Part 10 (1/2)

And re-seating himself, as Marsh went out, he finished his breakfast.

The two at the window, after exploding once or twice in an attempt to stifle their laughter, drew in their heads, and, still red in the face, marched solemnly past the Colonel, and out of the room. His seat, now the window was clear, commanded a view of the street, and presently he saw the two young bloods go by in the company of four or five of their like. They were gesticulating, nor was there much doubt, from the laughter with which their tale was received, that they were retailing a joke of signal humour.

That did not surprise the Colonel. But when the door opened a moment later, and Marsh came hastily into the room, and with averted face began to peer about for something, he was surprised.

”Where the devil's that snuff-box!” the sallow-faced man exclaimed.

”Left it somewhere!” Then, looking about him to make sure that the door was closed. ”See, here sir,” he said awkwardly, ”it's no business of mine, but for a man who has served as you say you have, you're a d----d simple fellow. Take my advice and don't go to Lemoine's at three, if you go at all.”

”No?” the Colonel echoed.

”Can't you see they'll all be there to guy you?” Marsh retorted impatiently. He could not help liking the man, and yet the man seemed a fool! The next moment, with a hasty nod, he was gone. He had found the box in his pocket.

Colonel Sullivan smiled, and, after carefully brus.h.i.+ng the crumbs from his breeches, rose from the table. ”A good man,” he muttered. ”Pity he has not more courage.” The next moment he came to attention, for slowly past the window moved Captain Payton himself, riding Flavia's mare, and talking with one of the young bloods who walked at his stirrup.

The man and the horse! The Colonel began to understand that something more than wantonness had inspired Payton's conduct the previous night.

Either he had been privy from the first to the plot to waylay the horse; or he had bought it cheaply knowing how it had been acquired; or--a third alternative--it had been placed in his hands, to the end that his reputation as a fire-eater might protect it. In any event, he had had an interest in nipping inquiry in the bud; and, learning who the Colonel was, had acted on the instant, and with considerable presence of mind.

The Colonel looked thoughtful; and though the day was fine for Ireland--that is, no more than a small rain was falling--he remained within doors until five minutes before three o'clock. Bale had employed the interval in brus.h.i.+ng the stains of travel from his master's clothes, and combing his horseman's wig with particular care; so that it was a neat and spruce gentleman who at five minutes before three walked through Tralee, and, attending to the directions he had received, approached a particular door, a little within the barrack gate.

Had he glanced up at the windows he would have seen faces at them; moreover, a suspicious ear might have caught, as he paused on the threshold, a scurrying of feet, mingled with stifled laughter. But he did not look up. He did not seem to expect to see more than he found, when he entered--a great bare room with its floor strewn with sawdust and its walls adorned here and there by a gaunt trophy of arms. In the middle of the floor, engaged apparently in weighing one foil against another, was a stout, dark-complexioned man, whose light and nimble step, as he advanced to meet his visitor, gave the lie to his weight.

Certainly there came from a half-opened door at the end of the room a stealthy sound as of rats taking cover. But Colonel John did not look that way. His whole attention was bent upon the Maitre d'Armes, who bowed low to him. Clicking his heels together, and extending his palms in the French fas.h.i.+on, ”Good-morning, sare,” he said, his southern accent unmistakable. ”I make you welcome.”

The Colonel returned his salute less elaborately. ”The Maitre d'Armes Lemoine?” he said.

”Yes, sare, that is me. At your service!”

”I am a stranger in Tralee, and I have been recommended to apply to you. You are, I am told, accustomed to give lessons.”

”With the small-sword?” the Frenchman answered, with the same gesture of the open hands. ”It is my profession.”

”I am desirous of brus.h.i.+ng up my knowledge--such as it is.”

”A vare good notion,” the fencing-master replied, his black beady eyes twinkling. ”Vare good for me. Vare good also for you. Always ready, is the gentleman's motto; and to make himself ready, his high recreation.

But, doubtless, sare,” with a faint smile, ”you are proficient, and I teach you nothing. You come but to sweat a little.” An observant person would have noticed that as he said this he raised his voice above his usual tone.

”At one time,” Colonel John replied with simplicity, ”I was fairly proficient. Then--this happened!” He held out his right hand. ”You see?”

”Ah!” the Frenchman said in a low tone, and he raised his hands. ”That is ogly! That is vare ogly! Can you hold with that?” he added, inspecting the hand with interest. He was a different man.

”So, so,” the Colonel answered cheerfully.

”Not strongly, eh? It is not possible.”

”Not very strongly,” the Colonel a.s.sented. His hand, like Bale's, lacked two fingers.

Lemoine muttered something under his breath, and looked at the Colonel with a wrinkled brow. ”Tut--tut!” he said, ”and how long are you like that, sare?”

”Seven years.”