sun. At the foot of the hills we turned into a little dark wood, and from that we emerged on to the high road between the station and Peak Hall, a narrow and rough one. A dogcart came suddenly clattering round a sharp corner close beside us. Marcelle cried, "It is Arcot and Sharpe; they will miss the train". She jumped off the donkey, and at the same moment the man who was driving pulled up a few yards farther on. Marcelle hurried towards them, and Mr. Sutcliffe said to me in a quick, low voice, "Get on the donkey and don't notice them, I hate that man". He busied himself helping me to mount, and Marcelle called out at the same moment to tell us not to wait. So we went slowly on our way. Mr. Sutcliffe was silent for some minutes.
"Who is it?" I ventured at last.
He gave one of his big laughs, but he looked annoyed all the same, and his forehead was frowning ominously. He rubbed his hands against each other with great vigour before answering.
"'Why he, a harmless necessary cat;' and I Arcot? But you know that was why we were sent to hunt the witch."
"Why, who sent us?" I said innocently.
"The Comte d'Etranges." He looked back along the road to see if Marcelle were near. "You see," he went on, "the Count will hobnob with intriguers of that description. One of those is a seedy American who lives in Rome to make mischief or money, and the other is the journalist who publishes the same mischief to enlighten the British public. I don't know that any of it much matters, only I can't get Paul d'Etranges to see that such men are fatal to any cause."
I pulled up my slow-moving donkey and said: "But do explain to me what is the 'cause' and what is the object for which they have come to England. Mademoiselle d'Etranges spoke of this 'cause' last night."
He laughed this time until the sound echoed about us.
