They mounted once more and set off. All day they heard reports from hostlers and country people of the progress of the secret agent toward the seaport. But they had not, apparently, gained upon him in the least when night overtook them. Next morning they secured fresh horses, as their own were stiff with the hard work of the two preceding days; and then the chase was resumed. However, Fochard traveled like the light; the housetops of Brest were in sight and still they had not sighted him.
“There is small chance of getting any information of his movements after we get into the town,” said Ethan, disheartened.
“Don’t lose hope,” said Longsword. “It’s the unexpected that happens, Master Ethan.”
“You are right, sure,” said Captain McHale. “Many’s the time things looked black enough wid me; and then like a flash they’ve changed when I least expected it.”
And so it proved in this case. They had scarcely entered Brest when a voice cried out from a shop door,
“Ah, monsieur rides hard to-day.”
The Irish sailor turned toward the shop, and his face took on a broad grin as he caught sight of the fat French chandler who had spoken.
“Monsieur Dubois, good-day,” he cried. “Yes, we ride hard because our business is urgent.”
The chandler elevated his plump hands.
“Oh, this war!” he exclaimed, “it makes all hurry. Did not a carriage almost run down my eldest son an hour ago, because its passenger was in a very great hurry to see La Tour.”