"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."
"Yes, and I do not think he is far off. Denningham"--he glanced down at the dead man--"was to have played the Marquis."
"Ah! I wonder. It did not occur to me. Perhaps----"
"It is possible that Trouet has already been here."
"The girl Olérie told me there were two."
"Nay; _after_ my father had--had been 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."
"Did you not say a girl brought the news?" he questioned abruptly.
"Olérie 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 passage.
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.
"Si, si! The English milord has the key."
She crossed herself as though speaking of the devil.
Count Jéhan spoke quietly. He had no fear or passing pity for the dead in that darkened room behind them.
He was not long absent. But Olérie 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 Kérnak.
"They are safe," he said. "Our servants are faithful, and Père 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."
"Yes, yes. There is a cave. It has the name of the Cave of Lost Souls. Our peasants are superstitious, 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."