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"I was the Flail of the Lord" Lord John Roxton and I turned down Vigo Street together and through the dingy portals of the famous aristocratic rookery. At the end of a long drab passage my new acquaintance pushed open a door and turned on an electric switch. A number of lamps shining through tinted shades bathed the whole great room before us in a ruddy radiance.
I tore away from his eager questionings and hurried to the gate. In the morning I had not been able to get in, and now I could no more get out. By Vigo's orders, no man might leave the house. Vigo was after the spy, of course. Monsieur knew the traitor now; he would inform Vigo, and the gates would be open for honest men. But that might take time and I could not wait five minutes.
It may make us cynical, but it is absurd to expect human nature to be Divine. Mrs. Parflete has been at Orange's lodgings this afternoon." "You don't mean it?" "Indeed, it is too true. When he moved to Vigo Street, I was fortunate enough to secure a room in the same house immediately under his." "Good!"
I have often noticed that metropolitan resorts which are regarded by provincials as the very latest word of London style, are perfectly unknown to Londoners themselves. She led me along Vigo Street to the Hanover. It was a huge white place, with a number of little alcoves and a large band.
For her own sake she had no fear; the midnight streets, the open road to St. Denis, had no power to daunt her: but the dread of being recognized and turned back rode her like a nightmare. Close by the gate, Vigo bade us pause in the door of a shop while he went forward to reconnoiter. Before long he returned. "Bad luck, mademoiselle. Brissac's not on.
What harm can he do you by going back to Clark and telling him the whole truth? Clark knew everything long before Vigo reached here. Old Jazon, my best scout, left here the day you took possession, and you may bet he got to Kaskaskia in short order. He never fails. But he'll tell Clark to stay where he is, and Vigo can do no more."
"Perhaps you are right," says the other, reading his thoughts quite as he used to do in old days; "you were all but killed at Hochstedt of a wound in the left side. You were before that at Vigo, aide-de-camp to the Duke of Ormonde.
An awning was stretched over the deck, and at a walnut table covered with papers sat Monsieur Vigo, smoking his morning pipe. "Davy," said he, "you have come a la bonne heure. At ten I depart for New Orleans." He sighed. "It is so long voyage," he added, "and so lonely one. Sometime I have the good fortune to pick up a companion, but not to-day." "Do you want me to go with you?" I said.
He accordingly taxed them with the murder, and they confessed the particulars. The privateer touched at Vigo, where the captain imparted this detail to the English consul; but the prize, with the two villains on board, was sent to Bayonne in France, where they were brought to condign punishment.
Of a morning a dozen would be sitting against the logs in the black shadow, and in the midst of them always squatted an unsavory Indian squaw. A few braves usually stood like statues at the corner, and in front of the door another group of hunting shirts. Without was the paper money of the Continental Congress, within the good tafia and tobacco of Monsieur Vigo.
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