“I’ll have no refusal.”
The man rubbed his chin dubiously while Cornbury told him their plans. When the Irishman had finished, Mornay slipped a handful of coins into his palm, which worked a transformation in his point of view.
“I’ll do what I can, monsieur,” he said, jingling the money. “But if there’s to be fighting, the Fleece will lose its good repute forever.” Mornay and Cornbury both laughed at the long face and hollow note of virtuous regretfulness and resignation in his voice.
“Ochone! If there has been a duel in yer garden once in forty years, I’d never be the man to suspect it,” said the Irishman. The landlord raised a deprecating hand and disappeared.
“The garden?” growled Mornay. “I hope it may not be necessary to carry this matter there.”
“But have ye thought? He may not come up to yer room?”
“He must—”
There was a cautious knock at the door, and Vigot entered, despair and distress written upon his features.
“Monsieur! Ill news! There was no room to let at the mercer’s. To-morrow is market-day, and the house is full to the garret. He would not let me even inside the door.”
“Tonnerre de Dieu!”