“P’sh! Do ye think the man has but one suit? Ye’ll lose your labor, sir. He has hidden yer proofs most secretly by this.”
“None the less, mon ami, I’m going to pick his pocket!”
There was a thin skim of storm over the face of the moon as Mornay and Cornbury left the Swan Tavern. The wind was fitful in the streets, and, though the season was June, as they passed a corner now and then a heavy gust, full of the dampness and rigor of October, flew full in their faces and caused them to pull their summer cloaks more closely about them. Following in their footsteps were three men, one of whom was Vigot. The other two were the rascals who had served as outriders to Monsieur Mornay in the afternoon: Tom Trice, a tall and slender, stoop-shouldered man, who peered uneasily to left and right, and “Scaldy” Quinn, who was short, with a most generous breadth of leg and shoulder. The Frenchman had paid them liberally before leaving the Swan, and the understanding was that they should follow instructions without question, and if necessary be prepared to strike a sturdy blow or two for monsieur, who was going into the camp of his enemies. The Fleece Tavern had lately gained a bad name by reason of the many brawls and homicides that had occurred within its walls. The place was not inaptly named, for its master, Papworth, took money when and how he might, and bore the name of one who would not stop at a sinister deed if it would avail him to achieve his end. But in spite of its disrepute among the more careful of its gamesters at the court, the Fleece was still frequented by a larger following than any other gaming-house in London. There was more money to be seen there. Most of its rooms were filled at all hours with a motley crowd of men of the town, noblemen, and soldiers of fortune, who would play at dice, basset, and quinze for days and nights at a time, dropping out only when the lack of food and sleep made it necessary.
Cornbury strode along, muttering in his cloak.
“Why go on this d——d fool’s errand?” he said, at last. “Why will ye not take ship comfortably, like a gentleman? Like ye the look of a prison that ye must be prying and poking yer head inside the bars? Ye’re a fool, man.”
Mornay paused to look at him curiously for a moment, and then he laughed.
“I am. And you’re another, mon ami, for going with me.” They walked along for a moment in silence before the Frenchman spoke again. “Here is what we shall do, Cornbury: Vigot shall go into the house next to the Fleece, which is upon the corner. It is a mercer’s shop, with lodgings above, to let. He will choose a room, and so gain his way to the roof. He will then steal over the leads to the dormer of the Fleece and down into the hall, making all clear for our escape. The other two rascals will enter by the cook-room, and, gaining their way upstairs, await our signal there. We will then meet Capitaine Ferraire and his friend with an eye in the back of our heads for any signs of his followers.” As Mornay proceeded he could see the eyes of the Irishman flash with delight in the moonlight.
“’Tis a good plan,” he returned, “and but for one thing—”
“What?”