At a gesture from Blackbeard the Frenchman sank into one of the chairs.
“Now you go,” the captain commanded, turning to Martin and Gollop. “I will finish the bargain with this gentleman.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Gollop quietly, “but afore I go it is in a manner of speaking——”
“What you mean?” said Blackbeard, truculently. “I say you go: there is no more for you: you have done; the business is with this gentleman.”
“So it is, to be sure,” returned Gollop unperturbed. “Leastways a part of it. But afore I go, it is in a manner of speaking my duty as an officer of the law to show you a dokyment——”
He had drawn from his pocket the warrant signed by Mr. Pemberton and was proceeding to unfold it. But something in his manner had aroused suspicion in the captain, who made a quick sidelong movement and snatched at a pistol in the nearest rack.
Then the Frenchman, who had appeared so weak and faint, showed a marvellous alacrity for a man of his years and impotence. He sprang up from his chair, whipped out his rapier from under his cloak, and had its point within an inch of Blackbeard’s throat while his hand was still closing over the pistol butt.
For a second or two there was silence as the men faced each other. Martin, quivering with excitement, took in the details of the scene: Gollop flourishing the paper in his hand; Blackbeard, his hand outstretched, his nostrils dilating, his eyes glaring; Mounseer cool, smiling, watching the other as a cat watches a mouse.
Then the silence was broken. The Frenchman, wearing his inscrutable smile, said gently, in a tone not above the conversational pitch:
“Monsieur recognises—is it not so?—that he must render himself?”