They mounted once more and set off. All day they heard reports from hostlers and country people of the progress of the secret agent toward the seaport. But they had not, apparently, gained upon him in the least when night overtook them. Next morning they secured fresh horses, as their own were stiff with the hard work of the two preceding days; and then the chase was resumed. However, Fochard traveled like the light; the housetops of Brest were in sight and still they had not sighted him.
“There is small chance of getting any information of his movements after we get into the town,” said Ethan, disheartened.
“Don’t lose hope,” said Longsword. “It’s the unexpected that happens, Master Ethan.”
“You are right, sure,” said Captain McHale. “Many’s the time things looked black enough wid me; and then like a flash they’ve changed when I least expected it.”
And so it proved in this case. They had scarcely entered Brest when a voice cried out from a shop door,
The Irish sailor turned toward the shop, and his face took on a broad grin as he caught sight of the fat French chandler who had spoken.
“Monsieur Dubois, good-day,” he cried. “Yes, we ride hard because our business is urgent.”
“Oh, this war!” he exclaimed, “it makes all hurry. Did not a carriage almost run down my eldest son an hour ago, because its passenger was in a very great hurry to see La Tour.”
McHale pulled in his horse, sharply, as did Ethan.
“La Tour--a carriage!” he ejaculated. “Did you notice the man, particularly?”
“Indeed I did, monsieur, and made him give me two louis for the fright he gave me.”
“A stout man,” suggested Ethan, “from Paris, by his look, with many seals on his watch-guard?”
“The same, monsieur,” answered the stout chandler, wonderingly.
“Come on,” said McHale, eagerly. “To La Tour’s; it’s not far from here.”
Ethan and Longsword, who had also paused, put spurs to their horses after the sailor.
“Who is La Tour?” asked the young American.
“He is a shipping-agent,” answered McHale. “And the owner of some small vessels, too. If a man wanted a ship to embark on any questionable or desperate enterprise it is to this same La Tour he’d go, faith.”
The office of Jean La Tour was near the water front, and was a dusty, cobwebbed, low-ceilinged place, indeed. La Tour was seated at a broad, flat, green-covered table, carefully docketing some items of his traffic in a book, when the three pulled up, threw themselves from their horses and came stamping in upon him. Upon hearing their business, he shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands wide.