A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 44

The hasty opening of a door startled the watcher into uttering a low cry of terror. But the terror pa.s.sed at sight of Lord Denningham.

These two understood each other.

"Ah!"

"Unluckily I made a little mistake, mon ami. It was Morice Conyers--the citizen Varenac--I came to find."

"Aha! I understand. A little unfortunate for Steenie! Poor devil!

But how go the affairs of State, friend Trouet?"

"It is I who should ask that. I hear that our good Moreece has become indeed a Marquis."

"One born out of time then, though it is true that Conyers was ready to play the fool. However, there is no reason to be anxious; I have already settled matters with him."

"You----?"

"He will not trouble us again any more than poor Steenie here."

Lord Denningham was smiling, but Marcel Trouet wiped the sweat from his forehead.

"Bon, bon. You are a patriot, my friend."

"And now----?"

"Well, it will be clear sailing, as you call it in England. The men of Varenac did not see the dear Moreece?"

"Not a glimpse. They are waiting still."

"Excellent. Ah, ciel! what an idea! We shall have no trouble with these blockheads, who are sometimes difficult. You, my dear milord, will be Marquis, or--still better--the Citizen Varenac."

Jack Denningham stared for a moment. But he was not slow to catch the drift of the other's meaning.

"The Citizen Varenac?" he echoed. "A charming idea, Marcel, only a trifle difficult to practise."

"Difficult?"

"You forget I have been living here as Lord Denningham. The old curmudgeon, Pierre Koustak, would give me away. He is Royalist and Varenac to the backbone, and a gentleman of influence in these parts, if I mistake not."

Trouet shrugged his shoulders.

"Ah, my friend, that is all easy enough. Where is this Pierre Koustak?"

"Below, no doubt, in the pantry, or poking his nose where it is not wanted."

"Let him come here. We will deal with him according to justice."

"Justice!"

"Eh bien! There is a man lying murdered in the library of the Manor of Varenac. We find him here, you and I. Who can be suspected but the only man in the house? It is without doubt the work of a villain. We will name that villain Pierre Koustak. You understand?"

"Perfectly. I will fetch him."

Pierre Koustak was not far away.

The last few days had made him anxious--very anxious. There were things happening he could not understand, and Monsieur le Marquis had not arrived at Varenac.

So he was ready enough to obey the summons to the library, even though he did not like the fair-haired milord with the blue eyes which were cold and hard as granite stones.

Yet perhaps he would hear something.

The worthy Pierre was not mistaken. He did hear something,--but not at all what he expected.

Murder! Ah! how terrible.

The sight of the huddled figure on the hearth made his knees tremble in very horror. But he knew nothing of it, had heard nothing. What did it mean?

In utter bewilderment, he stared from one grim-faced accuser to the other.

_He_ murdered the Englishman who laughed and drank all day?

Mother of Heaven! such a thought, such a suggestion, was impossible, absurd.

But, where the prisoner is prejudged, argument is useless.

They refused to listen to the poor man's protestations, cries, and vows of innocency. Sir Stephen Berrington lay here, lately murdered; he, Pierre Koustak, was the only man in the Manor at the time, therefore Pierre must have done the deed.

That was the summing up. Afterwards Pierre, still pleading and imploring against such injustice, was bound, gagged, and carried to a little room at the back of the house.

"He will be safe there," observed Jack Denningham, with a grin, as he withdrew the key from the lock, placing it in his pocket. "And now for the comedy, Citizen Marcel, since tragedy is done with--for the present."

Marcel Trouet seemed thoroughly to appreciate the jest, for his sly face--a little paler perhaps than usual--was twisted into a satisfied grimace.

"You will wait here now, milord," he observed with a grand bow, "and I will bring your obedient and altogether adoring people to listen to the fatherly advice and counsel of the Citoyen Morice Varenac, ci-devant Marquis and aristocrat, but now the friend of liberty and the great and glorious Revolution."

He waved his red cap excitedly over his head as he spoke, laughing uproariously.

One is merry when one's plans succeed beyond--if contrary to--expectation. But it might have been observed that the Revolutionary leader took care to avoid re-entering the library where a dead man lay by a dying fire.

CHAPTER XXVII

WHO MICHAEL MET ON THE ROAD TO VARENAC

Michael Berrington rode to Varenac.

Grey gloom around suited well with his mood, for therein strove counter forces as fiercely as storm-lashed waves against the jagged rocks of a forbidding coast.