“Monsieur,” he cried, in great alarm, “the Marquis de St. Auban is riding down the street with the Vicomte de Vilmorin and another gentleman.”
I rapped out an oath at the news; they had got scent of Andrea's whereabouts, and were after him like sleuth-hounds on a trail.
“Remain here, Michelot,” I answered in a low voice. “Tell them that M. de Mancini is not here, that the only occupant of the inn is your master, a gentleman from Normandy, or Picardy, or where you will. See that they do not guess our presence—the landlord fortunately is ignorant of M. de Mancini's name.”
There was a clatter of horses' hoofs without, and I was barely in time to escape by the door leading to the staircase, when St. Auban's heavy voice rang out, calling the landlord.
“I am in search of a gentleman named Andrea de Mancini,” he said. “I am told that he has journeyed hither, and that he is here at present. Am I rightly informed?”
I determined to remain where I was, and hear that conversation to the end.
“There is a gentleman here,” answered the host, “but I am ignorant of his name. I will inquire.”
“You may spare yourself the trouble,” Michelot interposed. “That is not the gentleman's name. I am his servant.”
There was a moment's pause, then came Vilmorin's shrill voice.
“You lie, knave! M. de Mancini is here. You are M. de Luynes's lackey, and where the one is, there shall we find the other.”