A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 48

Michael held out his hand.

"At least we are comrades together," he replied, with one of those winning smiles which transformed the dark grimness of his face. "And Trouet is not here yet."

"But he is on his way."

"Yes, and I do not think he is far off. Denningham"--he glanced down at the dead man--"was to have played the Marquis."

"Was that his own idea?"

"Ah! I wonder. It did not occur to me. Perhaps----"

"It is possible that Trouet has already been here."

"The girl Olerie told me there were two."

"Denningham--and Sir Stephen."

"Nay; _after_ my father had--had been murdered."

Both listeners started.

"Murdered!"

They had not seen what lay in the shadows beyond the window.

"Yes," said Michael grimly, "murdered." And he pointed to where a dim outline was visible, huddled together on the hearth.

Morice sprang forward with a cry of dismay. He had been fond of Steenie Berrington.

"How did it happen? Who did it? Ah! Steenie, poor Steenie!"

It was pitiful sight enough on which he gazed down.

"That is what I asked Denningham here. He suggested that it was a case of parricide."

"He would have picked a quarrel. But had he done it himself?"

"I hardly think so. My father was no one's enemy but his own. And it was foul murder."

It was Count Jehan who spoke next.

"Did you not say a girl brought the news?" he questioned abruptly.

Michael nodded.

"Olerie Koustak. I was forgetting. She told me some tale of her father being in danger of his life--accused of the deed."

He flung open the door as he spoke, stepping out into the pa.s.sage.

"Olerie, Olerie," he cried.

The girl was not long in responding. Crouched in a corner behind the salon door, she had been awaiting developments in an agony of fear.

"Where is your father, child?" rapped out Morice peremptorily.

"Ah! Monsieur, in the room above."

"He is locked in?"

"Si, si! The English milord has the key."

She crossed herself as though speaking of the devil.

"The English lord? I will bring it."

Count Jehan spoke quietly. He had no fear or pa.s.sing pity for the dead in that darkened room behind them.

He was not long absent. But Olerie was the only one who smiled on his return.

Together they hastened to the room above.

On their way Michael found tongue to ask what happened at Kernak.

Again it was the Count who answered.

"They are safe," he said. "Our servants are faithful, and Pere Mouet is with them. They know that danger threatens. If it draws too near they will not await us, but escape across the landes to the coast."

"To the coast?"

"Yes, yes. There is a cave. It has the name of the Cave of Lost Souls. Our peasants are superst.i.tious, Monsieur Berrington. They declare that the souls of unshriven mariners lodge there, and that to hear their wailing cries strikes madness into the hearts of listeners.

They would not enter it after sundown if they thought that King Louis himself were hidden there."

"And then----"

"There are boats there. It will be easy to escape to Jersey and thence to England."

The last words were warm with comfort.

But, alas! England was some way from the Manor of Varenac, and evidently the Terror was near.

It was an affecting sight to see the joy of old Pierre Koustak when they liberated him, telling him that at last M'nsieur le Marquis had come to his own.

He wept and sobbed over Morice's hand, kissing it again and again, calling him his dear, dear master.

But it was not the moment for sentiment. The tale of poor Pierre's false accusation and imprisonment was told with some preamble, mingled with many explanations of his whereabouts prior to the crime.

"There were two men in the library," interrupted Michael shortly.

"Describe the one who was not the English lord."