“I don't care what your name be,” snapped the old man. “Tell me that some odder time. It's what you be—that's what I care! And you don't be good to nice girl.”
“I don't understand.”
“You go back there and rap on Modder Maillet's front door and then you understand! I'm only poor mans, m'sieu', but I shall talk to you like I spoke to the mans in the hotel de ville—and I shall not be scare when I am right.”
“Look here, Etienne! What do you mean?”
“La belle ma'm'selle—ba gar! you have to be hit with brick bang—dat fine, pretty lady—she what tell me the good word to say to you about the bad folks—you must know she leeve now in the good woman's house.”
Now it was Bristol's turn to grasp Etienne's arm. He shook the old man.
“Miss Kilgour—here? Speak up! Don't be so slow!”
“I have speak up. Odderwise you go off and be a big fool some more,” retorted the rack-tender, boldly. “She's in there. She come here to live because somet'ing has made her very poor—and very sad. And her modder she cry all the time. And la belle ma'm'selle she come to the big tree and she ask me many things—”
While the old man chattered Bristol was yanking impatiently at the catch of the gate. He could not find the latch in the dark and so he kicked off a few more pickets from Mother Maillet's much-abused fence. He crawled through and bumped against old Etienne, thrusting him from the path, checking the flow of information.
The young man leaped up the steps, to the plain dismay of the little boy, and beat upon the door.