More anxious than ever, since it was clear that Saint-Quentin and his comrades would not be warned if she did not succeed in getting through the path down the gorge and over the causeway, she started to run again. Then she caught sight of the figures of two men on one of the high points of the path in front, coming towards her. They were the confederates. They had barred the road to Maître Delarue and were now acting after the manner of beaters.
She flung herself into the bushes, dropped into a hollow full of dead leaves, and covered herself with them.
The confederates passed her in silence. She heard the dull noise of their hobnailed boots, which went further and further off in the direction of the ruins; and when she raised herself, they had disappeared.
Forthwith, having no further obstacle before her, Dorothy made her way down the path, so correctly described by the board as bad going, and came to the causeway which joined the peninsula to the mainland, observed that the Baron Davernoie and his old flame were no longer on the edge of the water, mounted the slope, and hurried towards the inn. A little way from it she called out:
"Saint-Quentin!... Saint-Quentin."
Getting no answer, her forebodings re-doubled. She passed in front of the house and saw no one. She crossed the orchard, went to the barn, and jerked open the caravan door. There once more—no one. Nothing but the children's bags and the usual things.
"Saint-Quentin!... Saint-Quentin!" she cried again.
She returned to the house and this time she entered.
The little room which formed the café and in which stood the zinc counter, was empty. Over-turned benches and chairs lay about the floor. On a table stood three glasses, half full, and a bottle.
Dorothy called out: