“Of course!” said I.
“Well, well. It’s a great loss, indeed,” he replied. “A great loss.” He rose and yawned. Then he stretched himself. “There’s another way to look at it, Henri. What do you care about the horse when you have me?”
“But I want him back,” I insisted. “I’ve a long——”
“Tut. Tut. Lad,” the scrivener returned. “I know where they’ve taken him. He’ll be at the inn of ‘The Three Crows’. That’s the gathering place for all the desperate characters in the neighborhood. We’ll be there tomorrow and I’ll see to it that you get him back again.”
CHAPTER XII
THE THREE CROWS INN
We came to the ‘Three Crows’ about the middle of the afternoon. The place was set in somewhat from the road and like the scrivener’s house, almost surrounded by trees. It must have been a hundred years old. The walls were of wood rough hewn from the forest. In some places the bark still hung in shreds where it waved in the breeze. The logs themselves were as brown as walnuts where the rain had beaten upon them. The windows were quite small—hardly large enough for a man to climb through and to judge by the cob-webs and dust had not been cleaned for ages.
The scrivener had been swinging along with me the whole day. He was as lighthearted as a kitten. The thought of the danger we were approaching never seemed to enter his mind. Even when we crossed the green that was between the inn and the road he was whistling a tune and smiling away as hard as you please. Then he suddenly grasped me by the arm.
“They are playing bowls,” he exclaimed. “Look there!”
To be sure, I saw two men at the end of a long alley on the green. They were at bowls, as the scrivener said. That is, they had pins set up and were rolling smooth round rocks or stones at them to knock them down. It was nothing new to me for I am sure that you will find the same sport in the smallest village in France. I was about to ask what there was unusual about it all when he clapped me on the back.