The man smiled.
“I dare go no farther with you than the field edge, mademoiselle,” said he regretfully. “To be caught would mean”—and he put his hand to his throat with ghastly suggestion.
Relieved from this anxiety, Yvonne paused when she reached the open.
“I must ask you a question in turn, monsieur,” said she. “Have you chanced to learn on which of the two ships Captain de Mer and Captain Grande were placed?”
“I have been so fortunate,” replied the stranger, and the triumph in his thought found no expression in his deferential tone or deep-set eyes. Here was the point he had been studying to approach. Here was a chance to worst a foe and win favour from the still powerful, though far-distant, Black Abbé.
He paused, and Yvonne had scarce breath to cry “Which?”
“They are in the ship this way,” he said calmly. “The one still at anchor.”
“Thank you, monsieur!” she cried, with a passion in the simple words; and was straightway off across the red-lit snow, her cloak streaming out behind her.
“The beauty!” said the man to himself, lurking in the bushes to follow her with his eyes. “Pity to lie to her. But she’s leaving—and that stabs Anderson; and she’s going on the wrong ship—and that stabs Grande. Both at a stroke. Not bad for a day like this.”
And with a look of hearty satisfaction on his face Le Fûret[[1]] (for Vaurin’s worthy lieutenant it was) withdrew to safer covert.