"What are you following me for?" he growled.
"Follow you, Monsieur? I do not comprehend," said the man.
"I'll aid your understanding, then. You followed us up the hill out of
Alençon. I saw you. Well, here I am. What do you want?"
"The road of the Oire are free," he answered sullenly, gaining courage.
"Perhaps they are. But no man with honest business slinks along the hedges. You go your way, do you hear?"
"The road of France are free," the man muttered again.
Markham quickly struck a match, and, before the man could turn away, had looked into his face. He wore the cap and blouse of a chauffeur and his legs were encased in the black puttees of his craft. Olga's ambassador was unworthy of her.
"Well, you go back to those who sent you here and say with the compliments of Monsieur Philidor that the roads of the Perche are dangerous after dark. I've every right to break your head, and if I meet you again I'll do it. Comprenez?"
The man eyed Markham's stick dubiously again and then, with a glance toward the pair in the bushes, silently walked away. They watched him until he was lost in the shadows of the trees.
"You see," said Markham, "I was right. But I can't understand it. Why should Olga—?"