“Perhaps you should go home and sleep,” he suggested tenderly.

“Nay,” cried I.  “I had a cat-nap in the lane; I’m game to see it through.”

“Then,” he commanded, “you may stay here-abouts and watch that door.  For I have some curiosity to know whether he will need to fare forth after the treasure.  If he do as I guess, he will spend the next hours as you counsel me, making up arrears of sleep, and you’ll not see him till a quarter or so before eleven.  But whenever he comes out, follow him.  Keep your safe distance and dog him if you can.”

“And if I lose him?”

“Come back home.  Station yourself now where he won’t notice you.  That arch there should serve.”

We had been standing at the street corner, sheltered by a balcony over our heads from the view of Peyrot’s window.

“Monsieur,” I said, “I do wish you would bring Vigo back with you.”

“Felix,” he laughed, “you are the worst courtier I ever saw.”

I crossed the street as he told me, glancing up at the third story of the house of the Gilded Shears.  No watcher was visible.  From the archway, which was entrance to a court of tall houses, I could well command Peyrot’s door, myself in deep shadow M. Etienne nodded to me and walked off whistling, staring full in the face every one he met.

I would fain have occupied myself as we guessed the knave Peyrot to be doing, and shut mine aching eyes in sleep.  But I was sternly determined to be faithful to my trust, and though for my greater comfort—­cold enough comfort it was—­I sat me down on the paving-stones, yet I kept my eyelids propped open, my eyes on Peyrot’s door.  I was helped in carrying out my virtuous resolve by the fact that the court was populous and my carcass in the entrance much in the way of the busy passers-by, so that full half of them swore at me, and the half of that half kicked me.  The hard part was that I could not fight them because of keeping my eyes on Peyrot’s door.

He delayed so long and so long that I feared with shamed misgiving I must have let him slip, when at length, on the very stroke of eleven, he sauntered forth.  He was yawning prodigiously, but set off past my lair at a smart pace.  I followed at goodly distance, but never once did he glance around.  He led the way straight to the sign of the Bonne Femme.

[Illustration:  AT THE “BONNE FEMME.”]

I entered two minutes after him, passing from the cabaret, where my men were not, to the dining-hall, where, to my relief, they were.  At two huge fireplaces savoury soups bubbled, juicy rabbits simmered, fat capons roasted; the smell brought the tears to my eyes.  A concourse of people was about:  gentles and burghers seated at table, or passing in and out; waiters running back and forth from the fires, drawers from the cabaret.  I paused to scan the throng, jostled by one and another, before I descried my master and my knave.  M. Etienne, the prompter at the rendezvous, had, like a philosopher, ordered dinner, but he had deserted it now and stood with Peyrot, their backs to the company, their elbows on the deep window-ledge, their heads close together.  I came up suddenly to Peyrot’s side, making him jump.