A step approached, and they held their breath in excessive caution.
It passed on—only a guardian of the peace pacing his beat serenely, his brass buttons shining in the moonlight.
Van Zandt whispered:
"I am not sure but we should have invoked the aid of the law in our trouble."
But Pierre Carmontelle shook his head.
"The law is too slow sometimes," he said. "We will place the little girl in some safe refuge first, then, if Madame Lorraine attempts to make trouble, we will resort to legal measures. I am not apprehensive of trouble on that score, however, for madame really has no legal right to the girl. Has she not declared scores of times that her maid died, and left the child upon her hands, and that, only for pity's sake, she would have sent her off to an orphan asylum?"
Steps and voices came along the pavement—two roystering lads, fresh from some festal scene, their steps unsteady with wine. They passed out of sight noisily recounting their triumph to each other. Then the echo of wheels in the distance, "low on the sand, loud on the stone."
"Are you armed?" whispered the Louisianian, nervously.
"No."
The cold steel of a pistol pressed his hand.