The three men looked up at the house. Michaud made a hopeless gesture: "I suppose they will destroy it, now. God knows. But if Monsieur Paillard be truly dead as we now believe, and his poor body lies rotting under the ruins of Wiltz-la-Vallée, then there is nobody to mourn this house excepting the old forester, Michaud.... And I think he has lived on earth too long."
He went slowly toward the house, entered it. One by one all the lighted windows grew dark. Presently he reappeared drawing the door-key from his pocket. Very deliberately he locked the door from the outside, looked in silence at the darkened house, and, facing it, quietly removed his hat.
The silent salute lasted but a moment; he put on his grey hat with the pheasant's feather sticking up behind, picked up his fowling-piece and hung it over one shoulder, his big, weather-browned hand resting on the sling.
"Eh bien, Messieurs?" he inquired calmly.
"Bring in your men, Michaud," said Guild. "I know where The Pulpit is, but I couldn't find it at night. I'll wait at the carrefour for you." And, to Darrel: "What did you do with my luggage?"
"Sent it to Quellenheim."
"That rücksack, too?"
"Yes."
"Damnation," said Guild very calmly; "it had papers in it which are enough to hang anybody!"
"You'd better go and get it, then."