The dragoon shook his head again. “I don’t know,” he answered. “But time will tell, I think.”
They left the coffee house; and as they stepped into the shadows of the Rue Constantine, Ethan noticed his companion pull his scabbard about so that his cutlass would be ready at his hand.
“What’s that for?” he asked, in surprise.
“It’s always good to have your blade handy on a dark night,” said Longsword, briefly.
Ethan made no reply, and so they continued on their way in silence for a time. Finally the lad spoke.
“I suppose it would have been better had we given an alarm and had the Lascar seized by the authorities,” said he.
“And have the whole matter of the dispatch come out,” cried the Irish soldier. “That would never do. Remember what Dr. Franklin said.”
The way to their lodgings was narrow and dark; the hour was still fairly early, but there were very few people abroad. As they proceeded along at a smart pace they caught a short, sharp whistle from directly ahead; and immediately it was repeated from behind. Longsword grasped the lad’s arm tightly.
“It sounded very much like a signal of some sort,” said Ethan coolly. He cast a long look into the darkness as he spoke; a shadow seemed to move silently away and melt into the murk; the soft patter of guarded footsteps fell upon their ears, and then all was still.
“We are being followed,” breathed Longsword, his strong hand upon the hilt of his hanger. “And it’s all because of that rascal Fochard, I’ll be bound.”