Without desisting, he looked over his shoulder towards Désirée, but not actually at her face.
“I heard last night,” he said, “that the two carriages are standing in an innyard three leagues beyond this on the Warsaw road. I have traced them step by step from Kowno. My informant tells me that the escort has deserted, and that the officer in charge, Colonel Darragon, was going on alone, with the two drivers, when he was taken ill. He is nearly well again, and hopes to continue his journey tomorrow or the next day.”
Désirée nodded her head to signify that she had heard and understood. Barlasch gave a cry of pain, and withdrew his hand with a jerk.
“Enough, enough!” he said. “You hurt me. The life is returning now; a drop of brandy perhaps—”
“There is no brandy in Thorn,” said D’Arragon, turning towards the table. “There is only coffee.”
He busied himself with the cups, and did not look at Désirée when he spoke again.
“I have secured two horses,” he said, “to enable you to proceed at once, if you are able to. But if you would rather rest here today—”
“Let us go on at once,” interrupted Désirée hastily.
Barlasch, crouching against the stove, glanced from one to the other beneath his heavy brows, wondering, perhaps, why they avoided looking at each other.
“You will wait here,” said D’Arragon, turning towards him, “until—until I return.”
“Yes,” was the answer. “I will lie on the floor here and sleep. I have had enough. I—”
Louis left the room to give the necessary orders. When he returned in a few minutes, Barlasch was asleep on the floor, and Désirée had tied on her hood again, which concealed her face. He drank a cup of coffee and ate some dry bread absentmindedly, in silence.
The sound of bells, feebly heard through the double windows, told them that the horses were being harnessed.
“Are you ready?” asked D’Arragon, who had not sat down; and in response, Désirée, standing near the stove, went towards the door, which he held open for her to pass out. As she passed him, she glanced at his face, and winced.
In the sleigh she looked up at him as if expecting him to speak. He was looking straight in front of him. There was, after all, nothing to be said. She could see his steady eyes between his high collar and the fur cap. They were hard and unflinching. The road was level now, and the snow beaten to a gleaming track like ice. D’Arragon put the horses to a gallop at the town gate, and kept them at it.
In half an hour he turned towards her and pointed with his whip to a roof half hidden by some thin pines.
“That is the inn,” he said.
In the inn yard he indicated with his whip two travelling-carriages standing side by side.
“Colonel Darragon is here?” he said to the cringing Jew who came to meet them; and the innkeeper led the way upstairs. The house was a miserable one, evil-smelling, sordid. The Jew pointed to a door, and, cringing again, left them.
Désirée made a gesture telling Louis to go in first, which he did at once. The room was littered with trunks and cases. All the treasure had been brought into the sick man’s chamber for greater safety.
On a narrow bed near the window a man lay huddled on his side. He turned and looked over his shoulder, showing a haggard face with a ten-days’ beard on it. He looked from one to the other in silence.
It was Colonel de Casimir.
XXII
Through the Shoals
I see my way, as birds their trackless way.
De Casimir had never seen Louis d’Arragon, and yet some dim resemblance to his cousin must have introduced the newcomer to a conscience not quite easy.
“You seek me, Monsieur,” he asked, not having recognized Désirée, who stood behind her companion, in her furs.
“I seek Colonel Darragon, and was told that we should find him in this room.”
“May I ask why you seek him in this rather unceremonious manner?” asked De Casimir, with the ready insolence of his calling and his age.
“Because I am his cousin,” replied Louis quietly, “and Madame is his wife.”
Désirée came forward, her face colourless. She caught her breath, but made no attempt to speak.
De Casimir tried to lift himself on his elbows.
“Ah! madame,” he said. “You see me in a sorry state. I have been very ill.” And he made a gesture with one hand, begging her to overlook his unkempt appearance and the disorder of his room.
“Where is Charles?” asked Désirée curtly. She had suddenly realized how intensely she had always disliked De Casimir, and distrusted him.
“Has he not returned to Danzig?” was the ready answer. “He should have been there a week ago. We parted at Vilna. He was exhausted—a mere question of over-fatigue—and at his request I left him there to recover and to pursue his way to Danzig, where he knew you would be awaiting him.”
He paused and looked from one to the other with quick and furtive eyes. He felt himself easily a match for them in quickness of perception, in rapid thought, in glib speech. Both were dumb—he could not guess why. But there was a steadiness in D’Arragon’s eyes which rarely goes with dullness of wit. This was a man who could be quick at will—a man to be reckoned with.
“You are wondering why I travel under your cousin’s name, Monsieur,” said De Casimir,
