"That is my affair, sir. I have a right here, now and at all times." Her voice was cold and authoritative. "There is an inn six miles farther down the road; this is a private residence. Certainly you can not remain here over night."
"Six miles?" I echoed dismally. "Madam, if I have seemed impertinent, pardon me. I have been in the saddle six hours. I have ridden nearly thirty miles since noon. I am dead with fatigue. At least give me time to rest a bit before taking up the way again, I admit that the manner of my entrance was informal; but how was I to know? There was not even a knocker on the door by which to make known my presence to you." The truth is, I did not want to go at once. No one likes to stumble into an adventure—enchanting as this promised to be—and immediately pop out of it. An idea came to me, serviceable rather than brilliant. "I am an American. My German is poor. I speak no French. I have lost my way, it would seem; I am hungry and tired. To ride six miles farther now is a physical impossibility; and I am very fond of my horse."
"He says he is hungry, Gretchen," said the English girl, dropping easily into the French language as a vehicle of speech. (I was a wretch, I know, but I simply could not help telling that lie; I didn't want to go; and they might be conspirators.) "Besides," went on the girl, "he looks like a gentleman."
"We can not always tell a gentleman in the candle-light," replied Gretchen, eying me critically and shrewdly and suspiciously.
As for me, I gazed from one to the ether, inquiringly, after the manner of one who hears a tongue not understandable.
"He's rather nice," was the English girl's comment; "and his eyes strike me as being too steady to be dishonest."
I had the decency to burn in the ears. I had taken the step, so now I could not draw back. I sincerely hoped that they would not exchange any embarrassing confidences. When alone women converse upon many peculiar topics; and conversing in a tongue which they supposed to be unknown to me, these two were virtually alone.
"But, my dear child," the other returned argumentatively, "we can not offer hospitality to a strange man this night of all nights. Think of what is to be accomplished."
(So something was to be accomplished? I was right, then, in deceiving them. To accomplish something on a night like this, far from habitation, had all the air of a conspiracy.)
"Feed him and his horse, and I'll undertake to get rid of him before that detestable Steinbock comes. Besides, he might prove a valuable witness in drawing up the papers."