"It was this way, Monsieur Gaspard. What had I to do with myself all alone in Tours? Nothing! So each day, yes, and twice a day, to keep Ninus in condition, I rode out as far as Plessis and walked him up and down where I could see the gates. You were inside, and they were always something to look at. For a time nothing happened. Then a fellow followed me out--a huge, pock-marked rascal on a raw-boned sorrel. Not a word did he speak, but as I sentried up and down he drew aside and sat watching me. Then he followed me back to the Cross of Saint Martin, and later on I saw him earwigging the landlord. What he learned I don't know. Possibly that robber of guests thought it his interest to remember what he told Monseigneur he had never heard, for next day and the next I was again followed. Then three more joined him, and before I caught their intention they had me on my back. 'I denounce him for a spy,' cried pock-pit. 'Lord! Lord! what a neck he has! He's so light it will take my weight to stretch it as I did the girl's last week. Three minutes on her shoulders, and--click! all was over!' But Monsieur de Commines met us on the road to Tours, and--and--here we are riding together in the cool of God's free air, riding to---- Where do we ride, Monsieur Gaspard?" Stretching out my hand again, I caught his, squeezing it hard. "I owe Monseigneur a good turn for that, and perhaps you and I may be able to pay him shortly." My idea was that the prompt success of de Commines' _protégé_ would redound to de Commines' credit with the King, which was another reason against a too delicate squeamishness as to methods. "To-night we ride to Ouzay." "And then?" "God knows! Wherever a Jack-in-a-box of a fellow bids us." "But surely, Monsieur Gaspard, you know the end of it all?" "Navarre, I think." "That's beyond my tether," said Martin, shaking his head doubtfully. "But there, the good God didn't open the rat-trap for us for nothing, that I'm sure." CHAPTER XVIII COUNT GASTON DE FOIX The name of the inn at Ozauy must have been given in bitter irony, for house and host were alike unprepossessing. Custom seemed the last thing desired. "Full," said he, opening the door an inch or two in reply to my third knock, though the blankness of the dark upper windows gave him the lie. "Go elsewhere, my fine fellow, and make less noise." And would have shut-to the door again, had I not thrust the end of my riding-whip through the crack. "Tell me," I whispered, as he struggled to push it back, "is the good-man of Tours in the neighbourhood?" On the instant the struggling ceased, and I heard a little whimper behind the door like the cry of a child too frightened of the dark to scream.