THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
the benches, and there was a game of basset in the corner, but the players were so intent that they had no eyes for the new arrivals. Cornbury drummed loudly upon the floor with his foot, and one of the fellows, a pigeon-breasted ensign in a dragoon regiment, cast a loser’s curse over his shoulder, but failed to recognize them. They ordered a drink and the room on the second floor at the head of the stairway.
Mornay’s reasons for this were obvious. He wanted a narrow passage, where more than two men would be at a disadvantage, and where all opportunity for outside interference would be obviated. The host himself brought their lights and bottles. When he saw that it was Monsieur Mornay who was his guest, he started back in amazement.
“Monsieur!” he cried. “You? I thought—”
“Sh— Yes, it is I. But keep your tongue, Papworth. Is Captain Ferrers here?”
“No, sir. Two notes have arrived for him, but—”
Mornay glanced significantly at the Irishman.
“You think he will come?”
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