McHale pulled in his horse, sharply, as did Ethan.
“La Tour—a carriage!” he ejaculated. “Did you notice the man, particularly?”
“Indeed I did, monsieur, and made him give me two louis for the fright he gave me.”
“A stout man,” suggested Ethan, “from Paris, by his look, with many seals on his watch-guard?”
“The same, monsieur,” answered the stout chandler, wonderingly.
“Come on,” said McHale, eagerly. “To La Tour’s; it’s not far from here.”
Ethan and Longsword, who had also paused, put spurs to their horses after the sailor.
“Who is La Tour?” asked the young American.
“He is a shipping-agent,” answered McHale. “And the owner of some small vessels, too. If a man wanted a ship to embark on any questionable or desperate enterprise it is to this same La Tour he’d go, faith.”
The office of Jean La Tour was near the water front, and was a dusty, cobwebbed, low-ceilinged place, indeed. La Tour was seated at a broad, flat, green-covered table, carefully docketing some items of his traffic in a book, when the three pulled up, threw themselves from their horses and came stamping in upon him. Upon hearing their business, he shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands wide.