The three stood in silence together until—some trivial order having been given and obeyed—the door shut out the landlord's inquisition. Then, as if by common consent, the smaller woman with their guard—for in that capacity he attended them there could be no doubt—moved round the head of the table to where was an open fireplace set in a deep alcove midway down the wall opposite the door. The humbler of the two first comers joined them there, but stood apart, leaving his leader and the taller of the women in comparative isolation at the further end of the room.
At her entrance he had risen, bowing with the careless courtesy of a stranger and receiving in return as negligent an acknowledgment; but though my curiosity had been stirred like that of the landlord, it was her first word that fairly aroused it.
"Narbonne," said he.
"Argenton," was the answer.
CHAPTER VI
THE MUSE IN DRAGGLED SKIRTS
Argenton! That was strange, so strange that I started on my stool at the end of the table, and half rose. Of course they were passwords, but why Argenton? Argenton was the lordship of Monsieur de Commines, to whom I looked for protection; why Argenton?
Bowing again, but with a warmer courtesy, he motioned her to take his place at the inner side of the table while he, drawing the end of stool a foot or two back towards the corner, sat, half-concealed by her shrouded bulk.
"Mademoiselle will excuse me uncovering?" he said, touching his slouched hat, "and will also remember we are not alone."
Turning, she glanced down at us as we sat in the light of our one guttering candle. It was my first glimpse of her face, but so deep was her hood I saw no more than an oval of pallor in the darkness of its cavity.