“If we do,” was the answer, “what will De Marsac say? You know he wants him” (meaning me) “for a purpose.” The word De Marsac struck strangely on my ears. “Oh!” I exclaimed. “De Marsac had better look out for himself. There is some one on his heels.” They turned to me together like a flash. “What!” they exclaimed. “Who?” “The Black Prince!” I called boldly. “He will——” They laughed in my face. “The Black Prince is on his way to the west to join the starving remnants of his army,” I was told. “We thought you meant the Abbot of Chalonnes.” My mouth fell agape. I searched their faces and they searched mine. The fellow who had grappled with me first made a signal to the other, and turned towards the table to pick up the dagger. The man with the wounded hand slouched over towards me. He had his good fist curled in a knot, no doubt to crash it against my skull. I felt that it was my end. I took a firm hold on the arms of the chair to dodge or fight them to the last of my strength. The door suddenly flew back on its hinges and banged against the wall. Both men jumped and in my tenseness I jumped with them. They stood with frightened faces looking towards the entrance. A form appeared—the form of a little man clad in rags, smeared with ink and dirt so that his face was hardly to be seen. His beard was clotted with mire where he had been sleeping in the open. His quills and ink-horn and roll of parchment were gone but he still wore the same curious grin that I had noticed earlier in the day. With one skip he was in the middle of the room. He clapped the fellow with the injured hand roundly on the back and cried in a voice of glee. “Well, I see you have him at last!” CHAPTER X THE HIGHWAYMAN OF TOURS The three of us turned with amazement on our faces. Before a word was spoken the scrivener bounded clear across the room. He came to a stop before the table and took the dagger in his hand. Then he faced us. “Now,” said he, “I should like to know who gave you permission to befoul my house?” He spoke in a high, commanding key. One of the fellows shifted slowly to the side of the room. The other looked uneasily about. The scrivener, who held his head, pointed at each of them in turn with the dagger. “Do you know, my gentles,” he demanded in a terrible voice, “who I am?” The two men knotted their brows, puzzled. One of them bit his lips and the other growled under his breath and flashed a knowing look at his companion. It was a hint, I knew, that at the first chance they would make the attack together. The scrivener seemed to consider them as children. He took his soiled cap from his head and flung it on the floor. “Do you know me now?” he cried. “Have you never heard of ‘Will-o’-the-wisp’?” As though they had been struck by a club, both men drooped and turned instinctively towards the door. Then they called out loud enough for me to hear, “The highwayman of Tours!”