"Ça va," said the coachman. "Mount, en route, charge them and they scatter."
Andurillo mounted the cabriolet, which rapidly proceeded through the faubourg Norbourg-le-Roi towards the interminable Hobbette.
Arrived at Wethretoppe, he bade the coachman adieu, gave a generous tip of forged banknotes, and weighed his options before deciding to essay the Cheval blanc de Rohan: he found the sign of the inn by the light of a street-lamp, and knocked on the door. A young hobbite opened, and Andurillo requested a room and a meal. The hobbite suspected nothing, as Andurillo was elegantly clad and spoke with perfect Westfarthingois accent; he seemed nothing more than a neighbour heading home late from a soirée.
He was admitted, and went to bed, where he at once slept the sleep that a being of twenty always manages, even when he has remorse, and Andurillo never had any.
Andurillo had not yet opened his eyes, when the thought struck him that he had slept for too long. He leapt down from his bed and ran to the window.
A shirrife was traversing the courtyard. A shirrife is one of the most striking objects even for a man without concerns; but for a timorous conscience, the feathered cap that composes his uniform assumes a tint of dread. Better the Nazghoules, for at least they have a nose for cognac.
