“Not very long before he died,
The luckless man was still alive.”
He did not finish his song.
He heard an extremely soft voice behind him, which said:
“Is that you, Rantaine? Good day. You have just killed a man!”
He turned. About fifteen paces behind him, in one of the passages between the rocks, stood a little man holding a revolver in his hand.
The Quaker answered:
“As you see. Good day, Sieur Clubin.”
The little man started.
“You know me?”
“You knew me very well,” replied Rantaine.
Meanwhile they could hear a sound of oars on the sea. It was the approach of the boat which the officer had observed.
Sieur Clubin said in a low tone, as if speaking to himself:
“It was done quickly.”
“What can I do to oblige you?” asked Rantaine.
“Oh, a trifling matter! It is very nearly ten years since I saw you. You must have been doing well. How are you?”
“Well enough,” answered Rantaine. “How are you?”
“Very well,” replied Clubin.
Rantaine advanced a step towards Clubin.
A little sharp click caught his ear. It was Sieur Clubin who was cocking his revolver.
“Rantaine, there are about fifteen paces between us. It is a nice distance. Remain where you are.”
“Very well,” said Rantaine. “What do you want with me?”
“I! Oh, I have come to have a chat with you.”
Rantaine did not offer to move again. Sieur Clubin continued:
“You assassinated a coastguardman just now.”
Rantaine lifted the flap of his hat, and replied:
“You have already done me the honour to mention it.”
“Exactly; but in terms less precise. I said a man: I say now, a coastguardman. The man wore the number 619. He was the father of a family; leaves a wife and five children.”
“That is no doubt correct,” said Rantaine.
There was a momentary pause.
“They are picked men—those coastguard people,” continued Clubin; “almost all old sailors.”
“I have remarked,” said Rantaine, “that people generally do leave a wife and five children.”
Sieur Clubin continued:
“Guess how much this revolver cost me?”
“It is a pretty tool,” said Rantaine.
“What do you guess it at?”
“I should guess it at a good deal.”
“It cost me one hundred and forty-four francs.”
“You must have bought that,” said Rantaine, “at the shop in the Ruelle Coutanchez.”
Clubin continued:
“He did not cry out. The fall stopped his voice, no doubt.”
“Sieur Clubin, there will be a breeze tonight.”
“I am the only one in the secret.”
“Do you still stay at the Jean Auberge?”
“Yes: you are not badly served there.”
“I remember getting some excellent sauerkraut there.”
“You must be exceedingly strong, Rantaine. What shoulders you have! I should be sorry to get a tap from you. I, on the other hand, when I came into the world, looked so spare and sickly, that they despaired of rearing me.”
“They succeeded though; which was lucky.”
“Yes: I still stay at the Jean Auberge.”
“Do you know, Sieur Clubin, how I recognised you? It was from your having recognised me. I said to myself, there is nobody like Sieur Clubin for that.”
And he advanced a step.
“Stand back where you were, Rantaine.”
Rantaine fell back, and said to himself:
“A fellow becomes like a child before one of those weapons.”
Sieur Clubin continued:
“The position of affairs is this: we have on our right, in the direction of St. Enogat, at about three hundred paces from here, another coastguardman—his number is 618—who is still alive; and on our left, in the direction of St. Lunaire—a customs station. That makes seven armed men who could be here, if necessary, in five minutes. The rock would be surrounded; the way hither guarded. Impossible to elude them. There is a corpse at the foot of this rock.”
Rantaine took a sideway glance at the revolver.
“As you say, Rantaine, it is a pretty tool. Perhaps it is only loaded with powder; but what does that matter? A report would be enough to bring an armed force—and I have six barrels here.”
The measured sound of the oars became very distinct. The boat was not far off.
The tall man regarded the little man curiously. Sieur Clubin spoke in a voice more and more soft and subdued.
“Rantaine, the men in the boat which is coming, knowing what you did here just now, would lend a hand and help to arrest you. You are to pay Captain Zuela ten thousand francs for your passage. You would have made a better bargain, by the way, with the smugglers of Pleinmont; but they would only have taken you to England; and besides, you cannot risk going to Guernsey, where they have the pleasure of knowing you. To return, then, to the position of affairs—if I fire, you are arrested. You are to pay Zuela for your passage ten thousand francs. You have already paid him five thousand in advance. Zuela would keep the five thousand and be gone. These are the facts. Rantaine, you have managed your masquerading very well. That hat—that queer coat—and those gaiters make a wonderful change. You forgot the spectacles; but did right to let your whiskers grow.”
Rantaine smiled spasmodically. Clubin continued:
“Rantaine, you have on a pair of American breeches, with a double fob. In one side you keep your watch. Take care of it.”
“Thank you, Sieur Clubin.”
“In the other is a little box made of wrought iron, which opens and shuts with a spring. It is an old sailor’s tobacco-box. Take it out of your pocket, and throw it over to me.”
“Why, this is robbery.”
“You are at liberty to call the coastguardman.”
And Clubin fixed his eye on Rantaine.
“Stay, Mess Clubin,” said Rantaine, making a slight forward movement, and holding out his open hand.
The title “Mess” was a delicate flattery.
“Stay where you are, Rantaine.”
“Mess Clubin, let us come to
