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reached Paris, which would be, by my reckoning, a good many hours from now. I should just have to make do with that brandy.
    I peered out the window as French drove the team past the front door of a rambling two-story inn of pale limestone that gleamed in the soft morning light. Large white shutters were still closed over the windows, indicating the guests were not yet stirring, but as we trundled by the huge wooden door, the landlord dragged it open and watched us pass. He was a slender fellow sporting a noble Roman nose, close-set eyes and a clay pipe that emitted clouds of smoke. He caught sight of me and smiled hospitably. Then he stared curiously at the bullet holes in the coach. French continued on, driving around the side of the building into a cobblestoned yard surrounded by outbuildings. French pulled the team to a halt as a skinny youth with spots emerged from a shed, scratching an armpit. French greeted the boy cheerily and asked a question. French was speaking French, of course, no doubt learned from a private tutor. While I speak no Frog, I recognized the inflection in French’s voice. The youth raked a bit of straw from his hair and mumbled an answer. French tossed the reins to him and jumped down from the driver’s seat.
    He stuck his head through the window. “I’m going to speak to the owner. I’ve asked the boy to hold the horses until I return.”
    “We’re in need of food and drink,” I said. “At least I am. And if I am forced to express a preference, bring the drink first.”
    “Naturally,” said French.
    “What about this fellow?” I asked. “Won’t he scream his head off?”
    “No. He’ll remain silent. We have an arrangement.”
    I sighed in exasperation. “I suppose he gave you his word.”
    “I did,” said Cutliffe.
    “He did,” echoed French. “He has agreed not to draw attention to himself or to try to escape.”
    “Is that why you posted me outside the coach with a revolver last night?”
    “That was merely a precaution,” said French.
    He walked off and Cutliffe and I stared gloomily at each other. Call me a pessimist, but I figured the slimy Judas would bolt at the first opportunity. I certainly would. It’s all very well to go around shaking hands and mouthing platitudes about trust and so forth, but when a fellow has betrayed his country I doubt he’ll scruple at breaking his pledge when his freedom is at stake. And despite his fine words to the contrary, I suspect French didn’t altogether trust Cutliffe either, hence his instructions of last night.
    Cutliffe and I waited, listening to the sounds of a sleepy French village coming to life. Hens scratched and clucked in the stable yard. Geese honked and gabbled and strutted about. I could smell the smoke of cooking fires and the odor of sizzling meat. My mouth watered. French was certainly taking his confounded time parleying with the landlord.
    After an interminable wait (I’m not at my most patient when tired, hungry and bored), two men strolled into view. French had a complacent air about him while the landlord looked smug, which I surmised meant that many of the Queen’s shillings had passed hands.
    French opened the door and leaned in. “We’ll be changing to one of the owner’s carriages here. The boy will drive us the rest of the way. Right now, he’s going to move the brougham into one of the outbuildings so it can’t be seen. The landlord will provide us breakfast and then we’ll be on our way.”
    The youth had already climbed into the driver’s seat and he guided the team with a sure hand into a large, open barn at the back of the property. Cutliffe and I crawled out, stiff and weary, and stretched luxuriously. The boy unhooked the horses from their harnesses and led them off for a well-deserved rest. I found a seat on an empty crate and peered around me. The barn had seen better days. The boards had sprung, the roof was missing several shingles and shafts of sunlight filtered through the gloom.