“We did not see his companion come out.”

“He may have gone by the other door.”

“What is he doing?”

“Putting on his cloak and gloves.”

“He’s ours,” muttered D’Artagnan.

Porthos mechanically drew his dagger from the scabbard.

“Put it up again, my friend,” said D’Artagnan.  “We must proceed in an orderly manner.”

“Hush!” said Grimaud, “he is coming out.  He has put out the lamp, I can see nothing now.”

“Get down then and quickly.”

Grimaud leaped down.  The snow deadened the noise of his fall.

“Now go and tell Athos and Aramis to stand on each side of the door and clap their hands if they catch him.  We will do the same.”

The next moment the door opened and Mordaunt appeared on the threshold, face to face with D’Artagnan.  Porthos clapped his hands and the other two came running around.  Mordaunt was livid, but he uttered no cry nor called for assistance.  D’Artagnan quietly pushed him in again, and by the light of a lamp on the staircase made him ascend the steps backward one by one, keeping his eyes all the time on Mordaunt’s hands, who, however, knowing that it was useless, attempted no resistance.  At last they stood face to face in the very room where ten minutes before Mordaunt had been talking to Cromwell.

Porthos came up behind, and unhooking the lamp on the staircase relit that in the room.  Athos and Aramis entered last and locked the door behind them.

“Oblige me by taking a seat,” said D’Artagnan, pushing a chair toward Mordaunt, who sat down, pale but calm.  Aramis, Porthos and D’Artagnan drew their chairs near him.  Athos alone kept away and sat in the furthest corner of the room, as if determined to be merely a spectator of the proceedings.  He seemed to be quite overcome.  Porthos rubbed his hands in feverish impatience.  Aramis bit his lips till the blood came.

D’Artagnan alone was calm, at least in appearance.

“Monsieur Mordaunt,” he said, “since, after running after one another so long, chance has at last brought us together, let us have a little conversation, if you please.”

69

Conversational.

Though Mordaunt had been so completely taken by surprise and had mounted the stairs in such utter confusion, when once seated he recovered himself, as it were, and prepared to seize any possible opportunity of escape.  His eye wandered to a long stout sword on his flank and he instinctively slipped it around within reach of his right hand.

D’Artagnan was waiting for a reply to his remark and said nothing.  Aramis muttered to himself, “We shall hear nothing but the usual commonplace things.”

Porthos sucked his mustache, muttering, “A good deal of ceremony to-night about crushing an adder.”  Athos shrunk into his corner, pale and motionless as a bas-relief.

The silence, however, could not last forever.  So D’Artagnan began: