“It is now eight o'clock—this newspaper—this precious Beacon is now casting its light into some dark intellects in London. It will take those intellects two hours to assimilate the information, and one more hour to proceed to action. You have, therefore, three hours in which to make yourself scarce.”
“I have arranged that,” replied the old man calmly. “There is a small French potato-ship lying at Exmouth. In two hours I shall be one of her crew.”
“That is well. And the others?”
“The others left yesterday afternoon. They cross by this morning's boat from Southampton to Cherbourg. You see how much I have had to do.”
“I see also, my friend, how well you have done it.”
“And now,” said Signor Bruno, ignoring the compliment, “I must go. We will walk away by the back garden across the fields. You must remember that you may have been seen coming here.”
“I have thought of that. One old man saw me, but he did not look at me twice. He will not know me again. And your landlady—where is she?”
“I have sent her out on a fool's errand.”
As they spoke they left the little cottage by the back door, as Signor Bruno had proposed, through the little garden, and across some low-lying fields. Presently they parted, Signor Bruno turning to the left, while the Vicomte d'Audierne kept to the right.
“We shall meet, I suppose,” were the last words of the younger man, “in the Rue St. Gingolphe?”