“What’s the matter with everybody? That’s what I want to know. Coulte, stand still and talk to me.”
“O, Meester Payard!” cried the old man, wringing his hands violently; “vat a grand mistake is here—one grand big mistake. Ah! oui! whew!”
Coulte whistled long and loud, took a few more pulls at his pipe, and went on,
“You zee, Meester Payard, my leetle poys don’t know Meester Valter zo very veil—zey don’t seen him very many times. Zey go down last night to Meester Gaylord’s house, and zey—zey—whew!”
“Well, what did they do? Go on,” commanded Bayard.
The old Frenchman tried his best to comply, but his astonishment, or perplexity, or something else choked his utterance. He took a few more puffs at his pipe, and beckoning to Bayard, led the way forward and down a ladder into the hold.
“It’s all right, boys,” whispered Bayard, gleefully. “I thought at first that they hadn’t got him. No doubt they hurt him a little in capturing him, and that’s what troubles Coulte.”
“Perhaps they hurt him too much,” said Will, with a look of alarm. “Who knows that they didn’t kill him?”
“Eh?” exclaimed Bayard, his face growing pale with apprehension. “O, no; they didn’t do that; they wouldn’t be such fools.”