"

Garnache assured him very briefly, and none too politely that he did not
intend to prove of any excessive amiability. He spoke whilst struggling
into his doublet. He felt that he could cheerfully have caned the fellow
for the inconvenience he had caused him, and yet he realized that he had
other more pressing matters to attend to. He sheathed his sword, took up
his cloak and hat, made those gentlemen the compliments that became the
occasion, in terms a trifle more brief, perhaps, than were usual, and,
still wondering why Monsieur de Gaubert had not yet returned, he stalked
briskly away. Followed by the booings of the disappointed crowd, he set
out for the Sucking Calf at a sharp pace, taking the shorter way behind
the Church and across the graveyard of Saint Francois.

CHAPTER VIII. THE CLOSING OF THE TRAP

Upon leaving the Champs aux Capuchins, hawk-faced Monsieur Gaubert had
run every foot of the way to the Sucking Calf, and he had arrived there
within some five minutes, out of breath and wearing every appearance of
distress--of a distress rather greater than his haste to find his friend
should warrant.

At the door of the inn he found the carriage still waiting; the
post-boy, however, was in the porch, leaning in talk with one of the
drawers. The troopers sat their horses in stolid patience, keeping
guard, and awaiting, as they had been bidden, the return of Monsieur de
Garnache. Rabecque, very watchful, lounged in the doorway, betraying in
his air none of the anxiety and impatience with which he looked for his
master.

At sight of Monsieur Gaubert, running so breathlessly, he started
forward, wondering and uneasy. Across the street, from the Palais
Seneschal, came at that same moment Monsieur de Tressan with rolling
gait. He reached the door of the inn together with Monsieur Gaubert.

Full of evil forebodings, Rabecque hailed the runner.

"What has happened?" he cried. "Where is Monsieur de Garnache?"

Gaubert came to a staggering halt; he groaned and wrung his hands.

"Killed!" he panted, rocking himself in a passion of distress. "He has
been butchered! Oh! it was horrible!"

Rabecque gripped him by the shoulder, and steadied him with a hand that
hurt. "What do you say?" he gasped, his face white to the lips.

Tressan halted, too, and turned upon Gaubert, a look of incredulity in
his fat countenance. "Who has been killed?" he asked. "Not Monsieur de
Garnache?"

"Helas! yes," groaned the other