“It might be the same fellow,” I suggested craftily.
“No,” he said, “your fellow is an ordinary lout—stupid. He has made a mess of his work. The man who is following me is far deadlier. He never misses—and never fails.”
I drew cautiously away, for De Marsac’s words and the snake-like subtlety of them threw me on my guard.
“What do you mean,” said I, “when you say that ‘he has made a mess of his work’? Is it your opinion that I really ought to have been killed?”
His eyes sharpened. Like a man ready to strike a blow his face grew red with anger and he shifted forward.
“You are a smart lad, Henri,” he said drawing his eyes together till they were almost closed, “but you should be taught to speak more respectfully to your betters.”
I hardly knew what to say. There was no good in the man. He was underhand in his actions. He had something up his sleeve that he was going to have out with me. It struck me that the sooner it was over the better.
“You are not plain enough, Sieur De Marsac,” I said, “for me to answer you.” Then rashness got the upper hand of me and I burst out, “Why did you follow me this morning, anyway?”
He only stood glaring at me. His lips tightened. A wicked glint gathered in his eyes and he stepped in towards me. I was now truly alarmed. I looked from one side of me to the other for a way of escape. I saw him finger at his belt for his dagger. His answer came like a thunderbolt.
“—to finish the bungling of last night!” he hissed.