“Ay,” he replied, “I mean the Zotofs. I went openly to the door, and was refused admittance; then I went to the back of the house, scaled the low wall of the court, and walked beneath Najine’s windows, but without result. There was no sign or token that she was there.”
“They have, doubtless, removed her to other quarters since her illness,” I said. “She is there, I am sure, but probably they know that you are on the watch. I would be cautious, monsieur; the sight of you will but increase their vigilance. You are not yet recovered from the result of your temerity, therefore recollect that you carry your life in your hand.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I was a fool to be surprised by that murderous boy,” he retorted, “and if he had not leaped on me with a knife so suddenly, I should have taught him a lesson; but he sprang like an animal, and had me by the throat with one hand, while with the other he struck the blade into my side.”
“And he has returned,” I remarked thoughtfully; “therefore it is doubly necessary to be cautious.”
While I was speaking, M. de Lambert had been again looking from the window, so intently that he did not heed me.
“Pierrot is below in the court,” he said, “and is talking to one of the czar’s equerries. They have had their heads together for a quarter of an hour, and I have no doubt that Pierrot has sifted the fellow as wheat. There is something of interest, for the old knave will not let the equerry go; he has him by the cloak and is questioning him with lip and eye. It is a picture.”
I rose, and, joining him at his post, looked down upon the two men below. Both were too intent to observe us,—the equerry endeavoring to disengage himself; Pierrot persistent, gracious, eager. I laughed softly. The old rogue had not lost his cunning; no one was more clever at extracting information, no one more difficult to fathom.
“It is a bit of gossip,” M. de Lambert said. “Look at Touchet! He is listening with that expression he wears when he hears two people speaking Russ. Now and then a gleam of absolute complaisance crosses his face, when he really understands a sentence; at other times he is the picture of contemptuous bewilderment.”
“Pierrot is worth a hundred such,” I said; “men like Touchet come for the asking, but there are few like Pierrot. Astute, cautious, devoted—my cause is his.”
“You have the quality that attaches men to you, monsieur,” M. de Lambert rejoined pleasantly; “it is a good fortune to serve the Maréchal de Brousson.”