Because the next knife I have into me may go further than the last,” returned Saint-Ermay with meaning. “However, it is nothing to me whether you come or no. I have warned you.”
Mr Trenchard, half into his coat, stared at him across the bed, and the dimly-seen figure may have suggested to him that, after all, the more adventurous course lay in following the unknown out into the night.