"There is Pierre," Gabrielle replied. "He was butler and valet for forty years to the old Marquis Gilles. Last night he wept for joy to see me. His daughter Olérie told me he would do anything for a Varenac. If all are like him our task is easy."
"Good. But did you not say that Denningham and Steenie were here?"
"If I could see Pierre first, it would be better."
"Stay here," she commanded, "and I will bring both him and Michael. Then we can arrange."
"Michael Berrington? What is he doing here?"
She frowned and blushed at the same time.
"I told you--he accompanied Jéhan and me."
Their eyes met, and it was Morice's turn to smile. It appeared that little Cécile had taught him how to be observant, amongst other things.
"So, so, my Gay. Is that the reason you flout my lord?"
The lashes drooped over tell-tale eyes, but rosy lips were scornful.
"And you do not hate Michael? Aha! Gay, though I will not tease you now, but only wish you happiness when you seek it. Now run away and bring those two to me. We'll hold a Royalist Council between us which shall quash the designs of Trouet and his brood for ever."
So spoke Morice, lightly enough, yet with a deeper note vibrating in his voice--a note that had not been there before Cécile touched and set it throbbing with her little hand.
Gabrielle was laughing softly to herself as she sped away back over the lawns, and across the pretty rustic bridge, which led by way of the avenue to the house.
She did not notice how a man stood crouching amongst the shrubs to her left as she passed--so near that the hem of her white gown touched his foot.
Gabrielle looked round in wondering perplexity, repeating the words again.
Gabrielle stood still, her hands clasped together, eyes deepening with anxiety.
"I can't understand it," she cried. "It was _here_, just here; and he promised to await your coming."
"Perhaps he wearied at the delay," suggested Michael Berrington, "and has wandered farther down the path."
"I do not think he would, and we have not been very long. Still, we can look. Where does the path lead, Pierre?"
"Only to the wicket, Mamselle, and then out on to the moor."
"We can go to the wicket then. He would not have strayed beyond."
Together they hurried down the path, Gabrielle calling her brother's name again and again.