“I rode like the wind and may have passed them by. I dared not ask questions. I had a cup of coffee at that old green mill-inn and I don’t like it. The woman who waited on me asked questions. I put her off, you can be sure of that. She knows about what is going on here. She knows the Du Mondes are here, and that old Martin and I are the only men left to guard the place. When I rode away she called after me: 'You must be lonely out Pigeon Valley way, you and old Martin. You’ve a pretty flock to look out for!’” Neville stopped short and looked keenly at Grigge, who returned the look doggedly. “If I thought you’d done anything tricky, you young good-for-nothing!” he exclaimed, eyeing Grigge suspiciously. Grigge said nothing, though he stuck his tongue out at him impudently. Neville turned away. He was angry at himself for having told Grigge, whom he heartily disliked, anything about his worries. The boy’s voice followed him: “You’d better keep your wits here at home. Things are happening fast these days. One day here, and the next gone.” When Neville left him, Grigge slouched back against the gate, his hands in the pockets of his brown shepherd’s smock. He looked less badly nourished than in the wintertime. His gaunt face was faintly brown from long days in the spring meadows with his flock. There was little that he really knew about what was going on in the country, but he did know that there was turmoil in the towns nearest them and that Les Vignes was in danger. Neville was like the aristocrats, for he did not see danger until it was fairly upon him. Grigge gleaned every bit of information that he could from passing peddlers, from farm men who came by, from everyone who had anything to tell. There was no danger for himself or his family, the rude huts along the back road would be as safe as could be, but the great house on the terrace was in grave peril, and those who lived in it would not believe it! Grigge turned on his heel and went out toward the highroad. As he reached the opening in the hedge, he looked through and fairly gasped in astonishment. The coach for Calais stood near the gates! Grigge ducked through the hedge and came up to it. The driver saw him and jumped down from his high seat. The two stood facing each other, the cross-eyed driver and Grigge. There was no one else around. “I want to see a boy named Grigge Barbette on urgent business!” said the coach driver at last. “I’m Grigge Barbette!” exclaimed Grigge, and he was so excited that he caught hold of the man’s arm. “What do you mean? Have you a message for me?” he asked. The coach driver eyed him sharply. “How am I to know that you really are Grigge Barbette?” he said. Grigge nodded toward the row of huts in the distance. “Any one there will tell you,” he answered. The man looked at him a moment longer. Then he put his hand in an inside pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper sealed with a red seal.