"Bete!" cried the girl, withdrawing her head and slamming down the window.
Tom waited a moment to see if his threats had been effective, and was relieved by hearing the bar within removed and the key turned in the lock. The door was opened, and the young woman stood on the sill and volleyed forth a series of French execrations that made Tom wince, though he did not understand a word she was saying. Despite her protests, he brushed her aside and stalked into the house. He went rapidly from room to room, upstairs and down, from garret to cellar, the girl following him with her chorus of abusive reproach. She might have held her peace, thought Tom, for within half-an-hour he was convinced that there was not a person in the House on the Dunes save himself and his excited companion. All he discovered for his pains was that old Mrs. Meath was also among the missing.
"Ou est Madame Meath?"
"Madame Meath! Que voulez vous? Je ne connais pas Madame Meath...." And infinitely more of which Tom could gather neither head nor tail.
Satisfied at last that there was nothing to be gained by further search or parley with the woman, he thanked her civilly enough and went out. He unhitched his horse, vaulted into the saddle, and dashed back, as fast as his beast could be urged to carry him, to the Inn. He was certain now that the schooner held the secret of his vanished friends, and it occurred to him to play their own game and turn the tables on Monsieur the Marquis de Boisdhyver.
Arrived at the Inn, Tom turned his horse, white with lather, over to Jesse; made sure that the Marquis was in the bar; and then, with the help of Manners, rapidly made a few preparations.
It was about five o'clock when, his arrangements completed, he returned to the bar, where Monsieur de Boisdhyver was quietly taking his tea. Tom bowed to the old gentleman, seated himself in a great chair about five feet away, and somewhat ostentatiously took from his pocket a pistol, laid it on the arm of his chair, and let his fingers lightly play upon the handle. The old marquis watched Pembroke's movements out of the corner of his eye, still somewhat deliberately sipping his tea. Manners, meanwhile, had entered, and stood respectfully in the doorway, oddly enough also with a pistol in his hand.
Suddenly Monsieur de Boisdhyver placed his teacup on the table, and leaning back in his chair, surveyed Tom with an air of indignant astonishment.
"Monsieur Pembroke," he said, "to what am I to attribute these so unusual attentions? Is it that you are mad?"
"You may attribute these unusual attentions, marquis, to the fact that from now on, you are not a guest of the Inn at the Red Oak, but a prisoner."