“Yes—yes,” Holt replied, with a fierce frown. “I know I’ve linked myself with you. I’m your cat’s-paw, however detestable your shady transactions are.”
“You always receive money for your services.”
“Yes,” he muttered between his teeth. “Gold with a curse upon it.”
Bérard shrugged his shoulders unconcernedly and said—
“I suppose we shall each owe an ornamental wax taper to St. Jean le Baptiste for to-night’s manoeuvre.” Turning away he went to a drawer, from which he took a card-case and some letters, placing them in his pocket.
“Now, Sky Pilot,” he continued resolutely, as he walked up to where Holt stood, “are you ready?” The curate held his breath.
“Very well,” he replied, after a brief pause, “I suppose I must do the bidding of my masters.”
“It would be best—that is, if you respect your position as a holy man,” the Frenchman replied, with a mocking laugh.
“Come, gentlemen,” he exclaimed aloud, turning to the pair seated at the table. “It’s time we started, or we shall not keep our appointment.”
“There is no immediate hurry, is there?” asked Chavoix in a husky voice.